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Edited by 


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BYRON 


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DRYDEN 


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ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH ) Helen Child Sargent 


POPULAR BALLADS 


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WHITTIER 


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WORDSWORTH 


A. J. George 




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€fjc Cambri&ge Edition of tiyt $octg 



WORDSWORTH 

EDITED BY 

ANDREW J. GEORGE 




/cy^^^P^^^J 



THE 

COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

Cambridge CUttion 




", /',//. '/' ,;,/.>.■'■/■/ //'■• y/ . 



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COPYRIGHT, IQ04, BY HOUGHTON, MIFKLIN AND CO. 
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to 






EDITOR'S NOTE 

Literature is pure spirit, and hence its truths must be spiritually discerned, 
yet there are two avenues of approach which are likely to prove the most alluring 
and satisfactory to the student, — the chronological and that of correlation. Where 
the mind and art of a poet have developed naturally from the simple to the complex, 
the chronological order seems the most helpful and appropriate ; but when we find 
midway in a poet's career work which is both history and prophecy, — work 
which reveals the method and spirit of the past and contains the potency of the 
future, — it may well serve as a point around which other poems are to be gathered, 
and the method of correlation will be found most suggestive. 

It follows that the method of annotation in each of these cases should be dif- 
ferent. In the chronological, the eye is upon the past, and the principle hitherto 
evolved by the poet is made use of in the treatment of each successive poem ; while 
in the method of correlation the eye looks before and after in a study of those 
elements which may be considered as fundamental in the life and art of the poet. 
I have illustrated the one method in my selections from Milton, Burns, Coleridge, 
and Wordsworth, and the other in " The Princess " and " Childe Harold." It has 
been said that as respects a man whom we never saw we are fortunate if we have, 
as means of knowing him, works revealing the various moods of his mind and emo- 
tions of his heart, portraits painted by great artists in a lucky hour of his youth and 
age, and friends who had the insight to know and were both able and willing to 
tell us the truth in regard to his character. In the case of Wordsworth we have 
all of these and there is no excuse for taking half views of him and his work. 

The distinctive features of this edition are : the latest text adopted by the poet ; 
the chronological order of the poems ; the date of composition and that of publica- 
tion of each poem ; the Essays and Prefaces on Poetry written between 1800 and 
1845 ; a body of notes which Wordsworth printed in his various editions ; notes at 
the head of each poem, dictated by the poet himself late in life to Miss Fenwick, 
and known as the " I. F." notes ; notes revealing the time, place, occasion, and 
circumstance, so -far as can be ascertained, out of which each poem had its origin ; 
bibliography of Wordsworth's works ; a list of biographical and critical reviews. 

Long and varied use of Wordsworth in school and college classes ; frequent 
visits to the scenes associated with his work in the inspiring and recreating atmos- 
phere of his beloved lake land ; and association with those who knew him as a 
man and poet, have yielded me material which has proved of the highest value in 
the teaching of his poetry and the interesting period of jiolitical and literary history 
to which he belonged and in which he was so conspicuous a figure. These expert- 



EDITOR'S NOTE 



ences have been helpful in preparing this edition, which, it is hoped, will be found 
equally suited to the needs of the special student and the general reader. 

It is to be regretted that the limits of this volume preclude any attempt at giving 
the interesting variants which the poet from time to time introduced into the 
text of the poems. These have been given with skill and care in the variorum 
editions of Professor Knight and Professor Dowden, and any one who cares for 
such details of workmanship should consult them there. 

It hardly need be said that I am indebted to that noble band of disciples of the 
poet who have written with sympathy, insight, and illumination, upon the various 
aspects of his mind, art, and influence. One of the most distinguished of these 
disciples, Mr. Aubrey de Vere, took great delight in my devotion to the poet of his 
youth. From him, during an acquaintance of nearly a quarter of a century, I 
received invaluable sympathy and suggestion. On learning of my plan which is 
revealed in this volume, he wrote me, only shortly before his death, a letter which 
contained the following significant sentence : " More than anything else, a great 
and sound literature seems to be now the means of promoting divine truth." 

It is not surprising that in many instances the date of composition given in the 
Fenwick notes is incorrect, owing to the fact that the poet dictated them in his old 
age and from memory. Many errors have been corrected by the use of Dorothy 
Wordsworth's Journals and the editions of the poet's works by Professor Dowden 
and Mr. Thomas Hutchinson ; some dates are still conjectural. 

In the matter of bibliography original sources have been followed as far as pos- 
sible ; but in several instances I have used the data of Professor Dowden and Mr. 
J. R. Tutin ; this indebtedness is indicated by the terms (D) and (T). 

A. J. G. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

Biographical Sketch xxvii 

Com- First ^7^5~ l 797 

posed. Published. 

1785 1850 Lines written as a School Exercise at Hawkshead, anno aetatis 14 . . 1 

1786 1815 Extract from the Conclusion of a Poem, composed in anticipation of 

leaving School ............ 2 

17S6 1807 Written in very Early Youth 3 

1787-89 1793 An Evening Walk. Addressed to a Young Lady Z 

1789 1798 Lines written while sailing in a Boat at Eveninge . ... '9 

1789 179? Remembrance of Collins, composed upon the Thames near Richmond . 9 

1791-92 1793 Descriptive Sketches taken during a Pedestrian Tour among the Alps 10 

1791-94 1842 Guilt and Sorrow ; or, Incidents upon Salisbury Plain 19 

[One third pari of this poem was published under the title o/" The Female Vagrant " 
in 1798.] 
1795 1798 Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the Lake of Esth- 

waite, on a desolate part of the Shore, commanding a beautiful Prospect 31 

1795-96 1842 The Borderers. A Tragedy 33 

1797 1800 The Reverie of Poor Susan 70 

1797 1S42 The Birth of Love, translated from some French Stanzas by Francis 

Wrangham ............ 70 

1798 

A Night-Piece .71 

We are Seven . . . . . . . . . . . .71 

Anecdote for Fathers 73 

The Thorn 74 

Goody Blake and Harry Gill. A true Story ...... 77 

Her eyes are Wild ........... 79 

Simon Lee, the old Huntsman ; with an incident in which he was concerned SO 

Lines written in Early Spring ......... 81 

To my Sister ............ 82 

" A whirl-blast from behind the hill " 82 

Expostulation and Reply .......... 83 

The Tables Turned. An evening Scene, on the same Subject . . .83 

The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman 84 

The Last of the Flock 85 

The Idiot Boy ..... S6 

Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the 

Banks of the Wye during a Tour, July 13, 1798 91 

The Old Cumberland Beggar 93 

Animal Tranquillity and Decay ......... 96 

Peter Bell. A Tale 96 

I799 

The Simplon Pass . . .109 

Influence of Natural Objects in calling forth and strengthening the imagi- 
nation in Boyhood and early Youth (published in " The Friend") . . 110 
There was a Boy . . . . . . . . . . . .111 

Nutting Ill 

" Strange fits of passion have I known " . . . » . . . \1 12 

''She dwelt among the untrodden ways " ....... \12 



1798 


1815 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1793 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1793 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1800 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1800 


1798 


1798 


1798 


1819 


1799 


1845 


1799 


1809 


1799 


1800 


1799 


1S00 


1799 


18C0 


1799 


1S00 



CONTENTS 



" I travelled among- unknown men " . . . . . . .112 

" Three years she grew in sun and shower ". ...... 113 

" A slumber did my spirit seal " . . . . . . . . .113 

A Poet's Epitaph 113 

Address to the Scholars of the Village School of . . . . .114 

Matthew 115 

The two April Mornings .......... 115 

The Fountain. A Conversation 116 

To a Sexton 117 

The Danish Boy. A Fragment 117 

Lucy Gray; or, Solitude 118 

Ruth 119 

Written in Germany, on one of the coldest days of the Century , . . 122 

iSoo 

" Bleak season was it, turbulent and wild " . ...... 123 

" On Nature's invitation do I come " 123 

The Prelude 124 

The Recluse 222 

The Brothers 232 

Michael. A Pastoral Poem 238 

The Idle Shepherd-bovs ; or, Dungeon-Ghyll Force. A Pastoral . . 244 

The Pet-lamb. A Pastoral 245 

Poems on the Naming of Places — 

" It was an April morning : fresh and clear " ...... 247 

To Joanna ............. 248 

" There is an Eminence, — of these our hills " ...... 249 

" A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags" ...... 249 

To M. H 250 

The Waterfall and the Eglantine ......... 251 

The Oak and the Broom. A Pastoral ........ 252 

Hart-leap Well 253 

" 'T is said, that some have died for love "....... 256 

The Childless Father 257 

Song for the Wandering Jew 257 

Rural Architecture . ......... 257 

Ellen Irwin ; or, The Braes of Kirtle 258 

Andrew Jones ............ 259 

The Two Thieves ; or, The Last Stage of Avarice 259 

A Character 260 

Inscriptions — 
1S00 1800 For the Spot where the Hermitage stood on St. Herbert's Island, Derv. ent- 

water ............. 261 

1800 1800 Written with a Pencil upon a Stone in the Wall of the House (an Out- 
house) on the Island at Grasmere ........ 261 

1800 1800 Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a Heap lying near 

a deserted Quarry, upon one of the Islands at Rydal .... 261 



799 


1807 


99 


1800 


'99 


1800 


'99 


1800 


•99 


1845 


'99 


1800 


,-99 


1800 


799 


1800 


•99 


1800 


r99 


1800 


T99 


1800 


799 


1800 


799 


18U0 


300 (?) 1851 


Soft? 


1851 


799 / 
S05( 


1850 


$00 (? 


)1888 


300 


1800 


300 


1800 


SOO 


1800 


SOO 


1800 


300 


1800 



■ ■500 


1800 


: joo 


1S00 


1 31 II) 


1800 


I -;oo 


1800 


1.S00 


1S00 


i 500 


1800 


MX) 


1S00 


m 


1800 


io00 


1800 


1S00 


1800 


1800 


1800 



iSoi 



1801 1807 The Sparrow's Nest 

1801 1815 " Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side " 

1801 1820 The Prioress's Tale (from Chaucer) . 

ISO L 1S42 The Cuckoo and the Nightingale (from Chaucer) 

1801 1842 Troilus and Cresida (from Chaucer) 



262 
262 
263 
266 
271 



lS02 

1802 1807 The Sailor's Mother 273 

1802 1807 Alice Fell; or, Poverty 274 



CONTENTS i x 



Beggars 275 

To a Butterfly (first poem) 276 

The Emigrant Mother 276 

'• My heart leaps up when I behold " 277 

" Among all lovely things my Love had been " 277 

Written in March, while resting on the Bridge at the foot of Brother's 

Water . 278 

The Redbreast chasing the Butterfly ........ 278 

To a Butterfly (second poem) ......... 278 

Foresight ............. 279 

To the Small Celandine (first poem) . . ...... 279 

To the same Flower (second poem) ........ 2S0 

Resolution and Independence ......... 280 

" I grieved for Buonaparte^ with a vain "....... 282 

A Farewell 283 

" The Sun has long been set " 284 

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1802 284 

Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, August 1802 284 

Calais, August 1802 ... 284 

Composed near Calais, on the Road leading to Ardres, August 7, 1802 . 285 

Calais, August 15, 1802 285 

" It is a beauteous evening, calm and free " . ...... 285 

On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic . . ... . . 285 

The King of Sweden 286 

To Toussaint L'Ouverture 286 

Composed in the Valley near Dover, on the day of landing .... 286 

September 1, 1802 286 

Near Dover, September 1802 ......... 287 

Written in London, September 1802 287 

London, 1S02 .' 2S7 

" Great men have been among us ; hands that penned " .... 287 

" It is not to be thought of that the Flood " ...... 288 

" When I have borne in memory what has tamed " . . . • . 288 

Composed after a Journey across the Hambleton Hills, Yorkshire . . 288 

Stanzas written in my Pocket-copy of Thomson's " Castle of Indolence " . 288 

To H. C. Six years old 290 

To the Daisy (first poem) .......... 290 

To the same Flower (second poem) ........ 291 

To the Daisy (third poem) 291 

lSo 3 

The Green Linnet ........... 292 

Yew-trees ..........••• 292 

" Who fancied what a pretty sight" 293 

" It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown "...... 293 

Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803 — 

1. Departure from the vale of Grasmere, August 1803 .... 294 

2. At the Grave of Burns, 1803. Seven years after his death . . . 294 

3. Thoughts suggested the Day following, on the Banks of Nith, near the 
Poet's Residence ......••••• 295 

4. To the Sons of Burns, after visiting the Grave of their Father . . 296 

5. To a Highland Girl 297 

6. Glen Almain ; or, The Narrow Glen • . 298 

7. Stepping Westward . . . . . . . . . • 298 

8. The Solitary Reaper ....'.....- 298 

9. Address to Kilchurn Castle, upon Loch Awe 299 

10. Rob Roy's Grave 300 

11. Sonnet. Composed at Castle. ....... 301 

12. Yarrow Unvisited . .......... o01 

13. The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband 302 



1802 


1807 


1802 


1807 


1802 


1807 


1802 


1807 


1802 


1807 


1802 


1807 


1802 


1807 


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1807 


1802 


1807 


1802 


1807 


1802 


1807 


1802 


1807 


1802 


1807 


1802 


1815 


1802 


1807 


1802 


1807 


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1807 


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1802 


1815 


1802 


1807 


1802 


1807 


1802 


1807 


1802 


1807 


1803 


1807 


1803 


1815 


1803 


1807 


1803 


1S07 


1803 


1827 


1803 


1845 


1803 


1845 


1803 


1807 


1803 


1807 


1803 


1807 


1803 


1807 


1803 


1807 


1803 


1827 


1803 


1807 


1803 


1807 


1803 


1807 


1803 


1807 



CONTENTS 



14. " Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale ! " 303 

15. The'Blind Highland Boy 303 

October 1S03 306 

" There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear " 306 

October 1803 307 

" England ! the time is come when thou should'st wean " . . . . 307 

October 1S03 307 

To the Men of Kent. October 1803 307 

In the Pass of Killicranky, an invasion being expected, October 1803 . 308 

Anticipation. October 1803 ......... 308 

Lines on the expected Invasion ......... 308 

The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale 308 

1S04 

To the Cuckoo 310 

" She was a Phantom of delight " 311 

" I wandered lonely as a cloud " . . . . . . . . .311 

The Affliction of Margaret 312 

The Forsaken ............ 313 

Repentance. A Pastoral Ballad 313 

The Seven Sisters ; or, The Solitude of Binnorie 314 

Address to my Infant Daughter, Dora, on being reminded that she was a 

Month old that Day, September 16 315 

The Kitten and Falling Leaves 316 

To the Spade of a Friend (an Agriculturist). Composed -while we were 

labouring together in his Pleasure-ground ...... 317 

The Small Celandine (third poem) _ 318 

At Applethwaite, near Keswick, 1804 318 

To the Supreme Being. From the Italian of Michael Angelo . . . 319 

1805 

Ode to Duty 319 

To a Sky-lark 320 

Fidelity . . . . 320 

Incident characteristic of a Favourite Dog ....... 321 

Tribute to the Memory of the same Dog ....... 322 

When, to the attractions of the busy world "...... 322 

Elegiac Verses in memory of my Brother, John Wordsworth, Commander 
of the E. I. Company's ship the Earl of Abergavenny, in which he per- 
ished by Calamitous Shipwreck, February 6, 1805. Composed near the 
Mountain track that leads from Grasmere through Grisdale Hawes, where 

it descends towards Paterdale ......... 324 

1805 1815 To the Daisy (fourth poem) 325 

1805 1807 Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle, in a Storm, painted 

by Sir George Beaumont .......... 325 

1805 1807 Louisa. After accompanying her on a Mountain Excursion . . . 326 
1805 1807 To a Young Lady who had been reproached for taking long Walks in the 

Country 327 

1805 1820 Vaudracour and Julia .327 

1805 1815 The Cottager to her Infant, by my Sister 331 

1805 1819 The Waggoner 331 

1805 1810 1/ French Revolution, as it appeared to Enthusiasts at its Commencement 

[Jirst published in " The Friend,'" 1810] 340 

1806 

1806 1807 Character of the Happy Warrior 340 

1806 1807 The Horn of Egremont Castle 342 



1803 


1815 


1803 


1S07 


1803 


1807 


1803 


1807 


1803 


1S07 


1803 


1807 


1 


1807 


; 


1807 


; 


1S07 


! 


1807 


. 


1845 


; 


1815 


4 


1807 


4 


1807 


4 


1807 


4 


1807 


14 


1845 


)4 


1S20 


1S04 


1807 


J4 


1815 


lb04 


1807 


J4 


1807 


1804 


1807 


J4 


1842 


04 


1807 


05 


1807 


05 


1807 


.05 


1807 


S05 


1807 


;os 


1807 


505 


1815 


505 


1845 



CONTENTS xi 



A Complaint 343 

Stray Pleasures ............ 343 

Power of Music 344 

Star-gazers 345 

" Yes, it was the mountain Echo "........ 345 

" Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room " . . . . . . 346 

Personal Talk 340 

Admonition ............. 347 

" Beloved Vale ! " I said, " when I shall con "...... 347 

" How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks" ...... 348 

" Those words were uttered as in pensive mood " ..... 348 

Composed hy the side of Grasmere Lake ....... 348 

" With how sad steps, Moon, thou climb'st the sky " 348 

" The world is too much with us ; late and soon " ..... 349 

" With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh "..... 349 

" Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go ? " . . . . . 349 

To Sleep 349 

To Sleep 350 

To Sleep ............. 350 

Two Translations from Michael Angelo, and a Translation from the Latin 

of Thomas Warton ........... 350 

From the Italian of Michael Angelo 350 

From the Same . . . . . . . . . . . .351 

To the Memory of Raisley Calvert ........ 351 

" Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne "...... 351 

Lines composed at Grasmere, during a walk one Evening, after a stormy 
day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the dissolution of 

Mr. Fox was hourly expected ......... 352 

November 1806 352 

Address to a Child, during a boisterous winter Evening, by my Sister . . 352 

Ode. Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood . 353 

1807 

A Prophecy. February 1^07 356 

Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland .... 356 
To Thomas Clarkson, on the Final Passing of the Bill for the Abolition of 

the Slave Trade 356 

The Mother's Return, by my Sister 357 

Gipsies , 357 

" O Nightingale ! thou surely art " 358 

To Lady Beaumont ........... 358 

" Though narrow be that old Man's cares, and near " . . . . . 358 

Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, upon the Restoration of Lord Clif- 

, ford, the Shepherd, to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors . . 359 

5 >(The White Doe of Rylstone ; or, The Fate of the Nortons .... 361 

The Force of Praver ; or, The Founding of Bolton Priory. A tra- 
dition. . 3S1 

1808 

1808 1815 Composed while the Author was engaged in Writing a Tract occasioned by 

the Convention of Cintra .......... 382 

1808 1815 Composed at the same Time and on the same Occasion .... 382 

1808 1839 George and Sarah Green 3S2 

1S09 

1809 1815 Hoffer 383 

18U9 1815 "Advance — come forth from thy Tyrolean ground " . .... 383 

1809 1815 Feelings of the Tyrolese . 383 

1809 I8I0 "Alas! what boots the long laborious quest " 383 



1806 


1807 


1806 


1807 


1806 


1S07 


1806 


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1807 


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1820 


1806 


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1S06 


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1806 


1807 


(?) 


1882 


1S06 


1807 


1806 


1S07 


1806 


1807 


1806 


1807 


1S06 


1807 


1806 


1807 


1806 


IS 15 


1803-G 


I 1807 


1807 


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1807 


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1S07 


1807 


1807 


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1S07 


1S15 



CONTENTS 



1809 


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1837 


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1842 



1811 


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1S11 


1842 


1841 


1842 


1811 


1815 



1S08 1815 



1811 

1808 



1815 
1815 



l> And is it among rude untutored Dales " 

" O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain " 

On the Final Submission of the Tyrolese 

'" Hail, Zaragoza ! If with unwet eye " 

" bay, what is Honour ? — 'T is the finest sense " 

" The martial courage of a day is vain " 

" Brave JSchill ! by death delivered, take thy flight ' 

" Call not the royal Swede unfortunate " 

" Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid " . 

" Is there a power that can sustain and cheer " . 



384 
384 
384 
384 
385 
385 
385 
385 
385 
3S6 



1811 1815 



1810 

" Ah ! where is Palafox ? Nor tongue nor pen " 386 

" In due observance of an ancient rite "....... 38(5 

Feelings of a Noble Biscayan at one of those Funerals .... 3S6 

On a celebrated Event in Ancient History ....... 387 

Upon the same Event ........... 387 

The Oak of Guernica ........... 387 

Indignation of a high-minded Spaniard 387 

" Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind " 388 

" O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied " 388 

The French and the Spanish Guerillas 388 

Epitaphs translated from Chiabrera — 

" Weep not, beloved Friends ! nor let the air " 389 

" Perhaps some needful service of the State" [published in " The Friend," 

Feb. 22] 389 

" O Thou who movest onward with a mind " ...... 389 

li There never breathed a man who, when his life " 389 

" True is it that Arubrosio Salinero " ....... 390 

" Destined to war from very infancy " ....... 390 

" O flower of all that springs from gentle blood " 390 

" Not without heavy grief of heart did He " 391 

" Pause, courteous Spirit ! — Balbi supplicates" 391 

Maternal Grief 391 

l8ll 

Characteristics of a Cliild three Years old 392 

Spanish Guerillas ............ 393 

" The power of Armies is a visible thing " 393 

"Here pause: the poet claims at least this praise " 393 

Epistle to Sir George Howland Beaumont, Bart. From the South-west 

Coast of Cumberland # _ . .393 

Upon perusing- the foregoing Epistle thirty years after its Composition . 398 
Upon the sight of a Beautiful Picture, painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, 

Bart. 399 

Inscriptions — 

In the Grounds of Coleorton, the Seat of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., 

Leicestershire ........... 399 

In a Garden of Sir George Beaumont 400 

Written at the Request of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., and in his Name, 
for an Urn, placed by him at the Termination of a newly-planted Ave- 
nue, in the same Grounds ......... 400 

For a Seat in the Groves of Coleorton 400 



1812 

1812 1820 Song for the Spinning-Wheel. Founded upon a Belief prevalent among 
the Pastoral Vales of Westmoreland 



401 



CONTENTS 



1812 
1812 



1813 
1813 

1813 



795 1 

814 J 



1 

1814 
1814 
1814 



1814 



1814 
1814 

1814 

1814 
1814 



1815 Composed on the eve of the Marriage of a Friend in the Vale of Grasmere 401 
1827 Water-Fowl 401 

1S13 

1815 View from the top of Black Comb 402 

1815 Written with a Slate Pencil on a Stone, on the Side of the Mountain of 

Black Comb 402 

1815 November 1813 403 

1814 

1814 The Excursion 403 

1815 - Laodamia 525 

1S20 Dion (see Plutarch) 527 

Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1814 — 
1820 1. Suggested by a beautiful ruin upon one of the Islands of Loch Lomond, 
a place chosen for the retreat of a solitary individual, from whom this 
habitation acquired the name of The Brownie's Cell .... 529 
1820 2. Composed at Cora Linn, in sight of Wallace's Tower .... 530 
1827 3. Effusion in the Pleasure-ground on the banks of the Bran, near Dun- 

keld 531 

1815 4. Yarrow Visited, September 1S14 532 

1815 " From the dark chambers of dejection freed " 534 

1815 Lines written on a Blank Leaf in a Copy of the Author's Poem, " The 

Excursion," upon hearing of the Death of the late Vicar of Kendal . 534 



1815 

1815 1816 To B. R. Havdon 534 

1815 1820 Artegal and Elidure 534 

1815 1816 September 1S15 538 

1815 1816 November 1 538 

1810-15 1815 " The fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade " 538 

1815 " Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind " 539 

1810-15 1815 " Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour ! " 539 

1810-15 1815 " The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said " . . . . • 539 

1810-15 1815 " Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress " 540 

1810-15 1815 " Mark the concentred hazels that enclose " 540 

1810-15 1815 To the Poet, John Dyer 540 

1810-15 1815 " Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks " 541 

1810-15 1815 " Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind " 541 



1816 1816 



1816 


1816 


1816 


1816 


1816 


1816 


1816 


1816 


1816 


1816 


1816 


1816 


1816 


1832 


1816 


1827 


1816 


1816 


1816 


1816 


1816 


1816 


1816- 


1827 



1816 

Ode. — The Morning of the Day appointed for a General Thanksgiving, 

January 18, 1816 541 

Ode 544 

Invocation to the Earth, February 1816 . 540 

Ode composed in January 1S16 547 

Ode 548 

The French Army in Russia, 1812-13 549 

On the same occasion ........... 550 

" By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze "....... 550 

The Germans on the Heights of Hochheim 550 

Siege of Vienna raised by John Sobieski ....... 551 

Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo, February 1816 .... 551 

Occasioned by the Battle of Waterloo ....... 551 

" Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples rung " . . . . . 551 



CONTENTS 



1816 


1816 


1816 


1832 


1816 


1820 


1816 


1820 


1816 


1820 


1817 


1820 


1817 


1820 


1817 


1S20 


1817 


1820 


1817 


1S20 


1817 


1S20 


1817 


1820 


1817 


1827 


1818 


1820 


1818 


1820 



Feelings nf a French Ptoyalist, on the Disinterment of the Remains of the 

Duke d'Enghien 552 

Translation of part of the First Book of the ^Eneid 552 

A Fact, and an Imagination ; or, Canute and Alfred, on the Seashore . 554 

To Dora ■••.......... 555 

To , on her First Ascent to the Summit of Helvellyn .... 556 

1817 

Vernal Ode 55Q 

Ode to Lycoris. May 1S17 658 

To the Same ............ 559 

The Longest Day. Addressed to my Daughter 560 

Hint from the Mountains for certain Political Pretenders . . . .561 

The Pass of Kirkstone 501 

Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the Eve of a New Year . . . 502 

Sequel to the " Beggars," 1802. Composed many years after . . . 563 

1818 

The Pilgrim's Dream ; or, The Star and the Glow-worm .... 504 
Inscriptions supposed to be found in and near a Hermit's Cell — 

1. " Hopes what are they ? — Beads of morning " 5G5 
Inscribed upon a Rook — 

2. " Pause, Traveller ! whosoe'er thou be " . . . . . . 505 

3. " Hast thou seen, with flash incessant " 566 

Near the .Spring of the Hermitage — 

4. '" Troubled long with warring notions " 566 

5. " Not seldom, clad in radiant vest " 566 

1818 1820 Composed upon an Evening of extraordinary Splendour and Beauty . . 566 

1819 

Composed during a Storm 507 

This, and the two following, were suggested by Mr. W. Westall's views of 

the Caves, etc., in Yorkshire 507 

Malham Cove 508 

Gordale ............. 508 

" Aerial Rock — whose solitary brow " 508 

The Wild Duck's Nest 508 

Written upon a Blank Leaf in The Complete Angler 509 

Captivity — Mary Queen of Scots 509 

To a Snowdrop . .......... 569 

On seeing a Tuft of Snowdrops in a Storm 569 

To the River Derwent 570 

Composed in one of the Valleys of Westmoreland, on Easter Sunday . . 570 

Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready friend "...... 570 

" I watch, and long have watched, with calm regret " 571 

" I heard (alas! 't was only in a dream) " ....... 571 

The Haunted Tree. To 571 

September 1819 572 

Upon the same Occasion 572 



1819 


1819 


1819 


1S19 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1820 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1819 


1820 


1819 


1820 


1819 


1820 


1820 


1820 


1820 


1820 


1820 


1820 


1820 


1820 


1820 


1820 


1820 


1820 



1820 

" There is a little unpretending Rill " . 

Composed on the Banks of a Rocky Stream . 

On the death of His Majesty (George the Third) . 

" The stars are mansions built by Nature's hand " 

To the Lady Mary Lowther ..... 

On the Detraction which followed the Publication of a. certain Poem 



573 
573 
573 
574 
574 
574 



CONTENTS 



1S20 1820 Oxford, May 30, 1820 574 

1820 1S20 Oxford, May 30, 1820 575 

1820 1820 June 1820 575 

1820 1822 Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, 1820 — 

Dedication (sent with these Poems in MS. to ) ..... 575 

1. Fish-women — On Landing at Calais . 575 

2. Bruges 576 

3. Bruges 570 

4. After visiting the Field of Waterloo 576 

5. Between Namur and Liege ......... 576 

6. Aix-la-Chapelle 577 

7. In the Cathedral at Cologne . ........ 577 

8. In a Carriage, upon the Banks of the Rhine ...... 577 

9. Hymn for the Boatmen, as they approach the Rapids under the Castle 

of Heidelberg ........... 578 

10. The Source of the Danuhe ......... 578 

11. On approaching the Slaubbach, Lauterbrunnen ..... 578 

12. The Fall of the Aar — Handec 578 

13. Memorial, near the Outlet of the Lake of Thun ..... 579 

14. Composed in one of the Catholic Cantons ...... 579 

15. After-thought 579 

16. Scene on the Lake of Brientz ......... 579 

17. Engelberg, the Hill of Angels 580 

IS. Our Lady of the Snow 580 

ID. Effusion in Presence of the Painted Tower of Tell at Altorf . . 580 

20. The Town of Schwytz 581 

21. On hearing the " Ranz des Vaches " on the Top of the Pass of St. 

Gothard 581 

22. Fort Fuentes 581 

23. The Church of San Salvador, seen from the Lake of Lugano . . 582 

24. The Italian Itinerant, and the Swiss Goatherd ..... 583 

25. The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, in the Refectory of the Con- 

vent of Maria della Grazia, Milan ....... 5S4 

26. The Eclipse of the Sun, 1820 5S4 

27. The Three Cottage Girls 585 

28. The Column intended by Buonaparte for a Triumphal Edifice in Milan, 

now lying by the way-side in the Simplon Pass, ..... 586 

29. Stanzas composed in the Simplon Pass ....... 586 

30. Echo, upon the Gemmi .......... 5S7 

31. Processions. Suggested on a Sabbath Morning in the Vale of Cha- 

mouny ............ 587 

32. Elegiac Stanzas 588 

33. Sky-Prospect — from the Plain of France ...... 590 

34. On being Stranded near the Harbour of Boulogne .... 590 

35. After landing — the-Valley of Dover, November 1820 . . .590 

36. At Dover 590 

37. Desultory Stanzas, upon receiving the preceding Sheets from the Press 591 
1820 1820 The River Duddon. A Series of Sonnets — 

To the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth (with the Sonnets to the River Duddon, 

and other poems in this collection, 1820) ...... 593 

1. " Not envying Latian shades — if yet they throw " .... 593 

2. " Child of the clouds ! remote from every taint " . . . . . 594 

3. " How shall I paint thee ? — Be this naked stone " .... 594 

4. " Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take " . . . . . 594 

5. "Sole listener, Duddon! to the breeze that played " .... 594 

6. Flowers 595 

7. " Change me, some God, into that breathing rose ! " .... 595 

8. " What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled " 595 

9. The Stepping-stones .......... 595 

10. The same Subject ........... 596 

11. The Faery Chasm 596 



xvi CONTENTS 



1820 1820 12. Hints for the Fancy 596 

13. Open Prospect 596 

1S06 1807 14. " O mountain Stream ! the Shepherd and his Cot " 597 

1820 1820 15. " From this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play " . . . 597 

16. American Tradition 597 

17. Return 597 

18. Seathwaite Chapel 59S 

19. Tributary Stream 598 

20. The Plain of Donnerdale 598 

21. " Whence that low voice ? — A whisper from the heart " • . . 598 

22. Tradition 598 

23. Sheep-washing- ........... 599 

24. The Resting-place 599 

25. " Methinks 't were no unprecedented feat "...... 5H9 

26. " Return, Content! for fondly I pursued " ...... 599 

27. " Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap " 600 

28. Journey renewed ........... 600 

29. " No record tells of lance opposed to lance " . . . . . . 600 

30. " Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce " . . . . 600 

31. " The Kirk of Ulpha to the pilgrim's eye " 601 

32. " Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep " 601 

33. Conclusion ............ 601 

84. After-thought 601 

1820 1822 A Parsonage in Oxfordshire 602 

1820 1822 To Enterprise 602 

1821 

1821 1822 Ecclesiastical Sonnets. In Series — 

Part I. — From the Introduction of Christianity into Britain, to the Con- 
summation of the Papal Dominion — 

1. Introduction ............ 604 

2. Conjectures ............ 605 

3. Trepidation of the Druids 605 

4. Druidical Excommunication ......... 605 

5. Uncertainty ............ 605 

6. Persecution ............ 605 

7. Recovery ............ 606 

8. Temptations from Roman Refinements 606 

9- Dissensions . . ......... 606 

10. Struggle of the Britons against the Barbarians 606 

11. Saxon Conquest ........... 607 

12. Monastery of Old Bangor 607 

13. Casual Incitement ........... 607 

14. Glad Tidings 607 

15. Paulinus 608 

16. Persuasion ............ 608 

17. Conversion ............ 608 

18. Apology 608 

19. Primitive Saxon Clergy .......... 609 

20. Other Influences 609 

1829 21. Seclusion 609 

1822 22. Continued 609 

23. Reproof .... 610 

24. Saxon Monasteries, and Lights and Shades of the Religion . . .610 

25. Missions and Travels .......... 610 

26. Alfred 610 

27. His Descendants 610 

2S. Influence Abused 611 

29. Danish Conquests . . . . . . . . , . .611 

30. Canute 611 



CONTENTS 



1821 1S22 31. The Norman Conquest 611 

1S37 32. " Coldly we spake. The Saxons, overpowered " 612 

1822 33. The Council of Clermont 612 

34. Crusades ............. 612 

35. Richard 1 612 

36. An Interdict ............ 613 

37. Papal Abuses ............ 613 

38. Scene in Venice ........... 613 

39. Papal Dominion ........... 613 

Part II. — To the close of the Troubles in the Reign of Charles I. — 

1845 1. " How soon alas ! did Man, created pure — " ..... 613 

1845 2. " From false assumption rose, and, fondly hailed " 614 

3. Cistertiau Monastery .......... 614 

1835 4. " Deplorable his lot who tills the ground " 614 

1822 5. Monks and Schoolmen .......... 614 

6. Other Benefits ........... 615 

7. Continued 615 

8. Crusaders ............ 615 

1842 1845 9. " As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest " 615 

1842 1845 10. " Where long and deeply hath been fixed the root " .... 615 

1821 1822 11. Transubstantiation 616 

1835 12. The Vaudois 616 

1835 13. " Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain springs " . . . . 616 

1822 14. Waldenses 616 

15. Archbishop Chichely to Henry V. . . . . . . . . 617 

16. Wars of York and Lancaster ....... ■> . 617 

17. Wicliffe 617 

18. Corruptions of the higher Clergy ........ 617 

19. Abuse of Monastic Power ......... 618 

20. Monastic Voluptuousness ......... 618 

21. Dissolution of the Monasteries ........ 618 

22. The same Subject 618 

23. Continued 619 

24. Saints 619 

25. The Virgin 619 

26. Apology 619 

27. Imaginative Regrets .......... 619 

28. Reflections 620 

29. Translation of the Bible 620 

1827 30. The Point at Issue 620 

1822 31. Edward VI 620 

1822 32. Edward signing the Warrant for the Execution of Joan of Kent . .621 

1827 33. Revival of Popery 621 

1827 34. Latimer and Ridley 621 

1822 35. Cranmer 021 

36. General View of the Troubles of the Reformation .... 621 

37. English Reformers in Exile 622 

3S. Elizabeth 622 

39. Eminent Reformers .......... 622 

40. The Same 622 

41. Distractions ............ 623 

42. Gunpowder Plot .... 623 

43. Illustration. The Jung-Frau and the Fall of the Rhine near Schaff- 

hansen ............ 623 

44. Troubles of Charles the First 023 

45. Land 624 

46. Afflictions of England 624 

P.ART III. — From the Restoration to the Present Times — 

1. " I saw the figure of a lovely Maid " 624 

2, Patriotic Sympathies 624 



xviii CONTENTS 



1821 1822 3. Charles the Second 625 

4. Latitudinarianism ........... 625 

5. Walton's Book of Lives 625 

6. Clerical Integrity 625 

1827 7. Persecution of the Scottish Covenanters 626 

1822 8. Acquittal of the Bishops 626 

1822 9. William the Third 626 

1822 10. Obligations of Civil to Religious Liberty 626 

1827 11. Sacheverel 626 

1S27 12. " Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design " 627 

Aspects of Christianity in America — 

1842 1845 13. i. The Pilgrim Fathers 627 

1842 1845 14. u. Continued 627 

1842 1845 15. in. Concluded. — American Episcopacy 627 

1821 1845 16. " Bishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if deep " 628 

1822 17. Places of Worship. 628 

1822 18. Pastoral Character 628 

1822 19. The Liturgy 628 

1827 20. Baptism 629 

1822 21. Sponsors 629 

1832 22. Catechising 629 

1827 23. Confirmation 629 

24. Confirmation continued .......... 629 

25. Sacrament 630 

1845 26. The Marriage Ceremony 630 

27. Thanksgiving after Childbirth 630 

28. Visitation of the Sick 630 

29.' The Commination Service ......... 631 

30- Forms of Prayer at Sea 631 

31. Funeral Service 631 

1822 32. Rural Ceremony 631 

33. Regrets 632 

34. Mutability 632 

35. Old Abbeys 632 

1827 36. Emigrant French Clergy , . 632 

1822 37. Congratulation 633 

38. New Churches 633 

39. Church to be Erected 633 

40. Continued 633 

41. New Churchyard 633 

1822 42. Cathedrals, etc 634 

43. Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge 634 

44. The Same 634 

45. Continued 634 

46. Ejaculation ............ 635 

47. Conclusion 635 

1823 

1823 1827 Memory 635 

1823 1827 To the Lady Fleming, on seeing the Foundation preparing for the Erection 

of Rydal Chapel, Westmoreland ........ 636 

1823 1827 On the same Occasion 637 

1823 1827 " A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found " 637 

1823 1827 " Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell " 638 

1824 

1824 .1827 To 638 

" Let other bards of angels sing." 



CONTENTS xix 



1824 
1824 


1827 
1827 


1824 
1824 


1827 
1827 


1824 
1S24 
1824 


1827 
1827 
1827 


1824 
1824 


1842 
1842 



1824 1827 To 638 

' ' dearer far than light and life are dear." 

"How rich that forehead's calm expanse !" 638 

To 639 

" Look at the fate of summer flowers." 

A Flower Garden at Coleorton Hall, Leicestershire 639 

To the Lady E. B. and the Hon. Miss P. Composed in the Grounds of 

Plass Newidd, near Llangollen, 18-4 ....... 640 

To the Torrent at the Devil's Bridge, North Wales, 1824 .... 640 

Composed among the Ruins of a Castle in North Wales .... 640 

Elegiac Stanzas. Addressed to Sir G. H. B., upon the death of his sister- 
in-law, 1824 641 

Cenotaph 641 

Epitaph in the Chapel-yard of Langdale, Westmoreland .... 642 

1825 

1825 1827 The Contrast. The Parrot and the Wren 642 

1825 1827 To a Sky-lark 643 

1826 

1826 1827 " Ere with cold beads of midnight dew " 643 

1826 1835 Ode, composed on May Morning 643 

1S26-34 1835 To May 644 

1S26 1827 " Once I could hail (howe'er serene the sky) " 645 

1826 1S35 " The massy Ways, carried across these heights " 646 

1826 1827 The Pillar of Trajan 646 

1826 1842 Farewell Lines 647 

1827 

On seeing a Needlecase in the Form of a Harp. The work of E. M. S. . 648 

Dedication. To 648 

" Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat "....... 649 

" Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings " 649 

To S. H 649 

Decay of Piety 649 

" Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned " ..... 650 

" Fair Prime of life ! were it enough to gild" 650 

Retirement ............. 650 

" There is a j)leasure in poetic pains " 650 

Recollection of the Portrait of King Henry Eighth, Trinity Lodge, Cam- 
bridge . . . . 651 

l> When Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle '' . . ..... 651 

" While Anna's peers and early playmates tread " 651 

To the Cuckoo ............ 651 

The Infant M M .652 

To Rotha Q 652 

To , in her seventieth year ......... 652 

" In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud " 652 

" Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes " . . . . . . . 653 

In the Woods of Rydal 653 

Conclusion, To 653 

1828 

A Morning Exercise . . . . . . . . . . .653 

The Triad [in " The Keepsake," 1829, and in 1832 in the Poems] . . 654 

The Wishing-gate [in " The Keepsake" 1829, and in 1832 in the Poems] . 657 

The Wishing-gate destroyed 658 



1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1S27 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1S27 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1S27 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1821 


1827 


1S27 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1827 


1S27 


1827 


1S27 


1828 


1832 


1828 


1829 


1828 


1829 


1S28- 


1842 



xx CONTENTS 



1830 


1835 


1830 


1835 


1830 


1835 


1830 


1835 


1830 


1835 


1830 


1835 


1830 


1835 



1828 1835 A Jewish Family (in a small valley opposite St. Goar, upon the Rhine) . 658 
1828 182U The Gleaner, suggested by a picture [in " The Keepsake," 1829 ; under the 

title of " The Country Girl " published in 1832 in the Poems] . . . 659 

1828 1835 On the Power of Sound 660 

1828 1835 Incident at Bruges 663 

1829 

1829 1835 Gold and Silver Fishes in a Vase 663 

1829 1835 Liberty (sequel to the above) 664 

1829 1835 Humanity 666 

1829 1835 " This Lawn, a carpet all alive" 668 

1829 1835 Thought on the Seasons .......... 668 

1829 1829 A Gravestone upon the Floor in the Cloisters of Worcester Cathedral [in 

" The Keepsake," 1829, and in 1832 in the Poems] 669 

1829 1829 A Tradition of Oker Hill in Darley Dale, Derbyshire [in " The Keepsake," 

1829, and in 1832 in the Poems] 669 

1830 

The Armenian Lady's Love 669 

The Russian Fugitive ........... 672 

The Egyptian Maid ; or, The Romance of the Water Lily .... 676 

The Poet and the Caged Turtledove 681 

Presentiments ............ 682 

" In these fair vales hath many a Tree "....... 682 

Elegiac Musings in the grounds of Coleorton Hall, the seat of the late Sir 

G. H. Beaumont, Bart 683 

1S30 1835 " Chatsworth ! thy stately mansion, and the pride " 683 

1831 

1831 1S35 The Primrose of the Rock 688 

1831 1835 Yakbovv Revisited, and other Poems, composed (two excepted) during a 

Tour in Scotland, and on the English Border, in the Autumn of 1831. 

[The " two excepted " are, probably, Nos. 16 and 26.] .... 685 

1. Yarrow Revisited ........... 686 

2. On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Abbotsford, for Naples . 687 

3. A Place of Burial in the South of Scotland ...... 687 

4. On the Sight of a Manse in the South of Scotland ..... 688 

5. Composed in Roslin Chapel during a Storm ...... 6SS 

6. The Trosachs 6S9 

7. " The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute " . . . . . 689 

8. Composed after reading a Newspaper of the Day ..... 689 

9. Composed in the Glen of Loch Etive ....... 690 

10. Eagles. Composed at Dunollie Castle in the Bay of Oban . . . 690 

11. In the Sound of Mull 690 

12. Suggested at Tyndrum in a Storm ........ 691 

13. The Earl of Breadalbane's Ruined Mansion and Family Burial-place, 

near Killin ............ 691 

14. " Rest and be Thankful! " At the Head of Glencroe . . . .691 

15. Highland Hut 692 

16. The Brownie 692 

17. To the Planet Venus, an Evening Star. Composed at Loch Lomond . 692 

18. Bothwell Castle. (Passed unseen on account of stormy weather) . . 692 

19. Picture of Daniel in the Lions' Den, at Hamilton Palace . . . 693 

20. The Avon. A Feeder of the Annan 693 

21. Suggested by a View from an Eminence in Iuglewood Forest . . 693 

22. Hart's-horn Tree, near Penrith ........ 694 

23. Fancy and Tradition 6ij4 



CONTENTS xxi 

1831 1835 24. Countess's Pillar . . • -694 

25. Roman Antiquities. (From the Roman Station at Old Penrith.) . 695 

26. Apology for the foregoing Poems 695 

27. The Highland Broach .695 

1832 

1532 1835 Devotional Incitements 696 

1832 1835 " Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose " 697 

1832 (?) 1832 To B. R. Haydon on seeing his Picture of Napoleon Buonaparte — on the 

Island of St. Helena 698 

1832 1835 Rural Illusions 698 

1832 1835 Loving and Liking. Irregular Verses addressed to a Child. (By my Sis- 
ter.) 698 

1832 1832 Upon the late General Fast. March 1S32 699 

1832 (?) 1S32 Filial Piety. (On the wayside between Preston and Liverpool.) . . 699 

1832 1836 " If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven " 700 

1832 1835 To the Author's Portrait 700 

1333 

1533 1835 A Wren's Nest 700 

1833 1835 To , upon the birth of her First-born Child, March 1833 . . .701 

1833 1835 The Warning. A Sequel to the foregoing 702 

1833 1835 "If this great world of joy and pain " 705 

1S33 1835 On a high part of the Coast of Cumberland, Easter Sunday, April 7, the 

Author's sixty-third Birthday 705 

1S33 1835 By the Seaside 705 

1833 1835 Poems Composed or Suggested during a Tour in the Summer of 

1833 — 

1. " Adieu, Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown " 706 

2. " Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through this Isle " . . 706 

3. " They called Thee Merry England, in old time " 707 

4. To the River Greta, near Keswick ....... 707 

5. In sight of the Town of Cockermouth. (Where the Author was horn, 

and his Father's remains are laid.) ....... 707 

6. Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth Castle ..... 707 

7. Nun's Well, Brig-ham 708 

8. To a Friend. (On the Banks of the Derwent.) ... . 708 

9. Mary Queen of Scots. (Landing at the Mouth of the Derwent, Work- 

ington.) ............ 708 

10. Stanzas suggested in a Steamboat off St. Bees' Heads, on the Coast of 

Cumberland ........... 709 

11. In the Channel, between the coast of Cumberland and the Isle of Man 711 

12. At Sea off the Isle of Man 711 

13. " Desire we past illusions to recall? " . 712 

14. On entering Douglas Bay, Isle of Man ....... 712 

15. By the Seashore, Isle of Man 712 

16. Isle of Man 712 

17. Isle of Man 713 

18. By a Retired Mariner, H. H 713 

19. At Bala-Sala, Isle of Man 713 

20. Tynwald Hill 713 

21. " Despond who will — / heard a voice exclaim " ..... 714 

22. In the Frith of Clvde. Ailsa Crag. During an Eclipse of the Sun, July 17 714 

23. On the Frith of Clyde. (In a Steamboat.) 715 

24. On revisiting Dunolly Castle . . . . . . ... .715 

25. The Dunolly Eagle 715 

1824 1827 26. Written in a Blank Leaf of Macpherson's Ossian 715 

1833 1835 27. Cave of Staffa 716, 



CONTENTS 



1833 1835 28. Cave of Staffa. After the Crowd had departed 716 

29. Cave of Staft'a . 717 

30. Flowers on the Top of the Pillars at the Entrance of the Cave . . 717 

31. Iona 717 

32. Iona. (Upon Landing.) .......... 717 

33. The Black Stones of Iona 718 

34. " Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's Cell " 718 

35. Greenock ..... 718 

36. "' There !' said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride " . . .719 

37. The River Eden, Cumberland 719 

38. Monument of Mrs. Howard (by Nollekens) in Wetheral Church, near 

Corby, on the Banks of the Eden . . . . • . .719 

39. Suggested by the foregoing ......... 720 

40. Nunnery 720 

41. Steamboats, Viaducts, and Railways ....... 721 

42. The Monument commonly called Long Meg and her Daughters, near 

the River Eden ........... 721 

43. Lowther 721 

44. To the Earl of Lonsdale 721 

45. The Somnambulist . . . . . . . . . • . (22 

46. To Cordelia M , Hallsteads, Ullswater 723 

47. " Most sweet it is with unuplif ted eyes " 724 

1833 1845 Composed by the Seashore 724 



1834 



1834 


1835 


1834 


1835 


1834 


1835 


1834 


1835 


1834 


1835 


1834 


1835 


1834 


1835 


1834 


1835 


1834 


1835 


1834 


1835 



" Not in the lucid intervals of life " . . . 

By the Side of Rydal Mere 

" Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge — the Mere " . 
" The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill " 
The Labourer's Noon-day Hymn .... 
The Redbreast. (Suggested in a Westmoreland Cottage.) 
Lines suggested by a Portrait from the Pencil of F. Stone 

The foregoing Subject resumed 

To a Child. Written in her Album 



725 

725 
726 
726 
727 
727 
728 
730 
731 
Lines written in the Album of the Countess of Lonsdale. November 5, 1S34 731 

1835 

1835 1S36 To the Moon. (Composed by the Seaside,— on the Coast of Cumberland.) 732 

1835 1836 To the Moon. (Rydal.) 733 

1835 1836 Written after the Death of Charles Lamb 734 

1835 1836 Extempore Effusion upon the death of James Hogg . . . . . 736 

1835 1836 Upon seeing a coloured Drawing of the Bird of Paradise in an Album . 737 

1835 1835 " By a blest Husband guided, Mary came " 738 

Sonnets — 

1835(?)1835 1. " Desponding Father ! mark this altered bough ". . . . . 739 

2. Roman Antiquities discovered at Bishopstone, Herefordshire . • 739 

3. St. Catherine of Ledbury 739 

4. " Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant " 740 

5. " Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein " 740 

6. To 740 

" ' Wait, prithee, wait ! ' this answer Lesbia threw." 

7. " Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud " 740 

1836 

1836 1837 November 1836 741 

1836 1836 " Six months to six years added he remained " 741 



CONTENTS xxiii 



1837 

1837-42 1842 Memorials of a Tour in Italy, 1837 — 

To Henry Crabb Robinson , 741 

1. Musings near Aquapendente. April 1837 742 

2. The Pine of Monte Mario at Rome 748 

3. At Rome 748 

4. At Rome — Regrets — In allusion to Niebuhr and other modern His- 

torians ..... 748 

5. Continued 749 

6. Plea for the Historian 749 

7. At Rome 749 

8. Near Rome, in sight of St. Peter's 749 

9. AtAlbano 750 

10. " Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove "..... 750 

11. From the Alban Hills, looking towards Rome 750 

12. Near the Lake of Tbrasymene 751 

13. Near the same Lake .......... 751 

1837 1842 14. The Cuckoo at Laverna. May 25, 1837 751 

1837-42 1842 15. At the Convent of Camaldoli 753 

16. Continued ............ 753 

17. At the Eremite or Upper Convent of Camaldoli 753 

18. At Vallombrosa 753 

19. At Florence 755 

20. Before the Picture of the Baptist, by Raphael, in the Gallery at 

Florence 755 

21. At Florence — From Michael Angelo 755 

22. At Florence — From M. Angelo 756 

23. Among the Ruins of a Convent in the Apennines .... 756 

24. In Lombardy 756 

25. After leaving Italy 757 

26. Continued 757 

At Bologna, in Remembrance of the late Insurrections, 1837 — 

1837 1842 1. " Ah, why deceive ourselves ! by no mere fit " 757 

2. " Hard task ! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean " .... 758 

3. " As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow " 758 

1837 1837 " What if our numbers barely could defy " 75S 

1837 1842 A Night Thought 75S 

r 

1838 

1838 1838 To the Planet Venus. Upon its approximation (as an Evening Star) to 

the Earth, January 1838 -.759 

1838 1838 Composed at Rydal on May Morning, 1838 759 

1838 183S Composed on a May Morning, 1838 759 

1838 1838 " Hark ! 't is the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest " 759 

1838 1838 " 'T is He whose yester-evening's high disdain " 760 

1838(?) 1838 " Oh what a Wreck ! how changed in mien and speech ! " . . . ,760 

1838 1838 A Plea for Authors, May 1838 ,760 

1838 1S38 A Poet to his Grandchild. (Sequel to the foregoing.) . . . .760 

1838 1S38 " Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unselfish will " 761 

1838 183S Valedictory Sonnet. Closing the Volume of Sonnets published in 1838 . 761 

1838 1838 Sonnet. Protest against the Ballot 761 

1839 

1839-40 1841 Sonnets upon the Punishment of Death. In series [first published in the 
" Quarterly Review "] — 

1. Suggested by the View of Lancaster Castle (on the Road from the 

South) 761 

2. "Tenderly do we feel by Nature's Law" 762 



XXIV 



CONTENTS 



1839-40 1841 



1840 1851 

1840 1851 

1S40 1842 

1840 1842 



1841 (?) 1842 
1841 1S42 



3. 
4. 
5. 
6. 

7. 

8. 

9. 
10. 
11. 
12. 
13. 
14. 



" The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die " 

" Is Death, when evil against good has fought " . 

" Not to the object specially designed " 

" Ye brood of conscience — Spectres ! that frequent " 

" Before the world had past her time of youth " . 

" Fit retribution, by the moral code " . 

" Though to give timely warning and deter " 

" Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine " 

" Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide " 

" See the Condemned alone within his cell " . 

Conclusion ........ 

Apology ........ 



1840 



762 
762 
762 
762 
763 
763 
763 
763 
763 
764 
764 
764 



Sonnet on a Portrait of I. F., painted by Margaret Gillies .... 764 

Sonnet to I. F 764 

Poor Robin 765 

On a Portrait of the Duke of Wellington upon the Field of Waterloo, by 

Haydon 765 



1841 



To a Painter 

On the same Subject 



766 
766 



1842 1842 

1842 1842 

1842 1842 

1842 1842 

1842 1842 

(?) 1842 

1842 (?) 1842 



1842 1842 

1842 1842 

1842 1842 

1842 (?) 1842 

1842 (?) 1842 

1842 (?) 1842 

1842 1845 

1842 1842 



1843 1845 
1843 1S45 
1843 1845 



1842 

" When Severn's sweeping flood had overthrown " ..... 766 

" Intent on gathering wool from hedge and brake " . . . . . 767 
Prelude prefixed to the Volume entitled Poems chiefly of Early and Late 

Years 767 

Floating Island 768 

" The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love " 768 

To a Redbreast — (in Sickness) ......... 768 

Miscellaneous Sonnets — 

" A Poet ! — He hath put his heart to school " 769 

" The most alluring clouds that mount the sky " . . . . . 769 

" Feel for the wrongs to universal ken " . . . . . . . 769 

In allusion to various recent Histories and Notices of the French Re- 
volution ............ 769 

Continued 770 

Concluded .... ....... 770 

" Men of the Western World ! in Fate's dark book " . . . . 770 

" Lo ! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance " 770 

The Norman Boy 770 

The Poet's Dream, Sequel to the Norman Boy 771 

The Widow on Windermere Side ........ 773 

Airey-Force Valley 774 

" Lyre ! though such power do in thy magic live " . . . . . 774 

To the Clouds 774 

" Wansfell ! this Household has a favoured lot "..... 776 

The Eagle and the Dove [published in " La Petite Chouannerie"] . . 776 



1843 



1845 



1843 

Grace Darling ........... 

" While beams of orient light shoot wide and high " . 

To the Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, D. D., Master of Harrow School 

After the perusal of his Tkeophilus Anylicanus, recently published 
Inscription for a Monument in Crosthwaite Church, in the Vale of Kes- 
wick ............. 



776 

778 

778 
778 



CONTENTS xxv 



1844 

On the projected Kendal and Windermere Railway 778 

" Proud were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old " . . 779 

At Furness Abbey 779 

1845 

" Forth from a jutting' ridge, around whose base " 779 

The Westmoreland Girl. To my Grandchildren — 

1. " Seek who will delight in fable " . . . ... . . 780 

2. " Now, to a maturer Audience " . . . . . . . . 780 

At Furness Abbey 781 

" Yes ! thou art fair, yet be not moved " 781 

" What heavenly smiles ! O Lady mine " 781 

To a Lady, in answer to a request that I would write her a Poem upon 

some Drawings that she had made of flowers in the Island of Madeira . 781 

" Glad sight wherever new with old " ....... 782 

Love lies Bleeding ........... 782 

Companion to the foregoing ......... 783 

The Cuckoo-Clock . . 783 

" So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive " ....... 784 

To the Pennsylvanians . . . . . . . • • . (84 

" Young England — what is then become of Old " 784 

" Though the bold wings of Poesy affect " 785 

Suggested by a Picture of the Bird of Paradise 785 

1846 

Sonnet 786 

" Where lies the truth ? has Man, in wisdom's creed .... 786 

" I know an aged Man constrained to dwell " 7S6 

" How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high " ....'. 787 
Evening Voluntaries — 

To Lucca Giordano . .......... 787 

" Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high " 787 

Illustrated Books and Newspapers 787 

" The unremitting voice of nightly streams " 787 

Sonnet. (To an Octogenarian.) . 788 

On the Banks of a Rocky Stream 788 

1847 

1847 1847 Ode on the Installation of His Royal Highness Prince Albert as Chancellor 

of the University of Cambridge, July 1847 . . . . • . (88 
[The Ode was partly written by the Poet's nephew, the Bishop of Lincoln. .] 

Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, 1800 790 

Appendix, 1802 799 

Dedication to the Edition of 1815 801 

Preface to the Edition of 1815 801 

Essay, Supplementary to the Preface, 1815 806 

PosTscRrpT, 1S35 817 

Notes ................. 826 

Bibliography of Wordsworth 911 

References, Biographical, Critical, and Descriptive 917 

Map of the Lake Country 919 

Index to the First Lines 921 

Index to the Poems 931 



1844 


1845 


1844 


1845 


1844 


1845 


1845 


1845 


1845 


1845 


1845 


1845 


1S45 


1845 


1845 


1845 


1S45 


1845 


1845 (?) 


1845 


1845 (?) 


1845 


1S45 (?) 


1845 


1845 


1845 


1845 


1845 


1845 


1845 


1845 


1845 


1845 (?) 


1845 


1845 (?) 


1845 


1846 


1850 


1846 


1850 


1846 


1850 


1S46 (?) 


1S50 


1846 


1850 


1846 


1850 


1846 


1850 


1846 


1850 


1846 


1849 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

Notwithstanding the fact that the notes to this edition are biographical and critical, 
— an attempt to reveal how Wordsworth became the poet of plain living and high think- 
ing, — it may be well to review the main events of his life and the distinctive achievement 
of his art. It will help us to understand what Emerson wrote of him in 1854 : " It is 
very easy to see that to act so powerfully in this practical age, he needed, with all his 
Oriental abstraction, the indomitable vigour rooted in animal constitution, for which his 
countrymen are marked, otherwise he could not have resisted the deluge streams of their 
opinion with success. One would say he is the only man among them who has not in any 
point succumbed to their way of thinking, and has prevailed." 

William Wordsworth was born at Cockermouth, Cumberland, April 7, 1770. The 
house in which he was born, a large substantial mansion, still stands, and is of interest 
because of the garden and terrace-walk in the rear associated with events related in " The 
Sparrow's Nest " and " The Prelude." His father, John Wordsworth, a solicitor, and law 
agent of the Earl of Lonsdale, was a descendant of an old family which belonged to the 
middle class and had settled in Penistone, Yorkshire, in the reign of Edward the Third. 
An interesting old oak chest or almery, now in the possession of the poet's grandchildren 
at The Stepping Stones, Ambleside, bears the pedigree carved by one of the family in 
the reign of Henry the Eighth. 

The poet's mother (Anne Cookson) was the daughter of William Cookson, mercer, of 
Penrith. She was descended on her mother's side from an ancient family of Crackan- 
thorp, which, from the time of Edward the Third, had lived at Newbiggen Hall, West- 
moreland. She married John Wordsworth at Penrith, February 5, 1766. Besides William, 
who was the second son, there were born at Cockermouth three sons, Richard, John, and 
Christopher, and one daughter, Dorothy. 

Wordsworth's infancy and early boyhood were passed at Cockermouth, and with 
maternal relatives at Penrith. His teachers at this time were his mother, to whom he 
has paid a touching tribute in " The Prelude," and his father, who early taught him to 
commit to memory portions of the great English poets, the Rev. Mr. Gilbanks, of Cock- 
ermouth, and Dame Birkett, of Penrith. There was nothing in his character during these 
years that distinguished him in any way from other children hi the family, unless it was 
the manifestation of that " indomitable vigour " which characterized him as a man. This 
manifested itself in such forms of will and temper as to cause his mother to remark that 
the only one of her five children about whose future she was anxious was William: "He 
will be remarkable either for good or for evil." Yet there were influences of Nature and 
his own home acting silently upon him thus early which later became his most cherished 
memories, and revealed how favored he had been in his birthplace and training. 

Wordsworth's mother, the heart and hinge of all his learning and his loves, died in 1778, 
and the family was broken up. William and Richard, the eldest boys, were sent to the 
old school at Hawkshead. It is hardly necessary to review in detail the events of 
Wordsworth's life from this time until he meets Coleridge in 1795, as it is given with 
scrupulous regard for truth and with entire freedom from vanity in " The Prelude," by the 
only man who could describe them with certainty. All who would read his poetry as he 



xxviii WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

wished it to be read should Have this poem by heart. Only the main events will be re- 
viewed here. 

The old school, situated in a quaint rural village, and surrounded by the unambitious 
loveliness of Nature in hill and dale, rivers, woods, and fields, maintained a healthy, sound 
simplicity of social and academic culture. Competition and high pressure were unknown; 
there were the greatest freedom and variety of mental and physical training. The boys, 
while studying mathematics and the classics under accomplished and sympathetic teach- 
ers, lived in the cottages of the dalesmen, and were cared for by the homely and motherly 
dames. When out of school they were left to themselves and their own modest plea- 
sures. They rowed or skated on the lake, ranged the fells for woodcock, fished in brooks 
or pools hid among the mountains, practiced crag-climbing and raven-nesting, until 
" feverish with weary joints and beating minds " home and to bed they went. In review- 
ing these happy days Wordsworth found two great periods in his development at the 
hands of Nature clearly revealed: first, that of unconscious receptivity when life was 
sweet he knew not why; and the second, that of conscious intercourse with aspects sub- 
lime and fair of the external world. Of this experience he writes: — 

I cannot, paint 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock, 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
Their colours and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 
That had no need of a remoter charm, 
By thought supplied, nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. 

His pastime and his happiness now began to grow in the substantial world of great books ; 
but his reading was not that of a student with a definite aim, rather that of a lover of 
romance, a child. He read as chance and curiosity dictated. He says: — 

What joy was mine ! How often in the course 

Of those glad respites, though a soft west wind 

Ruffled the waters to the angler's wish, 

For a whole day together, have I lain 

Down hy thy side, O Derwent ! murmuring stream, 

On the hot stones, devouring as I read, 

Defrauding the day's glory, desperate ! 

Till with a sudden hound of smart reproach, 

Such as an idler deals with in his shame, 

I to the sport betook myself again. 

The healthy activities of these days at Hawkshead, when spontaneous wisdom was 
breathed by health, and truth by cheerfulness, begat 

A race of real children ; not too wise, 

Too learned, or too good ; but wanton, fresh, 

And bandied up and down by love and hate ; 

Not unresentful where self-justified ; 

Fierce, moody, patient, venturous, modest, shy ; 

Mad at their sports like withered leaves in winds ; 

Though doing wrong and suffering, and full oft 

Bending beneath our life's mysterious weight 

Of pain, and doubt, and fear, yet yielding not 

In happiness to the happiest upon earth. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxix 

Before Wordsworth had completed his school days at Hawkshead his father died aud 
the family was left in straitened circumstances owing to- the fact that Sir James 
Lowther had borrowed nearly his entire savings and had refused to discharge the debt. 
Accordingly Dorothy was sent to live with maternal relatives at Penrith. Through the 
assistance of his uncles, William was enabled to enter St. John's College, Cambridge. 
Although he had looked forward with a boy's delight to this 

Migration strange for a stripling of the hills, 
A northern villager, 

yet after the first novelty of the place and the quaint customs wore off he was filled with 
disappointment. Btit he conformed to every outward requirement of the place and kept 
his homesickness to himself. Cambridge was at this time in the depths of intellectual 
sleep ; enthusiasm was dead, and academic spirit was at a low ebb. Without stimulus 
to intellectual activity Wordsworth's thoughts were directed, first, quite unconsciously — as 
they had been previously with Nature — to the historic past as revealed in his environment. 
Of this he says : — 

Imagination slept, 
And yet not utterly. I could not print 
Ground where the grass had yielded to the steps 
Of generations of illustrious men, 
Unmoved. I could not always lightly pass 
Through the same gateways, sleep where they had slept, 
Wake where they waked, range that enclosure old, 
That garden of great intellects, undisturbed. 

Gradually he was aroused to the consciousness of the superficial religious and academic 
spirit of the place : — 

Decency and Custom starving Truth, 

Aud blind Authority beating with his staff 

The child that might have led him ; Emptiness 

Followed as of good omen, and meek Worth 

Left to herself unheard of and unknown. 

Realizing that he was not for that place nor for that time, he sought the comradeship of 
the poets who had made the name of Cambridge famous in the literature of the English 
tongue ; and the love of man began to rise in his heart. Thenceforth he had a world of 
his own about him, both of Nature and of man; he made it and it lived to him alone. It 
is needless to say that this slight of the means upon which his future worldly maintenance 
must depend caused anxiety to those interested in his progress. In his first vacations he 
found consolation for this in revisiting his old haunts at Hawkshead, and in the company 
of his sister and Mary Hutchinson at Penrith. It was at Hawkshead, after a night 
spent with his old schoolmates at a farmhouse among the hills, that there was revealed to 
him as to Burns in " The Vision," that he was set apart for holy services. 

Magnificent 
The morning rose, in memorable pomp, 
Glorious as e'er I had beheld — in front, 
The sea lay laughing at a distance ; near, 
The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds, 
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light ; 
And in the meadows and the lower grounds 
Was all the sweetness of a common dawn — 
Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds, 



xxx WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

And labourers going forth to till the fields. 
Ah ! need I say, dear Friend ! that to the brim 
My heart was full ; I made no vows, but vows 
Were then made for me ; bond unknown to me 
Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly, 
A dedicated Spirit. 

The first fruits of this dedication are to be seen in " An Evening Walk," begun at the time, 
dedicated to his sister, and given to the world in 1793. Until this time he had written 
only a few school poems. 

In his last college vacation he visited the Alps with a college friend, Robert Jones, of 
Wales, at a time when the rumblings of the Revolution in France were first heard in Eng- 
land. Europe was then thrilled with joy, and human nature seemed rejoicing in a new 
birth. They lauded at Calais on the day when Louis XVI. swore fidelity to the new Con- 
stitution. They then made their way southward rejoicing with the enthusiastic bands of 
delegates sent from Marseilles to the Federation. They visited the Grand Chartreuse, 
spent several weeks at the Swiss and Italian lakes, and crossed the Simplon. On their 
return they met the — 

Brabant armies on the fret 

For battle in the cause of liberty. 

Tliis journey aroused and fed his imagination by association with the grander aspects of 
Nature than he had viewed in England, but it also awoke a new sentiment within him, 
that Revolutionary fervor which was to influence his life work. The immediate results 
of this became evident to his friends in the " Descriptive Sketches; " these, expanded and 
enriched, may now be read in the sixth book of " The Prelude." The first distinctive notes 
in the great movement of the return to Nature, of which Wordsworth and Coleridge were 
to be the leaders, are to be heard in these sketches. 

In 1791 Wordsworth took his degree of B. A. After visiting his sister at Forncett 
Rectory, where she was living with her uncle and conducting a little school, with no settled 
plan as to the future, but with a passion for travel, he repaired to London. Here he played 
the idler ; mingled with all sorts and conditions of men, and saw human nature in those 
extremes of luxury and poverty which every great city affords. He became impressed with 
the power of the great metropolis over the fortunes of men and nations : — 

Fount of my country's destiny and the world's, 
as he calls it. 

After several months in London he visited his friend Jones in Wales. While there he 
became impressed with the picturesque scenery, the historical and legendary associations 
of the ancient principality, the splendor of the vale of Clwyd, the heights of Snowdon, 
Menai and her Druids, and the windings of the Dee. 

His guardians now became more troubled about him, so he made plans to visit France 
and study the language in order to fit himself for a tutor ; he would thus be able to con- 
tinue his roving life and visit the country which had aroused his Revolutionary spirit. 
Accordingly he set out for Orleans, but delayed in Paris, where he 

Saw the Revolutionary Power 

Toss like a ship at anchor, rocked by storms. 

He did not remain long at Orleans, but went to Blois, where he became associated with 
that remarkable philosopher and republican general, Michael Beaupuy. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxi 

By birth he ranked 
With the most noble, but unto the poor 
Among mankind he was in service bound, 
As by some tie invisible, oaths professed 
To a religious order. Man he loved 
As man ; and, to the mean and the obscure. 
And all the homely in their homely works, 
Transferred a courtesy which had no air 
Of condescension ; but did rather seem 
A passion and a gallantry, like that 
Which he, a soldier in his idler day, 
Had paid to woman. 

Many were their walks and talks together beside the Loire. They discussed the principles 
of civil rights which must be the foundation of every republican government. In July, 1792, 
Beaupuy left Blois for service with his regiment, and Wordsworth returned to Orleans, 
where he remained during the September Massacres ; not dismayed by these, he believed 
in the patriots' cause and hastened to Paris, where amid the tumult and the tragedy of 
those days his enthusiasm for the cause of liberty led him to think of offering himself as 
a leader. Fortunately before such a plan could be put in operation — a plan in which he 
would doubtless have perished — his funds gave out and he was obliged to return to 
England. 

While it is evident that Wordsworth's relatives distrusted him, yet he found comfort 
and inspiration in the society of the dear sister from whom he had been separated so long. 
So on his return from France with his f uture career still unsettled he sought her compan- 
ionship at Forncett, and set about the publication of " An Evening Walk " and " Descrip- 
tive Sketches." While the Monthly Review, the Edinburgh Review, and Blackwood's could 
see in this work only subjects for clumsy satire and vulgar rebuff, saying : " Must eternal 
changes be rung on nodding forests, and brooding clouds, and cells and dells, and dingles ? " 
Coleridge, not yet out of the University, uttered the most significant literary prophecy 
and acute literary criticism to be found in our language. He says : " During the last 
year of my residence at Cambridge, I became acquainted with Mr. Wordsworth's first 
publication, entitled ' Descriptive Sketches ; ' and seldom, if ever, was the emergence of an 
original poetic genius above the literary horizon more evidently announced. In the form, 
style, and manner of the whole poem, and in the structure of the particular lines and 
periods, there is a harshness and acerbity connected and combined with words and images 
all a-glow, which might recall those products of the vegetable world, where gorgeous 
blossoms rise out of the hard and thorny rind and shell, within which the rich fruit was 
elaborating." 

Wordsworth was now at the height of his republican ardor, and on hearing of the 
excitement in London over negro emancipation and the Revolution, he wrote: "I disap- 
prove of monarchical and aristocratical governments however modified. Hereditary dis- 
tinctions and privileged orders of every species, I think, must necessarily counteract the 
progress of human improvement." At this time, too, he wrote that remarkable pamphlet 
in reply to the avowal of political principles by the Bishop of Landaff . He pleaded with 
lofty eloquence and patriotic fervor for universal education to be followed by universal 
suffrage, and for a consideration of the great questions of how the general welfare of a 
nation was to be promoted — questions which at the present time in England are still 
uppermost. 

In this unsettled condition of mind he was still more deeply agitated by the action of 



xxxii WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

England in preparing to make war against France in 1793. At this time he was rambling 
in the Isle of Wight with his friend, William Calvert, of Windybrow, Keswick. How 
he felt is revealed by the following: — 

When the proud fleet that bears the red-cross flag 

In that unworthy service was prepared 

To mingle, I beheld the vessels lie, 

A brood of gallant creatures, on the deep ; 

I saw them in their rest, a sojourner 

Through a whole month of calm and glassy days 

In that delightful island which protects 

Their place of convocation ; there I heard, 

Each evening, pacing by the still sea-shore, 

A monitory sound that never failed, — 

The sunset cannon. While the orb went down 

In the tranquillity of nature, came 

That voice, ill requiem ! seldom heard by me 

Without a spirit overcast by dark 

Imaginations, sense of woes to come, 

Sorrow for human kind, and pain of heart. 

Soon affairs in France assumed an aspect which was the greatest disappointment of his 
life. For — 

now, become oppressors in their turn, 

Frenchmen had changed a war of self-defence 

For one of conquest, losing sight of all 

Which they had struggled for : up mounted now, 

Openly in the eye of earth and heaven, 

The scale of liberty. I read her doom, 

With anger vexed, with disappointment sore. 

As a result of the shock he began that intellectual quest to determine the origin, impulses, 
motives, and obligations which caused such actions; demanding formal proof, he lost 
those feelings of the heart which had been his safest guides; and at last yielded up moral 

questions in despair. 

This was the crisis of that strong disease, 
This the soul's last and lowest ebb. 

Still undecided as to whether he should choose the Church, the Bar, or literary work 
for his occupation, he wandered with his friend Jones in Wales, with his sister in the 
lake country, and visited the Speddings and Calverts at Keswick. While waiting at 
Keswick for a reply to a proposition he had made for literary work on a magazine, Rais- 
ley Calvert became ill, and he volunteered to attend him as companion and nurse. Cal- 
vert had become interested in Wordsworth's ideals, and saw that what was needed was 
leisure in which they might mature. He planned to spend the whiter of 1794-5 with 
Wordsworth in Lisbon, but his health failed so rapidly that this became impossible, and he 
died early in 1795. He had intimated to Wordsworth that he intended to leave him a 
small legacy, but when the will was opened it was found that the sum of £900 had been 
bequeathed him. This generous act opened out a course for the young poet, as he has 
recorded in " The Prelude " and the sonnet to Calvert. He needed no longer to worry about 
a profession, and, best of all, he could now be restored to the society of Dorothy. By 
her ministrations he was able to throw off the unnatural burden of analytical research 
under which he had fallen. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxiii 

Then it was — 
Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all good ! — 
That the beloved Sister in whose sight 
Those days were passed, now speaking in a voice 
Of sudden admonition — like a brook 
That did but cross a lonely road, and now 
Is seen, heard, felt and caught at every turn, 
Companion never lost through many a league — 
Maintained for me a saving intercourse 
With my true self ; for, though bedimmed and changed 
Much, as it seemed, I was no further changed 
Than as a clouded and a waning moon : 
She whispered still that brightness would return, 
She, in the midst of all, preserved me still 
A Poet, made me seek beneath that name, 
And that alone, my office upon earth. 

The following from one of Dorothy's letters at this time will reveal how lonely the 
brother must have been in his perplexity. She writes: "The fortunate brother of mine 
happens to be no favourite with any of his near relations except his brothers, by whom he 
is adored, I mean John and Christopher." The former was at sea, the latter at Cam- 
bridge. 

With the proceeds of Calvert's legacy the dreams of the two enthusiasts about begin- 
ning life together were realized, and they settled at Racedown Lodge, Dorsetshire, hi the 
summer of 1795. The old farmhouse was delightfully situated in a retired part of the 
country reached by post only once a week. Here they spent their time in reading, 
writing, gardening, communing with themselves, with Nature and books. The period of 
Wordsworth's recovery from the tyranny of intellectual research was here completed, and 
pessimism forever cast aside, by the creation of that gruesome tragedy, " The Borderers," 
the only production of these days at Racedown. While this is of little value as poetry, 
it is most significant as biography. Through the creation of the philosophical villain 
Oswald, who is moved by " the motive hunting of a motiveless malignity," Wordsworth 
revealed what was the inevitable outcome of Godwin's revolutionary scheme of Political 
Justice — a scheme that in the interest of reason would free man from all the laws, social 
and moral, upon which society is founded. 

With the completion of " The Borderers " the great formative period of Wordsworth's 
life is at an end, and the first creative period begins. Coleridge had but recently settled 
at Nether Stowey, and on hearing that the author of " Descriptive Sketches " was so near, 
took an early opportunity (in June) of visiting him. Dorothy tells us "the first thing that 
was read on that occasion was ' The Ruined Cottage ' with which Coleridge was so much 
delighted ; and after tea he repeated to us two acts and a half of his tragedy, ' Osorio.' The 
next morning William read his tragedy, ' The Borderers.' " 

That this was a clear case of love at first sight is shown by the letters written to their 
friends at this time. Dorothy writes : " You had a great loss in not seeing Coleridge. He 
is a wonderful man. His conversation teems with soul, mind, and spirit. . . . He has 
more of ' the poet's eye in fine frenzy rolling ' than I ever witnessed. He has fine dark 
eyebrows and an overhanging forehead." Coleridge in his accoimt of this visit says : " I 
speak with heartfelt sincerity, and, I think, unblinded judgment, when I tell you that I 
feel myself a little man by his side." When the Wordsworths returned this visit and went 
to Nether Stowey, Coleridge gives this beautiful picture of Dorothy : " W. and his exqui- 
site sister are with me. She is a woman indeed ! in mind and heart ; for her person is 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



such that if you expected to see a pretty woman, you would think her rather ordinary ; 
if you expected to see an ordinary woman, you would think her pretty ! but her manners 
are simple, ardent, impressive. In every motion her most innocent soul outbeams so 
brightly, that who saw her would say : — 

' Guilt was a thing impossible to her.' 

Her information various. Her eye watchful in mmutest observation of nature ; and her 
taste a perfect electrometer." Wordsworth wrote, " Coleridge is the most wonderful man 
I ever met." 

After reading the expressions of delight of these two young men in each other, we are 
not surprised that a month later the Wordsworths removed to Alfoxden, near Nether 
Stowey, Somersetshire, where Coleridge resided. 

The poets rambled over the Quantock Hills and held high communion. During one 
of these excursions, feeling the need of money, they planned a joint production for the 
New Monthly Magazine. They set about the work in earnest, and selected as a sub- 
ject the " Ancyent Marinere," founded upon a dream of one of Coleridge's friends. Cole- 
ridge supplied most of the incidents and almost all the lines. Wordsworth contributed 
the incident of the killing of the albatross, and a few of the lines. They soon found that 
their methods did not harmonize, and the " Marinere " was left to Coleridge, while Words- 
worth wrote upon the common incidents of everyday life. When the " Marinere " was 
finished Wordsworth had so many pieces ready that they concluded to publish a joint vol- 
ume, and this they did under tbe title Lyrical Ballads. The volume contained twenty- 
three poems, four by Coleridge and the remainder by Wordsworth. 

In the manuscript notes which Wordsworth left we find this record : — 

" In the autumn of 1797, Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and myself started from Alfoxden 
pretty late in the afternoon with a view to visit Linton and the Valley of Stones near to it ; 
and as our united funds were very small, we agreed to defray the expense of the tour by 
writing a poem to be sent to the New Monthly Magazine. Accordingly, we set off, and 
proceeded along the Quantock Hills towards Watchet ; and in the course of this walk 
was planned the poem of the ' Ancient Mariner ' founded on a dream, as Mr. Coleridge 
said, of his friend Mr. Cruikshank. Much the greatest part of the story was Mr. Cole- 
ridge's invention, but certain parts I suggested ; for example,-some crime was to be com- 
mitted which should bring upon the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted to 
call him, the spectral persecution, as a consequence of that crime and his own wanderings. 
I had been reading in Shelvocke's Voyages, a day or two before, that while doubling 
Cape Horn, they frequently saw albatrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of sea fowl, 
some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet. ' Suppose,' said I, ' you represent him 
as having killed one of these birds on entering the South Sea, and that the tutelary spirits 
of these regions take upon them to avenge the crime.' The incident was thought fit for 
the purpose, and adopted accordingly. I also suggested the navigation of the ship by the 
dead men, but do not recollect that I had anything more to do with the scheme of the poem. 
The gloss with which it was subsequently accompanied was not thought of by either of us 
at the time, at least, not a hint of it was given to me, and I have no doubt it was a gratui- 
tous afterthought. We began the composition together on that, to me, memorable evening, 
I furnished two or three lines at the beginning of the poem, in particular, — 

• And listened like a three years' child : 
The Mariner had his will.' 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxv 

These trifling contributions, all but one, which Mr. C. has with unnecessary scrupulosity 
recorded, — 

' And thou art long and lank, and brown 
As is the ribbed sea-sand,' — 

slipped out of his mind, as well they might. As we endeavoured to proceed conjointly (I 
speak of the same evening) our respective manners proved so widely different that it would 
have been quite presumptuous in me to do anything but separate from an midertaking 
upon which I could only have been a clog. . . . The ' Ancient Marnier ' grew and grew till 
it became too important for our first object, which was limited to our expectation of fiv._. 
pounds; and we began to think of a volume which was to consist, as Mr. Coleridge has 
told the world, of poems chiefly on supernatural subjects." 

An interesting subject for consideration in connection with the study of literature would 
be tbe work poets have done in developing patriotism by showing how much stronger and 
deeper is the love of country when thus associated with the love of home with its simple 
and substantial comforts and its endearments of natural associations, — rivers, woods and 
hills, forests, lakes and vales: and also, how by revealing the beauty of places in a 
country they have made it more beloved. There is fascinating wandering in Ireland, 
Wales, Scotland, and England for one who wishes to read such poetry hi the scenes of its 
birth, and such wandering is the very best lesson hi political as well as literary history. 

The region of Dorsetshire and Somersetshire, with a wealth of natural beauty, forest 
and hills, cultivated farms, open sea prospect, and simple life, was an ideal place for the 
creation of such poetry as these enthusiasts on man, on Nature, and on human life desired 
to give to the world. In Dorothy's letters and journal we have the best of guides in these 
delightful retreats. She writes : " There is everything here, — sea, woods, wild as fancy 
ever painted, brooks, clear and pebbly as hi Cumberland; villages romantic . . . the deer 
dwell here and sheep, so that we have a living prospect." While the two poets were mur- 
muring near the running brooks a music sweeter than their own, and Dorothy was beginning 
those inimitable Journals which have become an essential part of the history of these and 
later days, somewhat of a sensation was caused in the quiet community of Stowey by the 
advent there of a young republican by the name of Thelwall, with whom Coleridge had 
some correspondence. When he arrived Coleridge was with the Wordsworths ; and he 
writes to his wife : " So after sleeping at Coleridge's cot, Sara and I went to Alf oxden in 
time enough to call Samuel and Wordsworth up to breakfast." 

Coleridge says of Thelwall {Table-Talk, July, 1820) : "We were once sitting in a 
beautiful recess hi the Quantocks, when I said to him, ' Citizen John, this is a fine place to 
talk treason in ! ' ' Nay, Citizen Samuel,' he replied, ' it is rather a place to make a man 
forget that there is any necessity for treason.' " 

Coleridge's lectures and preaching and Wordsworth's secluded life with his sister, had, 
even before the arrival of Thelwall, aroused the suspicions of the good people. They 
thought Wordsworth a smuggler, a conjurer, and as he was" so silent and dark." a French 
Jacobin. Poole was blamed for harboring such suspects (it was through Poole that Words- 
worth secured Alf oxden), and now a government spy was sent down to watch their 
movements. The Anti-Jacobin published the following: — 

" Thelwall and ye that lecture as ye go, 
And for your pains get pelted, 

Praise Lepaux ! 
And ye five other wandering bards that move 
In sweet accord of harmony and love, 



xxxvi WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

C — dge, and S — th — y, L — d and L — b, and Co., 
Tune all your mystic harps to praise 

Lepaux." 

Coleridge, writing to Cottle of the experience of Wordsworth, says : " Whether we 
shall be able to procure him a house and furniture near Stowey we know not, and yet we 
must; for the hills, and the woods, and the streams, and the sea, and the shores, would 
break forth into reproaches against us, if we did not strain every nerve to keep their poet 
among them." 

The Lyrical Ballads were rapidly taking shape. Wordsworth, Dorothy, and Coleridge 
had decided to visit Germany to study the language, and the thought of breaking up the 
Elysian repose among the Quantocks throws the poet into one of his pensive moods, in 
which the affections gently lead him on. In " The Nightingale," Coleridge returns " to 
his love and his nest," and finds joy in the thoughts that spring from the simple domestic 
affections, from the delightful associations with man and Nature in the sylvan retreats of 
the land he loved. 

Wordsworth thus alludes to this period: — 

That summer, under whose indulgent skies 
Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we roved 
Uncheek'd, or loitered 'mid her sylvan combs, 
Thou in bewitching words, with happy heart, 
Didst chaunt the vision of that Ancient Man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner, and rueful woes 
Didst utter of the Lady Christabel ; 
And I, associate with such labour, steeped 
In soft forgetfulness the livelong hours, 
Murmuring of him who, joyous hap, was found, 
After the perils of his moonlight ride, 
Near the loud waterfall ; or her who sate 
In misery near the miserable Thorn. 

The Lyrical Ballads were published in September by Cottle anonymously. Only four 
poems were by Coleridge, the remainder by Wordsworth. 

Before the reviewers had brought their guns to bear upon the frail craft of the Lyrical 
Ballads, the two poets and Dorothy, having left Mrs. Coleridge and the children with 
Poole, departed for Germany, where they soon received the cheerful news from Sara 
that " the Lyrical Ballads are not liked at all by any." And yet through the quiet revo- 
lution in poetic taste which this little volume wrought, the Bastile of the old poetic 
tyranny was destined to fall to the ground. 

" So stupendous was the importance of the verse written on the Quantocks in 1797 and 
1798," says Edmund Gosse, " that if Wordsworth and Coleridge had died at the close of 
the latter year, we should, indeed, have lost a great deal of valuable poetry, especially of 
Wordsworth's; but the direction taken by literature would scarcely have been modified 
in the slightest degree. The association of these intensely brilliant and inflammatory 
minds at what we call the psychological moment, produced full-blown and perfect the 
exquisite new flower of romantic poetry." 

Soon Coleridge left the Wordsworths for Ratzeburg, where he remained during the 
winter, while they went to the old imperial town of Goslar, where, though cold and home- 
sick, Wordsworth wrote his inimitable poems on English girlhood. Wordsworth sent 
these poems to Coleridge, who, while thinking of the future and hoping that their 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxvii 

homes would be in the same neighborhood, wrote: "Whenever I spring forward into the 
future with noble affections, I always alight by your side." 

In the spring of 1799 the Wordsworths set out for home, and the poet voiced their 
feelings in the first lines of " The Prelude." They went to visit their friends the Hutch- 
insons at Sockburn, and when Coleridge returned in June of this year he visited them 
there. On the conclusion of this visit, Cottle, Coleridge, and Wordsworth began a tour 
of the lake country. Cottle left the party at Greta Bridge, and they were then joined 
by Wordsworth's brother John. They were especially delighted witb Grasmere, and as 
Wordsworth was ready to begin housekeeping with his sister, he rented Dove Cottage at 
Pavement End and took up his abode there in December. The first book of " The Re- 
cluse," entitled " Home at Grasmere," gives a vivid picture of the life at Dove Cottage. 

The second and greatest creative period in Wordsworth's work begins with the settle- 
ment at Grasmere. From this time the external events of his life become of less impor- 
tance, and those subtle and elemental forces within, " calm pleasures and majestic pains," 
which enabled him to reach the mount of vision, are of first interest. These must be 
seen in the history of the poems created here, and in those aspects of Nature and man 
which they reflect. In this shy retreat of the mountains dedicated to the genius of Soli- 
tude he attained that view of life as clear and true, as courageous and steadfast, as joyous 
and hopeful, as is to be found anywhere in our literature. In his walks with Dorothy 
and the sailor brother, and, later — when the circle became widened — with Mary and 
Sara Hutchinson, Coleridge, Lamb, 8cott, and Sir Humphrey Davy, he revealed the rich 
harvest of the time in verse of humble theme but noble thought. To one familiar with 
this verse every lake and tarn, fellside and mountain height, beck and ghyll, from Pen- 
rith to Morecamle Bay, from Cockermouth to the Duddon Sands, is luminous with — 

the g-leam, 
The light, that never was, on sea or land, 
The consecration and the poet's dream. 

Here " The Recluse," the first half of " The Excursion," " The Prelude," and those revo- 
lutionary Prefaces, so vigorous in critical insight and sound in reflective wisdom upon the 
nature of Poetic Diction, were written. These reveal his devotion to Nature, to man, and 
to his art, and are literary masterpieces essentially Wordsworthian. 

Of the long poems, " The Prelude " is probably the most read and " The Excursion " 
the most talked about. " The Prelude " is a sustained exercise of memory, an attempt 
to recapture something of the first fine careless rapture which makes the life of that healthy 
boy a continuous poem. Here the past and the present are brought to act upon each 
other in such a way as to cause the pulses of his being to beat anew; consciousness of 
poetic power is awakened, and hymns to Nature are poured forth. In " The Excursion," 
while still paying tribute to Nature, Wordsworth seeks light upon the great problems of 
the constitution and powers of the mind of man, the haunt and main region of his song. 
Illumination comes to him, in those lonely vigils of contemplation, on the simple yet sur- 
prising and strange perceptions and emotions of his own mind and heart. Gems of the 
idyll, ode, and proverb lie thickly scattered in the pages of " The Excursion." While 
by one he may be called philosophical, by another psychological, and by a third mystical, 
yet everywhere he has the patience, the love of truth, and the reverence of the scientific 
observer. While he is thus the central figure in the poem, it is not because he gives 
thanks that he is not as other men are, but because he must seek authentic revelations in 
his own experience. He is always mindful of the fact that the humblest dalesman is rich 



xxxviii WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

in revelations for the wisest philosopher, could he but enter into his world. Hence he has 
conceived of characters hi humble life with a purity, delicacy, insight, and sympathy 
achieved by no other poet. The Pedlar, Michael, and the Leechgatherer have become 
through him heroes of history. In his treatment of such characters we have a complete 
illustration of what he meant by that famous sentence in his Preface of 1800: "That 
the feeling therein developed gives importance to the action and situation, and not the 
action and situation to the feeling." If one would understand the secret of the shorter 
poems one should ponder over these two sources of poetic power — " The Prelude " and 
"The Excursion." James Russell Lowell says: "Wordsworth has won for himself a 
secure immortality by a depth of intuition which makes only the best minds at their best 
hours worthy, or indeed capable, of his companionship, and by a homely sincerity of 
human sympathy which reaches the humblest heart. Our language owes him gratitude 
for the habitual purity and abstinence of his style, and we who speak it, for having em- 
boldened us to take delight in simple things, and to trust ourselves to our own instincts." 

When in 1800 a second edition of the Lyrical Ballads was published, somewhat en- 
larged, it contained the famous Preface which set forth his theory of poetry in general 
and of his own poetry in particular; this called down upon him a storm of abuse second 
only to that caused by the poems themselves. From this time imtil 1815 neglect, oblo- 
quy, ridicule, and disparagement followed his work. It is to these years that we owe his 
fearless, if not altogether prudent, Apologies. In 1802 the first Preface was enlarged, 
and an Appendix on " Poetic Diction " added. These were repeated in successive 
editions of his poems until 1815, when, in the edition of that year, the first volume con- 
tained a new preface and a supplementary essay of the poetry of the last two centuries; 
while at the close of the second volume was placed the first Preface and the Appendix on 
" Poetic Diction." These Prefaces were changed by alterations, insertions, and omissions, 
in the various editions until they received their last revision in 1845. 

While it is true that Wordsworth silenced his opponents by his poems rather than by 
his Prefaces, the two are so inter-related that the history of one is the history of the other. 
Of no artist can it be more truly said than of Wordsworth that he builded better than 
he knew. Artists cannot explain the secret of their art, and yet they can at times reveal 
to us much that is helpful to an appreciation of their work. Every artist brings into 
the world of art a new thing — his own personality — and consequently he must create 
the taste by which he is to be judged. In these Prefaces we have the principles which 
constitute the foundation of inductive criticism clearly and forcefully revealed; the fun- 
damental of these is that — 

You must love him ere to you 
He will seem worthy of your love. 

If they had been productive in nothing else than stimulating Coleridge to write those 
noble chapters in the Biographia Literaria, in review of the theory they set forth, they 
would have justified themselves. 

The great satisfaction which came to Wordsworth from his friendship with Coleridge 
was that he was understood ; this helped him to endure the public ridicule of many long 
years. Nothing in the history of Coleridge's critical genius better illustrates the unerring 
precision with which he discerned the elements of greatness where to the ordinary mind 
there seemed to be only the commonplace. Witness the marvelously subtle skill in pre- 
paring the way for his final masterly tribute to the genius and work of his friend — the 
noblest tribute yet written by any English critic — by first discriminating between Fancy 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxix 

and Imagination, and then revealing the true nature of poetry, where he says: "Finally, 
good sense is the body of poetic genius, fancy its drapery, motion its life, and imagination 
the soul that is everywhere, and in each; and forms all into one graceful and intelligent 
whole." He then apparently assents to the most obvious accusations of the Reviewers, 
only to rise at last to the heights of his great argument, showing step by step how mis- 
guided they have been, and concluding with those six fundamentals which entitle Words- 
worth to poetic greatness. 

The only events of importance in Wordsworth's external life during these Grasmere 
days were his marriage in 1802 to Mary Hutchinson, the friendship with Sir George 
Beaumont begun in 1803, and the death of his brother John in 1805. By his marriage to 
the friend of his youth the home circle was enriched by the presence and devotion of 

A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of angelic light. 

In the atmosphere of serene domestic sweetness grew that poetry full of modesty and 
strength, of valiant human-heartedness, and homely spiritual truth ; a poetry which makes 
common cause with all that is true to the kindred points of heaven and home. Between 
1803 and 1808 four children were born to him and the little cottage became too small 
for the family. In 1808 he moved to Allan Bank across the lake and under the shadow 
of Silver How. Here " The Excursion " was completed. It was during his residence 
at Allan Bank that the estrangement with Coleridge took place — an estrangement 
both wicked and cruel, for which neither poet was in the least to be blamed. By it that 
idyllic friendship begun when they " wantoned in wild poesy " among the Quantocks was 
broken up. The world can never know the full significance of that joyous and radiant 
comradeship. " The reciprocal influence of these two ardent young enthusiasts, the wizard 
fascination of the dreamer of dreams, playing against the healing calm of the child of the 
mountains, can never be completely revealed." It is as significant as it is pathetic that 
the close of the great creative period in the life of each poet is coincident with this breach. 

In 1811 the parsonage opposite the church became his home, and here the poet's life 
was saddened by the death of two of his children. In 1813 he removed to his favorite 
and final abode, Rydal Mount. 

The sun of Wordsworth's morning of inspiration, which rose in symbolic glory over 
the heights at Hawkshead, had reached its meridian and was declining towards the west to 
set in that evening of extraordinary splendor and beauty witnessed at Rydal Mount. The 
twilight of his song was rich in " pontific purple and dark harvest gold." The association 
at Rydal with sympathetic and appreciative friends, Miss Fenwick, Dr. Arnold, Professor 
Wilson, Hartley Coleridge, and F. W. Faber ; his travels on the Continent and in Scotland, 
and his visits to Coleorton; his receptions in London with Gladstone, Rogers, and Crabb 
Robinson, when he met that devoted band of young disciples; his evenings at Fox How 
when he discoursed so eloquently on the great English poets; his reception of young and 
old, rich and poor in feast and merrymaking on his birthdays, and his solitude and medita- 
tion in his familiar haunts among the hills he loved, could not fail to call forth something 
of the glow and gladsomeness of youth, the pathos and power of maturity. It was such 
association and the consciousness of a lofty and consecrated purpose in all he had written 
that enabled him to withstand the pitiless storm of abuse which beat upon him from the 
critical reviews, and inspired him to sing: — 



xl WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

For thus I live remote 
From evil speaking ; rancour never sought 
Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. 
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I 
Smooth passion, smooth discourse and joyous thought. 

In his calm assurance that time would deal justly with all things great and small he 
quieted the fears of his disciples who became anxious about the future of his poems. He 
writes : " Trouble not yourself upon their present reception ; of what moment is that com- 
pared with what I trust is their destiny ? — to console the afflicted ; to add sunshine 
to daylight, by making the happy happier; to teach the young and the gracious of every 
age to see, to think and feel, and, therefore, to become more actively and securely vir- 
tuous." Honor now came to him from sources which attested how potent his influence 
had become. 

Blessings be with them — and eternal praise, 
Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares, — 
The Poets — who on earth have made us heirs 
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! 

Oh ! might my name be numbered among theirs ; 
Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 

Thus wrote Wordsworth in 1805, and long and patiently did be wait for the answer to 
his prayer. At last, in the summer of 1839, he was permitted to realize that for which 
he had labored so assiduously and prayed so earnestly, when, by the foremost University 
of his land and the world, he was honored as one of the chief glories of English poetry 
and the greatest name since Milton. Keble, the professor of Poetry in the University, 
introduced him to the Vice Chancellor as being " one who had shed a celestial light upon 
the affections, the occupations, and the piety of the poor." The ovation which he re- 
ceived was such as had never been witnessed there before, except upon the occasion of the 
visit of the Duke of Wellington. The long battle had been patiently and courageously 
fought, and victory was at length achieved. Of this victory the Rev. Frederick Robert- 
son says : — 

" It was my lot, during a short university career, to witness a transition and a reaction, 
or revulsion, of public feeling with regard to two great men. The first of these was 
Arnold of Rugby; the second, Wordsworth. When he came forward to receive his 
honorary degree, scarcely bad his name been pronounced than from three thousand voices 
at once there broke forth a burst of applause echoed and taken up again and again. 
There were young eyes then filled with an emotion of which they had no need to be 
ashamed; there were hearts beating with the proud feeling of triumph that at last the 
world had recognized the merit of the man they had loved so long and acknowledged as 
their teacher." 

In 1842 there was bestowed on him an annuity of £300 a year from the Civil List for 
distinguished work in the field of literature. 

In 1843 a still greater honor was conferred upon him at the hands of the young Queen. 
He was urged to accept the Laureateship, but gratefully and respectfully declined, as 
he considered that his years unfitted him for the discharge of its duties. He was then 
in his seventy-fourth year. This brought a letter from the Prime Minister, Sir Robert 
Peel, urging his acceptance of the appointment, saying, " As the Queen can select for this 
honourable appointment no one whose claims for respect and honour, on account of emi- 
nence as a poet, can be placed in competition with you, I trust that you will no longer 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH s3i 

hesitate to accept it. There is but one unanimous feeling on the part of all who have 
heard of the proposal. 

" The offer was made not for the purpose of imposing upon you any onerous task or 
disagreeable duties, but in order to pay you that tribute of respect which is justly due to 
the first of living poets." 

This letter removed his scruples, and the laurel wreath was placed upon the brows " of 
him who uttered nothing base." He produced but little poetry after this date ; but there 
is one poem, written in 1846 upon the fly-leaf of a gift copy of his poems, presented to 
the Royal Library at Windsor Castle, which is of special interest as connected with hi3 
Laureateship. 

Deign, Sovereign Mistress ! to accept a lay, 

No Laureate offering 1 of elaborate art ; 
But salutation, taking its glad way 
From deep recesses of a loyal heart. 

Queen, wife, and mother ! may all-judging Heaven 
Shower with a bounteous hand on thee and thine 

Felicity, that only can be given 

On earth to goodness blessed by grace divine. 

Lady ! devoutly honoured and beloved 

Through every realm confided to thy sway ; 
May'st thou pursue thy course by God approved. 

And he will teach thy people to obey. 

As thou art wont thy sovereignty adorn 

With woman's gentleness, yet firm and staid ; 
So shall that earthly crown thy brows have worn 

Be changed to one whose glory cannot fade. 

And now, by duty urged, I lay this book 

Before thy Majesty in humble trust, 
That on its simplest pages thou wilt look 

With a benign indulgence, more than just. 

Nor wilt thou blame an aged poet's prayer, 

That, issuing hence, may steal into thy mind, 
Some solace under weight of royal care, 

Or grief, the inheritance of human kind. 

For know we not that from celestial spheres 

When time was young an inspiration came, 
(0 were it mine ! ) to hallow saddest tears 

And help life onward in its noblest aim ? 

w. w. 

Rydal Mount, 9th January, 1816. 

The death of the beloved daughter, Dora, in July, 1847, so saddened his declining years 
that he never again retouched his harp. His mission was completed. The bright dream of 
his boyhood was fulfilled ; and that spirit singled out for holy services, after the discipline 
of sadness and suffering, entered into its rest. 

His body lies, as he had requested, in the churchyard at Grasmere, in the bosom of that 
dear vale where he had lived and loved and sung ; surrounded by the dalesmen whom he 



xlii WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

honored ; beneath the shade of those yews planted by his own hands, in sound of Rotha 
murmuring her plaintive strain that — 

few or none 
Hear her voice right now he is gone. 

While round about in phalanx firm stand the mountains old, f aithfid guardians of the sacred 
spot. Earth has no more fitting resting-place for the dust of William Wordsworth. 

Plain is the stone that marks the Poet's rest ; 

Not marble worked beneath Italian skies — 

A grey slate headstone tells where Wordsworth lies, 

Cleft from the native hills he loved the best. 

No heavier thing upon his gentle breast 

Than turf starred o'er in spring with daisy eyes, 

Nor richer music makes him lullabies 

Than Rotha fresh from yonder mountain crest. 

His name, his date, the years he lived to sing, 

Are deep incised and eloquently terse ; 

But Fancy hears the graver's hammer ring, 

And sees mid lines of much remembered verse 

These words in gold beneath his title wrought — 

" Singer of Humble Themes and Noble Thought." l 

There was but one thing more which his countrymen could do for him, and this was 
not long left undone, for in the Venerable Abbey, surrounded by the memorials of Keble, 
Arnold, Kingsley, and Maurice, may be seen the life-size statue of the poet in white mar- 
ble ; he is represented seated in the attitude of contemplation, the characteristic of all bis 
portraits being thus strikingly reproduced in the marble. Underneath are engraved the 
words above quoted, " Blessings be with them and eternal praise," etc. 

But perhaps the most significant tribute to his worth as a man and poet is the medallion 
in Grasmere Church erected by his friends and neighbors. It bears the following inscrip- 
tion: — 

TO THE MEMORY OF 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 

A True Philosopher and Poet, 

Who by the Special Gift and Calling of 

Almighty God, 

Whether He Discoursed on Man or Nature, 

Failed not to Lift up the Heart 

To Holy Things, 

Tired not of Maintaining the Cause 

of the Poor and Simple: 

And so in Perilous Times was Raised up 

To be a Chief Minister 

Not only of Noblest Poesy, 

But of High and Sacred Truth. 

This Memorial 

Is Placed here by His Friends and Neighbours 

In Testimony of 

Respect, Affection, and Gratitude. 

Anno 1851. 

1 H. D. Rawnsley. 



If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, 

Then, to the measure of that heaven-horn light, 

Shine, Poet ! in thy place, and be content : — 

The stars pre-eminent in magnitude, 

And they that from the zenith dart their beams, 

(Visible though they be to half the earth, 

Though half a sphere be conscious of their brightness) 

Are yet of no diviner origin, 

No purer essence, than the one that burns, 

Like an untended watch-fire on the ridge 

Of some dark mountain ; or than those which seem 

Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps, 

Among the branches of the leafless trees. 

All are the undying offspring of one Sire : 

Then, to the measure of the light vouchsafed, 

Shine, Poet ! in thy place, and be content. 



WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS 



LINES 

WRITTEN AS A SCHOOL EXERCISE AT 
HAWKSHEAD, ANNO iETATIS 14 

1785. 1850 

" And has the Sun his flaming chariot 

driven 
Two hundred times around the ring of 

heaven, 
Since Science first, with all her sacred 

train, 
Beneath yon roof began her heavenly 

reign ? 
While thus I mused, methought, before 

mine eyes, 
The Power of Education seemed to rise ; 
Not she whose rigid precepts trained the boy 
Dead to the sense of every finer joy; 
Nor that vile wretch who bade the tender 

age 
Spurn Reason's law and humour Passion's 

rage; 10 

But she who trains the generous British 

youth 
In the bright paths of fair majestic Truth : 
Emerging slow from Academus' grove 
In heavenly majesty she seemed to move. 
Stern was her forehead, but a smile serene 
' Softened the terrors of her awful mien.' 
Close at her side were all the powers, de- 
signed 
To curb, exalt, reform the tender mind: 
With panting breast, now pale as whiter 

snows, 
Now flushed as Hebe, Emulation rose; 20 
Shame followed after with reverted eye, 
And hue far deeper than the Tyrian dye ; 
Last Industry appeared with steady pace, 
A smile sat beaming on her pensive face. 
I gazed upon the visionary train, 
Threw back my eyes, returned, and gazed 

again. 
When lo ! the heavenly goddess thus began, 
Through all my frame the pleasing accents 



" ' When Superstition left the golden light 
And fled indignant to the shades of night ; 30 
When pure Religion reared the peaceful 

breast 
And lulled the warring passions into rest, 
Drove far away the savage thoughts that 

roll 
In the dark mansions of the bigot's soul, 
Enlivening Hope displayed her cheerful ray, 
And beamed on Britain's sons a brighter day ; 
So when on Ocean's face the storm subsides, 
Hushed are the whids and silent are the 

tides ; 
The God of day, in all the pomp of light, 
Moves through the vault of heaven, and dis- 
sipates the night; 40 
Wide o'er the main a trembling lustre 

plays, 
The glittering waves reflect the dazzling 

blaze. 
Science with joy saw Superstition fly 
Before the lustre of Religion's eye; 
With rapture she beheld Britamiia smile, 
Clapped her strong wings, and sought the 

cheerfid isle, 
The shades of night no more the soul in- 
volve, 
She sheds her beam, and, lo ! the shades 

dissolve ; 
No jarring monks, to gloomy cell confined, 
With mazy rules perplex the weary mind; 
No shadowy forms entice the soul aside, 5 1 
Secure she walks, Philosophy her guide. 
Britain, who long her warriors had adored, 
And deemed all merit centred in the sword ; 
Britam, who thought to stain the field was 

fame, 
Now honoured Edward's less than Bacon's 

name. 
Her sons no more in listed fields advance 
To ride the ring, or toss the beamy lanee; 
No longer steel their indurated hearts 
To the mild influence of the finer arts; 60 
Quick to the secret grotto they retire 
To court majestic truth, or wake the golden 
lyre; 



LINES WRITTEN AS A SCHOOL EXERCISE 



By generous Emulation taught to rise, 
The seats of learning brave the distant 

skies. 
Then noble Sandys, inspired with great de- 
sign, 
Reared Hawkshead's happy roof, and called 

it mine. 
There have I loved to show the tender age 
The golden precepts of the classic page; 
To lead the mind to those Elysian plains 
Where, throned in gold, immortal Science 

reigns ; 7 o 

Fair to the view is sacred Truth displayed, 
In all the majesty of light arrayed, 
To teach, on rapid wings, the curious soul 
To roam from heaven to heaven, from pole 

to pole, 
From thence to search the mystic cause of 

things 
And follow Nature to her secret springs; 
Nor less to guide the fluctuating youth 
Firm in the sacred paths of moral truth, 
To regulate the mind's disordered frame, 
And quench the passions kindling into 

flame ; 80 

The glimmering fires of Virtue to enlarge, 
And purge from Vice's dross my tender 

charge. 
Oft have I said, the paths of Fame pursue, 
And all that Virtue dictates, dare to do; 
Go to the world, peruse the book of man, 
And learn from thence thy own defects to 

scan; 
Severely honest, break no plighted trust, 
But coldly rest not here — be more than 

just; 
Join to the rigours of the sires of Rome 
The gentler maimers of the private dome ; 
When Virtue weeps in agony of woe, 91 
Teach from the heart the tender tear to 

flow; 
If Pleasure's soothing song thy soul en- 
tice, 
Or all the gaudy pomp of splendid Vice, 
Arise superior to the Siren's power, 
The wretch, the short-lived vision of an 

hour; 
Soon fades her cheek, her blushing beauties 

As fades the chequered bow that paints the 
sky. 
So shall thy sire, whilst hope his breast 
inspires, 

And wakes anew life's glimmering trem- 
bling fires, 100 



Hear Britain's sons rehearse thy praise with 

j°y> 

Look up to heaven, and bless his darling boy. 
If e'er these precepts quelled the passions' 

strife, 
If e'er they smoothed the rugged walks of 

life, 
If e'er they pointed forth the blissful way 
That guides the spirit to eternal day, 
Do thou, if gratitude inspire thy breast, 
Spurn the soft fetters of lethargic rest. 
Awake, awake! and snatch the slumbering 

lyre, 
Let this bright morn and Sandys the song 

inspire.' no 

" I looked obedience: the celestial Fair 
Smiled like the morn, and vanished into 
air." 

EXTRACT 

FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, 
COMPOSED IN ANTICIPATION OF LEAV- 
ING SCHOOL 

I786. 1815 

Written at Hawkshead. The beautiful im- 
age with which this poem concludes, suggested 
itself to me while I was resting in a boat along 
with my companions under the shade of a mag- 
nificent row of sycamores, which then extended 
their branches from the shore of the promon- 
tory upon which stands the ancient, and at that 
time the more picturesque, Hall of Coniston, 
the seat of the Le Flemings from very early 
times. The poem of which it was the conclu- 
sion was of many hundred lines, and contained 
thoughts and images most of which have been 
dispersed through my other writings. 

Dear native regions, I foretell, 
From what I feel at this farewell, 
That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend, 
And whensoe'er my course shall end, 
If in that hour a single tie 
Survive of local sympathy, 
My soul will cast the backward view, 
The longing look alone on you. 

Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest 
Far hi the regions of the west, 
Though to the vale no parting beam 
Be given, not one memorial gleam, 
A lingering light he fondly throws 
On the dear hills where first he rose. 



AN EVENING WALK 



WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY 
YOUTH 

1786. 1807 

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. 
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass ; 
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, 
Is cropping audibly his later meal: 
Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to 

steal 
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless 

sky. 
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, 
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal 
That grief for which the senses still supply 
Fresh food; for only then, when memory 
Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends ! re- 
strain 
Those busy cares that would allay my pain; 
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel 
The officious touch that makes me droop 
again. 



AN EVENING WALK 



ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY 

I787-9. 1793 

The young Lady to whom this was ad- 
dressed was my Sister. It was composed at 
school, and during my two first College vaca- 
tions. There is not an image in it which I 
have not observed ; and now, in my seventy- 
third year, I recollect the time and place where 
most of them were noticed. I will confine my- 
self to one instance : — 

" Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale, 
Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale, — 
The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks, 
Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted 
flocks " 

I was an eye-witness of this for the first time 
while crossing the Pass of Dunmail Raise. 
Upon second thought, I will mention another 
image : — 

" And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines 
Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines." 

This is feebly and imperfectly expressed, but I 
recollect distinctly the very spot where this first 
struck me. It was in the way between Hawks- 
head and Ambleside, and gave me extreme 
pleasure. The moment was important in my 
poetical history ; for I date from it my con- 
sciousness of the infinite variety of natural 
appearances which had been unnoticed by the 



poets of any age or country, so far as I was 
acquainted with them ; and I made a resolu- 
tion to supply, in some degree, the deficiency. 
I could not have been at that time above 
fourteen years of age. The description of the 
swans, that follows, was taken from the daily 
opportunities I had of observing their habits, 
not as confined to the gentleman's park, but in a 
state of nature. There were two pairs of them 
that divided the lake of Esthwaite and its in- 
and-out-flowing streams between them, never 
trespassing a single yard upon each other's 
separate domain. They were of the old mag- 
nificent species, bearing in beauty and majesty 
about the same relation to the Thames swan 
which that does to the goose. It was from the 
remembrance of those noble creatures I took, 
thirty years after, the picture of the swan 
which I have discarded from the poem of Dion. 
While I was a school-boy, the late Mr. Curwen 
introduced a little fleet of those birds, but of 
the inferior species, to the lake of Windermere. 
Their principal home was about his own island ; 
but they sailed about into remote parts of the 
lake, and, either from real or imagined injury 
done to the adjoining fields, they were got rid 
of at the request of the farmers and proprie- 
tors, but to the great regret of all who had 
become attached to them, from noticing their 
beauty and quiet habits. I will conclude my 
notice of this poem by observing that the plan 
of it has not been confined to a particular walk 
or an individual place, — a proof (of which I 
was unconscious at the time) of my unwilling- 
ness to submit the poetic spirit to the chains 
of fact and real circumstance. The country is 
idealised rather than described in any one of its 
local aspects. 

General Sketch of the Lakes — Author's re- 
gret of his youth which was passed amongst 
them — Short description of Noon — Cascade 

— Noontide Retreat — Precipice and sloping 
Lights — Face of Nature as the Sun declines 

— Mountain-farm, and the Cock — Slate- 
quarry — Sunset — Superstition of the Coun- 
try connected with that moment — Swans — 
Female Begg'ar — Twilight-sounds — West- 
ern Lights — Spirits — Night — Moonlight 

— Hope — Night-sounds — Conclusion. 

Far from my dearest Friend, 't is mine to 

rove 
Through bare grey dell, high wood, and 

pastoral cove; 
Where Derwent rests, and listens to the 

roar 
That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lo- 

dore; 



AN EVENING WALK 



Where peace to Grasmere's lonely island 
leads, 

To willowy hedge-rows, and to emerald 
meads ; 

Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cot- 
taged grounds, 

Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland 
bounds ; 

Where, undisturbed by winds, Winander 
sleeps 

'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled 
steeps; 10 

Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's 
shore, 

And memory of departed pleasures, more. 
Fair scenes, erewhile, I taught, a happy 
child, 

The echoes of your rocks my carols wild : 

The spirit sought not then, in cherished sad- 
ness, 

A cloudy substitute for failing gladness. 

In youth's keen eye the livelong day was 
bright, 

The sun at morning, and the stars at night, 

Alike, when first the bittern's hollow bill 

Was heard, or woodcocks roamed the moon- 
light hill. 20 
In thoughtless gaiety I coursed the plain, 

And hope itself was all I knew of pam; 

For then, the inexperienced heart would beat 

At times, while young Content forsook her 
seat, 

And wild Impatience, pointing upward, 
showed, 

Through passes yet unreached, a brighter 
road. 

Alas ! the idle tale of man is found 

Depicted hi the dial's moral round; 

Hope with reflection blends her social rays 

To gild the total tablet of his days; 30 

Yet still, the sport of some malignant power, 

He knows but from its shade the present 
hour. 
But why, xmgrateful, dwell on idle pain ? 

To show what pleasures yet to me remain, 

Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant ear, 

The history of a poet's evening hear ? 
When, hi the south, the wan noon, brood- 
ing still, 

Breathed a pale steam around the glaring 
hill, 

And shades of deep-embattled clouds were 
seen, 

Spotting the northern cliffs with lights be- 
tween; 4° 



When crowding cattle, checked by rails that 

make 
A fence far stretched into the shallow lake, 
Lashed the cool water with their restless 

tails, 
Or from high points of rock looked out for 

f aiming gales : 
When school-boys stretched their length 

upon the green; 
And round the broad-spread oak, a glim- 
mering scene, 
In the rough fern-clad park, the herded deer 
Shook the still-twinkling tail and glancing 

ear; 4 s 

When horses hi the sunburnt intake stood, 
And vainly eyed below the tempting flood, 
Or tracked the passenger, hi mute distress, 
With forward neck the closing gate to 

press — 
Then, while I wandered where the huddling 

rill 
Brightens with water-breaks the hollow 

ghyll 
As by enchantment, an obscure retreat 
Opened at once, and stayed my devious 

feet. 
While thick above the rill the branches 

close, 
In rocky basin its wild waves repose, 
Inverted shrubs, and moss of gloomy green, 
Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds 

between; 60 

And its own twilight softens the whole 

scene, 
Save where aloft the subtle sunbeams shine 
On withered briars that o'er the crags re- 
cline ; 
Save where, with sparkling foam, a small 

cascade 
Illumines, from within, the leafy shade; 
Beyond, along the vista of the brook, 
Where antique roots its bustling course 

o'erlook, 
The eye reposes on a secret bridge 
Half grey, half shagged with ivy to its 

ridge; 
There, bending o'er the stream, the listless 

swain 70 

Lingers behind his disappearing wain. 
— Did Sabine grace adorn my living line, 
Blandusia's praise, wild stream, should yield 

to thine ! 
Never shall ruthless minister of death 
'Mid thy soft glooms the glittering steel 

unsheath ; 



AN EVENING WALK 



No goblets shall, for thee, be crowned with 

flowers, 
No kid with piteous outcry thrill thy 

bowers ; 
The mystic shapes that by thy margin 

rove 
A more benignant sacrifice approve — 
A mind, that, hi a calm angelic mood So 
Of happy wisdom, meditating good, 
Beholds, of all from her high powers re- 
quired, 
Much done, and much designed, and more 

desired, — 
Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth re- 
fined, 
Entire affection for all human kind. 

Dear Brook, farewell! To-morrow's noon 

again 
Shall hide me, wooing long thy wildwood 

strain ; 
But now the sun has gained his western 

road, 
And eve's mild hour invites my steps abroad. 
While, near the midway cliff , the silvered 

kite 90 

In many a whistling circle wheels her flight ; 
Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, 

apace 
Travel along the precipice's base; 
Cheering its naked waste of scattered stone, 
By lichens grey, and scanty moss, o'er- 

grown ; 
Where scarce the foxglove peeps, or thistle's 

beard; 
And restless stone-chat, all day long, is 

heard. 
How pleasant, as the sun declines, to view 
The spacious landscape change in form and 

hue! 
Here, vanish, as in mist, before a flood 100 
Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood; 
There, objects, by the searching beams be- 
trayed, 
Come forth, and here retire in purple shade ; 
Even the white stems of birch, the cottage 

white, 
Soften their glare before the mellow light; 
The skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage 

wide 
Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat-house 

hide, 
Shed from their sides, that face the sun's 

slant beam, 
Strong flakes of radiance on the tremulous 

stream : 



Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty cloud 

Mounts from the road, and spreads its mov- 
ing shroud ; 1 1 1 

The shepherd, all involved in wreaths of 
fire, 

Now shows a shadowy speck, and now is 
lost entire. 
Into a gradual calm the breezes sink, 

A blue rim borders all the lake's still brink; 

There doth the twinkling aspen's foliage 
sleep, 

And bisects clothe, like dust, the glassy 
deep: 

And now, on every side, the surface breaks 

Into blue spots, and slowly lengthening 
streaks ; 

Here, plots of sparkling water tremble 
bright 120 

With thousand thousand twinkling points 
of light; 

There, waves that, hardly weltering, die 
away, 

Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray ; 

And now the whole wide lake hi deep re- 
pose 

Is hushed, and like a burnished mirror 
glows, 

Save where, along the shady western marge, 

Coasts, with industrious oar, the charcoal 
barge. 
Their pamiiered tram a group of potters 
goad, 

Winding from side to side up the steep road ; 

The peasant, from yon cliff of fearful 
edge 1 ? o 

Shot, down the headlong path darts with his 
sledge ; 

Bright beams the lonely mountain-horse il- 
lume 

Feeding 'mid purple heath, ' green rings,' 
and broom; 

While the sharp slope the slackened team 
confounds, 

Downward the ponderous timber-wain re- 
sounds ; 

In foamy breaks the rill, with merry song, 

Dashed o'er the rough rock, lightly leaps 
along; 

From lonesome chapel at the mountain's 
feet, 

Three humble bells their rustic chime 
repeat; 

Sounds from the water-side the hammered 
boat; i. :o 

And blasted quarry thunders, heard remote! 



AN EVENING WALK 



Even here, amid the sweep of endless 
woods, 

Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs, and falling 
floods, 

Not undelightful are the simplest charms, 

Found by the grassy door of mountain- 
farms. 
Sweetly ferocious, round his native walks, 

Pride of his sister - wives, the monarch 
stalks; 

Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his 
tread ; 

A crest of purple tops the warrior's head. 

Bright sparks his black and rolling eye-ball 
hurls 150 

Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls; 

On tiptoe reared, he strains his clarion 
throat, 

Threatened by faintly - answering farms 
remote : 

Again with his shrill voice the mountain 
rings, 

While, flapped with conscious pride, re- 
sound his wings. 
Where, mixed with graceful birch, the 
sombrous pine 

And yew-tree o'er the silver rocks recline ; 

I love to mark the quarry's moving trains, 

Dwarf pamiiered steeds, and men, and nu- 
merous warns; 

How busy all the enormous hive within, 160 

While Echo dallies with its various din! 

Some (hear you not then* chisels' clinking 
sound ?) 

Toil, small as pigmies in the gulf profound ; 

Some, dim between the lofty cliffs descried, 

O'erwalk the slender plank from side to 
side; 

These, by the pale-blue rocks that ceaseless 
ring, 

In airy baskets hanging, work and sing. 
Just where a cloud above the mountain 
rears 

An edge all flame, the broadening sun ap- 
pears ; 

A long blue bar its aegis orb divides, 170 

And breaks the spreading of its golden 
tides ; 

And now that orb has touched the purple 
steep 

Whose softened image penetrates the deep. 

'Cross the calm lake's blue shades the cliffs 
aspire, 

With towers and woods, a ' prospect all on 
fire;' 



While coves and secret hollows, through a 

ray 
Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray. 
Each slip of lawn the broken rocks between 
Shines in the light with more than earthly 

green: 
Deep yellow beams the scattered stems 

illume, 180 

Far in the level forest's central gloom: 
Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale, 
Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale, — 
The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering 

rocks, 
Hunts, where his master points, the inter- 
cepted flocks. 
Where oaks o'erhang the road the radiance 

shoots 
On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted 

roots ; 
The druid-stones a brightened ring unfold; 
And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold; 
Sunk to a curve, the day-star lessens still, 
Gives one bright glance, and chops behind 

the hill. 191 

In these secluded vales, if village fame, 
Confirmed by hoary hairs, belief may claim ; 
When up the hills, as now, retired the 

light, 
Strange apparitions mocked the shepherd's 

sight. 
The form appears of one that spurs his 

steed 
Midway along the hill with desperate speed ; 
Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, while 

all 
Attend, at every stretch, his headlong fall. 
Anon, appears a brave, a gorgeous show 200 
Of horsemen-shadows moving to and fro; 
At intervals imperial banners stream, 
And now the van reflects the solar beam; 
The rear through iron brown betrays a 

sullen gleam. 
While silent stands the admiring crowd 

below, 
Silent the visionary warriors go, 
Winding in ordered pomp their upward 

way 
Till the last banner, of the long array 
Has disappeared, and every trace is fled 
Of splendour — save the beacon's spiry 

head 210 

Tipt with eve's latest gleam of burning red. 

Now, while the solemn evening shadows 

sail, 
On slowly-waving pinions, down the vale; 



AN EVENING WALK 



And, fronting the bright west, yon oak 

entwines 
Its darkening boughs and leaves, hi stronger 

lines; 
'T is pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray 
Where, winding on along some secret bay, 
The swan uplifts his chest, and backward 

flings 
His neck, a varying arch, between his 

towering wings: 
The eye that marks the gliding creature 

sees 220 

How graceful pride can be, and how ma- 
jestic, ease. 
While tender cares and mild domestic loves 
With furtive watch pursue her as she moves, 
The female with a meeker charm succeeds, 
And her brown little-ones around her leads, 
Nibbling the water lilies as they pass, 
Or playing wanton with the floating grass. 
She, in a mother's care, her beauty's pride 
Forgetting, calls the wearied to her side ; 
Alternately they mount her back, and rest 
Close by her mantling wings' embraces 

prest. 23 1 

Long may they float upon this flood 

serene ; 
Theirs be these holms untrodden, still, and 

green, 
Where leafy shades fence off the blustering 

gale, 
And breathes hi peace the lily of the vale! 
Yon isle, which feels not even the milk- 
maid's feet, 
Yet hears her song, " by distance made 

more sweet," 
Yon isle conceals their home, their hut-like 

bower; 
Green water-rushes overspread the floor; 
Long grass and willows form the woven wall, 
And swhigs above the roof the poplar tall. 
Thence issuing often with unwieldy stalk, 
They crush with broad black feet their 

flowery walk; 243 

Or, from the neighbouring water, hear at 

morn 
The hound, the horse's tread, and mellow 

horn ; 
Involve their serpent-necks in changeful 

rings, 
Rolled wantonly between their slippery 

wings, 
Or, starting up with noise and rude delight, 
Force half upon the wave their cumbrous 

flight. 



Fair Swan! by all a mother's joys ca- 
ressed, 250 

Haply some wretch has eyed, and called 
thee blessed; 

When with her infanta, from some shady 
seat 

By the lake's edge, she rose — to face the 
noontide heat; 

Or taught their limbs along the dusty road 

A few short steps to totter with their load. 
I see her now, denied to lay her head, 

On cold blue nights, hi hut or straw-built 
shed, 

Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry, 

By pointing to the gliding moon on high. 

— When low-hung clouds each star of 
summer hide, 260 

And fireless are the valleys far and wide, 

Where the brook brawls along the public 
road 

Dark with bat -haunted ashes stretching 
broad, 

Oft has she taught them on her lap to lay 

The sliming glow-worm; or, in heedless 

Toss it from hand to hand, disquieted; 
While others, not unseen, are free to shed 
Green unmolested light upon their mossy 

bed. 
Oh! when the sleety showers her path 

assail, 
And like a torrent roars the headstrong 

gale ; 270 

No more her breath can thaw their fingers 

cold, 
Their frozen arms her neck no more can 

fold; 
Weak roof a cowering form two babes to 

shield, 
And faint the fire a dying heart can yield! 
Press the sad kiss, fond mother! vainly fears 
Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its 

tears ; 
No tears can chill them, and no bosom 

warms, 
Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in thine 

arms! 
Sweet are the sounds that mingle from 

afar, 
Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding 

star, 280 

Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling 

sedge, 
And feeding pike starts from the water's 

edge, 



AN EVENING WALK 



Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and 

bill 
Wetting, that drip upon the water still; 
And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, 
Shoots upward, darting his long neck be- 
fore. 
Now, with religious awe, the farewell 
light 
Blends with the solemn colouring of night; 
'Mid groves of clouds that crest the moun- 
tain's brow, 
And round the west's proud lodge their 
shadows throw, 290 

Like Una shining on her gloomy way, 
The half-seen form of Twilight roams 

astray ; 
Shedding, through paly loop-holes mild and 

small, 
Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom 

fall; 
Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale 
Tracking the motions of the fitful gale. 
With restless interchange at once the bright 
Wins on the shade, the shade upon the 

light. 
No favoured eye was e'er allowed to gaze 
On lovelier spectacle in faery days; 300 
When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase, 
Brushing with lucid wands the water's face : 
While music, stealing round the glimmer- 
ing deeps, 
Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted 
steeps. 

— The lights are vanished from the watery 

plains : 

No wreck of all the pageantry remains. 

Unheeded night has overcome the vales: 

On the dark earth the wearied vision fails ; 

The latest lingerer of the forest tram, 

The lone black fir, forsakes the faded 
plain ; 3 10 

Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no 
more, 

Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers 
hoar; 

And, towering from the sullen dark-brown 
mere, 

Like a black wall, the mountain-steeps ap- 
pear. 

— Now o'er the soothed accordant heart we 

feel 
A sympathetic twilight slowly steal, 
And ever, as we fondly muse, we find 
The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil 

mind. 



Stay ! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay! 
Ah no ! as fades the vale, they fade away : 
Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains ; 
Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear re- 
tains. 322 
The bird, who ceased, with fading light, 

to thread 
Silent the hedge or steamy rivulet's bed, 
From his grey re-appearing tower shall 

soon 
Salute with gladsome note the rising moon, 
While with a hoary light she frosts the 

ground, 
And pours a deeper blue to JEther's bound ; 
Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of clouds 

to fold 
In robes of azure, fleecy- white, and gold. 330 
Above yon eastern hill, where darkness 

broods 
O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and 

woods ; 
Where but a mass of shade the sight can 

trace, 
Even now she shews, half-veiled, her lovely 

face: 
Across the gloomy valley flings her light, 
Far to the western slopes with hamlets 

white; 
And gives, where woods the chequered up- 
land strew, 
To the green corn of summer, autumn's hue. 
Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed 

horn 
Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's own 

morn, 34 o 

Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer . 
The weary hills, impervious, blackening 

near; 
Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the 

while 
On darling spots remote her tempting smile. 
Even now she decks for me a distant 

scene, 
(For dark and broad the gulf of time be- 
tween) 
Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, 
(Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my 

way; 
How fair its lawns and sheltering woods 

appear ! 
How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine 

ear !) 3 so 

Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall 

rise, 
Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs 



REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS 



( For sighs will ever trouble human breath) 
Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of 
death. 
But now the clear bright Moon her zenith 
gains, 
And, rimy without speck, extend the plains: 
The deepest cleft the mountain's front dis- 
plays 
Scarce hides a shadow from her searching 

rays ; 
From the dark-blue faint silvery threads 

divide 
The hills, while gleams below the azure 
tide ; 360 

Time softly treads; throughout the land- 
scape breathes 
A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreaths 
Of charcoal-smoke, that o'er the fallen 

wood, 
Steal down the hill, and spread along the 
flood. 
The song of moimtain-streams, unheard 
by day, 
Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward 

way. 
Air listens, like the sleeping water, still, 
To catch the spiritual music of the hill, 
Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep, 
Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from 
sleep, 37 o 

The echoed hoof Hearing the distant shore, 
The boat's first motion — made with dashing 

oar; 
Sound of closed gate, across the water borne, 
Hurrying the timid hare through rustling 

corn; 
The sportive outcry of the mocking owl; 
And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl; 
The distant forge's swinging thump pro- 
found ; 
Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. 

LINES 

WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT 
EVENING 

I789. I798 

This title is scarcely correct. It was during 1 
a solitary walk on the banks of the Cam that I 
was first struck with this appearance, and ap- 
plied it to my own feeling's in the manner here 
expressed, changing the scene to the Thames, 
near Windsor. This, and the three stanzas of 
the following poem, "Remembrance of Collins," 



formed one piece ; but, upon the recommenda- 
tion of Coleridge, the three last stanzas were 
separated from the other. 

How richly glows the water's breast 
Before us, tinged with evening hues, 
While, facing thus the crimson west, 
The boat her silent course pursues ! 
And see how dark the backward stream ! 
A little moment past so smiling ! 
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, 
Some other loiterers beguiling. 

Such views the youthful Bard allure; 
But, heedless of the following gloom, 
He deems their colours shall endure 
Till peace go with him to the tomb. 
— And let him nurse his fond deceit, 
And what if he must die hi sorrow ! 
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, 
Though grief and pain may come to-mor- 
row ? 



REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS 

COMPOSED UPON THE THAMES NEAR 
RICHMOND 

I789. 1798 

Glide gently, thus for ever glide, 
O Thames ! that other bards may see 
As lovely visions by thy side 
As now, fair river ! come to me. 
O glide, fair stream ! for ever so, 
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, 
Till all our minds for ever flow 
As thy deep waters now are flowing. 

Vain thought ! — Yet be as now thou art ; 
That in thy waters may be seen 
The image of a poet's heart, 
How bright, how solemn, how serene ! 
Such as did once the Poet bless, 
Who murmuring here a later ditty, 
Could find no refuge from distress 
But in the milder grief of pity. 

Now let us, as we float along, 
For him suspend the dashing oar; 
And pray that never child of song 
May know that Poet's sorrows more. 
How calm ! how still ! the only sound, 
The dripping of the oar suspended ! 
— The evening darkness gathers round 
By virtue's holiest Powers attended. 



DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES 



DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES 

TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR 
AMONG THE ALPS 

1 791-2. 1793 

Much the greatest part of this poem was com- 
posed during my walks upon the banks of the 
Loire in the years 1791, 1792. 1 will only no- 
tice that the description of the valley filled with 
mist, beginning- — '" In solemn shapes,' ' was 
taken from that beautiful region of which the 
principal features are Lungarn and Sarnen. 
Nothing that I ever saw in nature left a more 
delightful impression on my mind than that 
which I have attempted, alas ! how feebly, to 
convey to others in these lines. Those two 
lakes have always interested me especially, 
from bearing, in their size and other features, 
a resemblance to those of the North of England. 
It is much to be deplored that a district so 
beautiful should be so unhealthy as it is. 



THE REV. ROBERT JONES, 
fellow of st. john's college, cambridge 

Dear Sik, 

However desirous I might have been of giv- 
ing you proofs of the high place you hold in 
my esteem, I should have been cautious of 
wounding your delicacy by thus publicly ad- 
dressing you, had not the circumstance of our 
having been companions among the Alps, 
seemed to give this dedication a propriety suf- 
ficient to do away any scruples which your 
modesty might otherwise have suggested. 

In inscribing this little work to you, I consult 
my heart. You know well how great is the dif- 
ference between two companions lolling in a 
post-chaise, and two travellers plodding slowly 
along the road, side by side, each with his little 
knapsack of necessaries upon his shoulders. 
How much more of heart between the two lat- 
ter ! 

I am happy in being conscious that I shall 
have one reader who will approach the conclu- 
sion of these few pages with regret. You they 
must certainly interest, in reminding you of 
moments to which you can hardly look back 
without a pleasure not the less dear from a 
shade of melancholy. You will meet with few 
images without recollecting the spot where we 
observed them together; consequently, what- 
ever is feeble in my design, or spiritless in my 
colouring, will be amply supplied by your own 
memory. 

With still greater propriety I might have in- 
scribed to you a description of some of the 



features of your native mountains, through 
which we have wandered together, in the same 
manner, with so much pleasure. But the sea- 
sunsets, which give such splendour to the vale 
of Clwyd, Snowdon, the chair of Idris, the quiet 
village of Bethgelert. Menai and her Druids, 
the Alpine steeps of the Conway, and the still 
more interesting windings of the wizard stream 
of the Dee, remain yet untouched. Apprehen- 
sive that my pencil may never be exercised on 
these subjects, I cannot let slip this opportunity 
of thus publicly assuring you with how much 
affection and esteem 

I am, dear Sir, 

Most sincerely yours, 

W. Wordsworth. 

London, 1793. 

Happiness (if she had been to be found on 
earth) among the charms of Nature — Plea- 
sures of the pedestrian Traveller — Author 
crosses France to the Alps — Present state 
of the Grande Chartreuse — Lake of Como 
— Time, Sunset — Same Scene, Twilight — 
Same Scene, Morning ; its voluptuous Char- 
acter; Old man and forest-cottage music — 
River Tusa — Via Mala and Grison Gipsy — 
Sckellenen-thal — Lake of Uri — Stormy 
sunset — Chapel of William Tell — Force of 
local emotion — Chamois-chaser — View of 
the higher Alps — Manner of life of a Swiss 
mountaineer, interspersed with views of the 
higher Alps — Golden age of the Alps — 
Life and views continued — Ranz des Vaches, 
famous Swiss Air — Abbey of Einsiedlen and 
its pilgrims — Valley of Chamouny — Mont 
Blanc — Slavery of Savoy — Influence of lib- 
erty on cottage-happiness — France — Wish 
for the Extirpation of Slavery — Conclusion. 

Were there, below, a spot of holy ground 
Where from distress a refuge might be 

found, 
And solitude prepare the sold for heaven; 
Sure, nature's God that spot to man had 

given 
Where falls the purple morning far and 

wide 
In flakes of light upon the mountain side; 
Where with loud voice the power of water 

shakes 
The leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes. 
Yet not unrecompensed the man shall 

roam, 
Who at the call of summer quits his home, 
And plods through some wide realm o'er 

vale and height, u 

Though seeking only holiday delight; 



DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES 



ii 



At least, not owning to himself an aim 
To which the sage would give a prouder 

name. 
No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy, 
Though every passing zephyr whispers joy; 
Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease, 
Feeds the clear current of his sympathies. 
For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn; 
And peeps the far-off spire, his evening 

bourn ! 20 

Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head, 
And dear the velvet green-sward to his 

tread: 
Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming 

eye? 
Upward he looks — " and calls it luxury : " 
Kind Nature's charities his steps attend; 
In every babbling brook he finds a friend; 
While chastening thoughts of sweetest use, 

bestowed 
By wisdom, moralise his pensive road. 
Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide 

bower, 
To his spare meal he calls the passing poor ; 
He views the sun uplift his golden fire, 3 1 
Or sink, with heart alive like Menmon's 

lyre; 
Blesses the moon that comes with kindly 

ray. 
To light him shaken by his rugged way. 
Back from his sight no bashful children steal ; 
He sits a brother at the cottage-meal; 
His humble looks no shy restraint impart; 
Around him plays at will the virgin heart. 
While unsuspended wheels the village 

dance, 39 

The maidens eye him with enquiring glance, 
Much wondering by what fit of crazing care, 
Or desperate love, bewildered, he came 

there. 
A hope, that prudence could not then ap- 
prove, 
That clung to Nature with a truant's love, 
O'er Gallia's wastes of corn my footsteps led ; 
Her files of road-elms, high above my head 
In long-drawn vista, rustling in the breeze ; 
Or where her pathways straggle as they 

please 
By lonely farms and secret villages. 
But lo ! the Alps ascending white in air, 50 
Toy with the sun and glitter from afar. 
And now, emerging from the forest's 

gloom, 
I greet thee, Chartreuse, while I mourn thy 

doom. 



Whither is fled that Power whose frown 

severe 
Awed sober Reason till she crouched in 

fear? 
That Silence, once in deathlike fetters 

bound, 
Chains that were loosened only by the sound 
Of holy rites chanted in measured round ? 
— The voice of blasphemy the fane alarms, 
The cloister startles at the gleam of arms. 
The thundering tube the aged angler hears, 
Bent o'er the groaning flood that sweeps 

away his tears. 62 

Cloud-piercing pine-trees nod their troubled 

heads, 
Spires, rocks, and lawns a browner night 

o'erspreads ; 
Strong terror checks the female peasant's 

sighs, 
And start the astonished shades at female 

eyes. 
From Bruno's forest screams the affrighted 

And slow the insulted eagle wheels away. 
A viewless flight of laughing Demons mock 
The Cross, by angels planted on the aerial 

rock. 7 o 

The " parting Genius " sighs with hollow 

breath 
Along the mystic streams of Life and Death. 
Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds 
Portentous through her old woods' trackless 

bounds, 
Vallombre, 'mid her falling fanes, deplores, 
For ever broke, the sabbath of her bowers. 
More pleased, my foot the hidden margin 

roves 
Of Como, bosomed deep in chestnut groves. 
No meadows thrown between, the giddy 

steeps 
Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow 

deeps. So 

— To towns, whose shades of no rude noise 

complain, 
From ringing team apart and grating 

wain — 
To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's 

boimd, 
Or lurk hi woody sunless glens profound, 
Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling, 
And o'er the whitened wave their shadows 

fling — 
The pathway leads, as round the steeps it 

twines ; 
And Silence loves its purple roof of vines. 



DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES 



The loitering traveller hence, at evening, 

sees 
From rock-hewn steps the sail between the 

trees ; 90 

Or marks, 'mid opening cliffs, fair dark- 
eyed maids 
Tend the small harvest of their garden 

glades ; 
Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to 

view 
Stretch o'er the pictured mirror broad and 

blue, 
And track the yellow lights from steep to 

steep, 
As tip the opposing hills they slowly creep. 
Aloft, here, half a village shines, arrayed 
In golden light ; half hides itself in shade ; 
While, from amid the darkened roofs, the 

spire, 
Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like 

fire: 100 

There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw 
Rich golden verdure on the lake below. 
Slow glides the sail along the illumined 

shore, 
And steals mto the shade the lazy oar; 
Soft bosoms breathe around contagious 

sighs, 
And amorous music on the water dies. 
How blest, delicious scene ! the eye that 

greets 
Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats; 
Beholds the miwearied sweep of wood that 

scales iog 

Thy cliffs ; the endless waters of thy vales ; 
Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore, 
Each with its household boat beside the 

door; 
Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue 

sky; 
Thy towns, that cleave, like swallows' nests, 

on high; 
That glimmer hoar hi eve's last light, de- 
scried 
Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side, 
Whence lutes and voices down the enchanted 

woods 
Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods ; 
Thy lake, that, streaked or dappled, blue or 

grey. 

'Mid smoking woods gleams hid from morn- 
ing's ray 120 

Slow-travelling down the western hills, to 
enfold 

Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold; 



Thy glittering steeples, whence the mathi 

bell 
Calls forth the woodman from his desert 

cell, 
And quickens the blithe sound of oars that 

pass 
Along the steaming lake, to early mass. 
But now farewell to each and all — adieu 
To every charm, and last and chief to you, 
Ye lovely maidens that hi noontide shade 129 
Rest near your little plots of wheaten glade; 
To all that binds the soul hi powerless trance, 
Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance ; 
Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles 

illume 
The sylvan cabhi's lute-enlivened gloom. 

— Alas ! the very murmur of the streams 
Breathes o'er the failing soul voluptuous 

dreams, 
While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to 

dwell 
On joys that might disgrace the captive's 

cell, 
Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's 

marge .39 

And lures from bay to bay the vocal barge. 
Yet are thy softer arts with power indued 
To soothe and cheer the poor man's solitude. 
By silent cottage doors, the peasant's home 
Left vacant for the day, I loved to roam. 
But once I pierced the mazes of a wood 
In which a cabhi undeserted stood; 
There an old man an olden measure scanned 
On a rude viol touched with withered hand. 
As lambs or fawns hi April clustering lie 
Under a hoary oak's thin canopy, 150 

Stretched at his feet, with stedfast upward 

eye, 
His children's children listened to the sound ; 

— A Hermit with his family around ! 

But let us hence ; for f air Locarno smiles 
Embowered hi walnut slopes and citron 

isles : 
Or seek at eve the banks of Tusa's stream, 
Where, 'mid dim towers and woods, her wa- 
ters gleam. 
From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, 

retire 
The dull-red steeps, and, darkening still, as- 
pire 
To where afar rich orange lustres glow 160 
Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, 

and snow: 
Or, led where Via Mala's chasms confine 
The indignant waters of the infant Rhhie, 



DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES 



*3 



Hang o'er the abyss, whose else impervious 

glooni 
His burning eyes with fearful light illume. 
The mind condemned, without reprieve, 

to go 
O'er life's long deserts with its charge of 

woe, 
With sad congratulation joins the train 
Where beasts and men together o'er the 

plam 
Move on — a mighty caravan of pain: 170 
Hope, strength, and courage, social suffer- 
ing brings, 
Freshening the wilderness with shades and 

springs. 
— There be whose lot far otherwise is cast : 
Sole human tenant of the piny waste, 
By choice or doom a gipsy wanders here, 
A nursling babe her only comforter; 
Lo, where she sits beneath yon shaggy rock, 
A cowering shape half hid in curling smoke ! 
When lightning among clouds and moun- 
tain-snows 179 
Predominates, and darkness comes and goes, 
And the fierce torrent, at the flashes broad 
Starts, like a horse, beside the glaring 

road — 
She seeks a covert from the battering shower 
In the roofed bridge; the bridge, in that 

dread hour, 
Itself all trembling at the torrent's power, 
Nor is she more at ease on some still night, 
When not a star supplies the comfort of its 

light; _ 
Only the waning moon hangs dull and red 
Above a melancholy mountain's head, 
Then sets. In total gloom the Vagrant 

sighs, ,90 

Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary 

eyes; 
Or on her fingers counts the distant clock, 
Or, to the drowsy crow of midnight cock, 
Listens, or quakes while from the forest's 

gulf 
Howls near and nearer yet the famished 

wolf. 
From the green vale of Urseren smooth 

and wide 
Descend we now, the maddened Reuss our 

guide ; 
By rocks that, shutting out the blessed day, 
Cling tremblingly to rocks as loose as they ; 
By cells upon whose image, while he prays, 
The kneeling peasant scarcely dares to 

gaze ; 201 



By many a votive death-cross planted near, 
And watered duly with the pious tear, 
That faded silent from the upward eye 
Unmoved with each rude form of peril nigh ; 
Fixed on the anchor left by Him who saves 
Alike in whelming snows, and roaring waves. 

But soon a peopled region on the sight 
Opens — a little world of calm delight; 
Where mists, suspended on the expiring 
gale, 210 

Spread roofhke o'er the deep secluded vale, 
And beams of evening slipping hi between, 
Gently illuminate a sober scene : — 
Here, on the brown wood-cottages they 

sleep, 
There, over rock or sloping pasture creep. 
On as we journey, in clear view displayed, 
The still vale lengthens underneath its shade 
Of low- hung vapour : on the freshened mead 
The green light sparkles; — the dun bowers 

recede. 
While pastoral pipes and streams the land- 
scape lull, 220 

And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull, 
In solemn shapes before the admiring eye 
Dilated hang the misty pines on high, 
Huge convent domes with pinnacles and 

towers, 
And antique castles seen through gleamy 

showers. 
From such romantic dreams, my soul, 

awake ! 
To sterner pleasure, where, by Uri's lake, 
In Nature's pristine majesty outspread, 
Winds neither road nor path for foot to 

tread : 
The rocks rise naked as a wall, or stretch 
Far o'er the water, hung with groves of 

beech; 231 

Aerial pines from loftier steeps ascend, 
Nor stop but where creation seems to end. 
Yet here and there, if mid the savage scene 
Appears a scanty plot of smiling green, 
Up from the lake a zigzag path will creep 
To reach a small wood-hut hung boldly on 

the steep, 
— Before those thresholds (never can they 

know 
The face of traveller passing to and fro,) 
No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell 240 
Forwhomat morning tolled the funeral bell; 
Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark fore- 
goes, 
Touched by the beggar's moan of human 

woes; 



14 



DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES 



The shady porch ne'er offered a cool seat 
To pilgrims overcome by summer's heat. 
Yet thither the world's business finds its 

way 
At times, and tales unsought beguile the 

day, 
And there are those fond thoughts which 

Solitude, 
However stern, is powerless to exclude. 
There doth the maiden watch her lover's 

sail 250 

Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale ; 
At midnight listens till his parting oar, 
And its last echo, can be heard no more. 
And what if ospreys, cormorants, herons, 

cry 
Amid tempestuous vapours driving by, 
Or hovering over wastes too bleak to rear 
That common growth of earth, the foodful 

ear; 
Where the green apple shrivels on the spray, 
And pines the umipened pear hi summer's 

kindliest ray; 259 

Contentment shares the desolate domain 
With Independence, child of high Disdain. 
Exulting 'mid the winter of the skies, 
Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies, 
And grasps by fits her sword, and often 

eyes; 
And sometimes, as from rock to rock she 

bounds 
The Patriot nymph starts at imagined 

sounds, 
And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast, 
Whether some old Swiss air hath checked 

her haste 
Or thrill of Spartan fife is caught between 

the blast. 
Swoln with incessant rains from hour to 

hour, 270 

All day the floods a deepening murmur 

pour: 
The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight: 
Dark is the region as with coming night; 
But what a sudden burst of overpowering 

light! 
Triumphant on the bosom of the storm, 
Glances the wheeling eagle's glorious form! 
Eastward, in long perspective glittering, 

shine 
The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the lake 

recline ; 
Those lofty cliffs a hundred streams unfold, 
At once to pillars turned that flame with 

gold: 2S0 



Behind his sail the peasant shrinks, to shim 
The west, that burns like one dilated sun. 
A crucible of mighty compass, felt 
By mountains, glowing till they seem to 
melt. 
But, lo! the boatman, overawed, before 
The pictured fane of Tell suspends his oar; 
Confused the Marathonian tale appears, 
While his eyes sparkle with heroic tears. 
And who, that walks where men of ancient 

days 
Have wrought with godlike arm the deeds 
of praise, 290 

Feels not the spirit of the place control, 
Or rouse and agitate his labouring soul ? 
Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills, 
Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills, 
On Zutphen's plain ; or on that highland dell, 
Through which rough Garry cleaves his 

way, can tell 
What high resolves exalt the tenderest 

thought 
Of him whom passion rivets to the spot, 
Where breathed the gale that caught 

Wolfe's happiest sigh, 
And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye ; 
Where bleeding Sidney from the cup re- 
tired, 301 
And glad Dimdee in "faint huzzas" ex- 
pired ? 
But now with other mmd I stand alone 
Upon the summit of this naked cone, 
And watch the fearless chamois-hunter 

chase 
His prey, through tracts abrupt of desolate 

space, 
Through vacant worlds where Nature never 

gave 
A brook to murmur or a bough to wave, 
Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep; 
Thro' worlds where Life, and Voice, and 
Motion sleep; 310 

Where silent Homs their deathlike sway 

extend, 
Save when the avalanche breaks loose, to 

rend 
Its way with uproar, till the ruhi, drowned 
In some dense wood or gulf of snow pro- 
found, 
Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abor- 
tive sound. 
— 'T is his, while wandering on from height 

to height, 
To see a planet's pomp and steady light 
In the least star of scarce-appearing night; 



DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES 



r 5 



While the pale moon moves near him, on 
the hound 319 

Of ether, shining with diminished round, 
And far and wide the icy summits hlaze, 
Rejoicing in the glory of her rays: 
To him the day-star glitters small and 

bright, 
Shorn of its beams, insufferably white, 
And he can look beyond the sun, and view 
Those fast-receding depths of sable blue 
Flying till vision can no more pursue! 

— At once bewildering mists around him 

close, 

And cold and hunger are his least of woes; 

The Demon of the snow, with angry roar 

Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. 

Soon with despair's whole weight his spirits 
sink; 332 

Bread has he none, the snow must be his 
drink; 

And, ere his eyes can close upon the day, 

The eagle of the Alps o'ershades her prey. 
Now couch thyself where, heard with fear 
afar, 

Thunders through echoing pines the head- 
long Aar; 

Or rather stay to taste the mild delights 

Of pensive Underwalden's pastoral heights. 

— Is there who 'mid these awful wilds has 

seen 340 

The native Genii walk the mountain green ? 
Or heard, while other worlds their charms 

reveal, 
Soft music o'er the aerial summit steal ? 
While o'er the desert, answering every 

close, 
Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and 

goes. 

— And sure there is a secret Power that 

reigns 
Here, where no trace of man the spot pro- 
fanes, 
Nought but the chalets, flat and bare, on high 
Suspended 'mid the quiet of the sky; 
Or distant herds that pasturing upward 
creep, 350 

And, not untended, climb the dangerous 

steep. 
How still! no irreligious sound or sight 
Rouses the soul from her severe delight. 
An idle voice the sabbath region fills 
Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills, 
And with that voice accords the soothing 

sound 
Of drowsy bells, for ever tinkling round; 



Faint wail of eagle melting into blue 
Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods' steady 

sugh; 
The solitary heifer's deepened low; 360 

Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow. 
All motions, sounds, and voices, far and 

nigh, 
Blend in a music of tranquillity; 
Save when, a stranger seen below, the boy 
Shouts from the echoing hills with savage 

joy- 
When, from the sunny breast of open 

seas, 
And bays with myrtle fringed, the southern 

breeze 
Comes on to gladden April with the sight 
Of green isles widening on each snow-clad 

height; 
When shouts and lowing herds the valley 

fill, 370 

And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill, 
The pastoral Swiss begin the cliffs to scale, 
Leaving to silence the deserted vale; 
And like the Patriarchs in their simple age 
Move, as the verdure leads, from stage to 

stage : 
High and more high hi summer's heat they 

go, 
And hear the rattling thunder far below; 
Or steal beneath the mountains, half-de- 
terred, 
Where huge rocks tremble to the bellowing 

herd. 
One I behold who, 'cross the foaming 

flood, 380 

Leaps with a bound of graceful hardihood; 
Another, high on that green ledge; — he 

gamed 
The tempting spot with every sinew 

strained ; 
And downward thence a knot of grass he 

throws, 
Food for his beasts in time of winter snows. 
— Far different life from what Tradition 

hoar 
Transmits of happier lot in times of yore ! 
Then Summer lingered long; and honey 

flowed 
From out the rocks, the wild bees' safe 

abode : 
Continual waters welling cheered the waste, 
And plants were wholesome, now of deadly 

taste: 301 

Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled, 
Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled: 



i6 



DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES 



Nor Hunger driven the herds from pastures 

bare, 
To climb the treacherous cliffs for scanty 

fare. 
Then the milk-thistle flourished through the 

land, 
And forced the f ull-swoln udder to demand, 
Thrice every day, the pail and welcome 

hand. 
Thus does the father to his children tell 399 
Of banished bliss, by fancy loved too well. 
Alas ! that human guilt provoked the rod 
Of angry Nature to avenge her God. 
Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts 
•Joys only given to imcorrupted hearts. 
'T is morn : with gold the verdant moun- 
tain glows 
More high, the snowy peaks with hues of 

rose. 
Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills, 
A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, 
A solemn sea ! whose billows wide around 
Stand motionless, to awful silence bound: 410 
Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops 

uprear, 
That like to leaning masts of stranded ships 

appear. 
A single chasm, a gulf of gloomy blue, 
Gapes in the centre of the sea — and, 

through 
That dark mysterious gulf ascending, sound 
Innumerable streams with roar profound. 
Mount through the nearer vapours notes of 

birds, 
And merry flageolet; the low of herds, 
The bark of dogs, the heifer's tinkling 

bell, 
Talk, laughter, and perchance a church- 
tower knell: 420 
Think not, the peasant from aloft has gazed 
And heard with heart unmoved, with soul 

unraised: 
Nor is his spirit less enrapt, nor less 
Alive to independent happiness, 
Then, when he lies, out-stretched, at even- 
tide, 
Upon the fragrant mountain's purple side: 
For as the pleasures of his simple day 
Beyond his native valley seldom stray, 
Nought round its darling precincts can he 
find 429 

But brings some past enjoyment to his mind; 
While Hope, reclining upon Pleasure's urn, 
Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his re- 
turn. 



Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild, 
Was blest as free — for he was Nature's 

child. 
He, all superior but his God disdained, 
Walked none restraining, and by none re- 
strained 
Confessed no law but what his reason taught, 
Did all he wished, and wished but what he 

ought. 
As man hi his primeval dower arrayed 
The image of his glorious Sire displayed, 440 
Even so, by faithful Nature guarded, here 
The traces of primeval Man appear; 
The simple dignity no forms debase ; 
The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace: 
The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord, 
His book he prizes, nor neglects his sword; 
Well taught by that to feel his rights, pre- 
pared 
With this " the blessings he enjoys to 
guard." 
And, as his native hills encircle ground 
For many a marvellous victory renowned, 
The work of Freedom daring to oppose, 451 
With few hi arms, innumerable foes, 
When to those famous fields his steps are led, 
An unknown power coimects him with the 

dead : 
For images of other worlds are there; 
Awful the light, and holy is the air. 
Fitfully, and hi flashes, through his soul, 
Like sim-lit tempests, troubled transports 

roll; 
His bosom heaves, his Spirit towers amain, 
Beyond the senses and their little reign. 460 
And oft, when that dread vision hath past 

h ?> . . 

He holds with God himself communion high, 

There where the peal of swelling torrents 

fills 
The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills; 
Or when, upon the mountain's silent brow 
Reclined, he sees, above him and below, 
Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow ; 
While needle peaks of granite shooting bare 
Tremble hi ever-varying thits of air. 
And when a gathering weight of shadows 

brown 470 

Falls on the valleys as the sun goes down; 
And Pikes, of darkness named and fear and 

storms, 
Uplift hi quiet their illumined forms, 
In sea-like reach of prospect round him 

spread, 
Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red — 



DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES 



!7 



Awe iii his breast with holiest love unites, 
And the near heavens impart their own de- 
lights. 
When downward to his winter hut he 

goes, 
Dear and more dear the lessening circle 

grows ; 
That hut which on the hills so oft employs 
His thoughts, the central point of all his 

joys. 4 Si 

And as a swallow, at the hour of rest, 
Peeps often ere she darts into her nest, 
So to the homestead, where the grandsire 

tends 
A little prattling child, he oft descends, 
To glance a look upon the well-matched 

pair; 
Till storm and driving ice blockade him 

there. 
There, safely guarded by the woods behind, 
He hears the chiding of the baffled wind, 
Hears Whiter calling all his terrors roimd, 
And, blest within himself, he shrinks not 

from the sound. 491 

Through Nature's vale his homely plea- 
sures glide, 
Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride; 
The bound of all bis vanity, to deck, 
With one bright bell, a favourite heifer's 

neck ; 
Well pleased upon some simple annual feast, 
Remembered half the year and hoped the 

rest, 
If dairy-produce, from his inner hoard, 
Of thrice ten summers dignify the board. 
— Alas ! in every clime a flying ray 500 
Is all we have to cheer our wintry way; 
And here the unwilling mind may more than 

trace 
The general sorrows of the human race ; 
The churlish gales of penury, that blow 
Cold as the north-wind o'er a waste of snow, 
To them the gentle groups of bliss deny 
That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. 
Yet more ; — compelled by Powers which 

only deign 
That solitary man disturb their reign, 
Powers that support an unremitting strife 
With all the tender charities of life, 511 

Full oft " the father, when his sons have 

grown 
To manhood, seems their title to disown; 
And from bis nest amid the storms of heaven 
Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was 

driven ; 



With stern composure watches to the 
plain — 

And never, eagle-like, beholds again ! 
When long-familiar joys are all resigned, 

Why does their sad remembrance haunt the 
mind ? 

Lo ! where through flat Batavia's willowy 
groves, 520 

Or by the lazy Seme, the exile rove? ; 

O'er the curled waters Alpine measures 
swell, 

And search the affections to their inmost 
cell; 

Sweet poison spreads along the listener's 
veins, 

Turning past pleasures into mortal pains; 

Poison, which not a frame of steel can brave, 

Bows his young head with sorrow to the 
grave. 
Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume ! 

Ye flattering eastern lights, once more the 
hills illume ! 

Fresh gales and dews of life's delicious 
morn, 530 

And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, re- 
turn ! 

Alas ! the little joy to man allowed 

Fades like the lustre of an evening- cloud; 

Or like the beauty in a flower installed, 

Whose season was, and cannot be recalled. 

Yet, when opprest by sickness, grief, or care, 

And taught that pain is pleasure's natural 
heir, 

We still confide in more than we can know; 

Death would be else the favourite friend of 
woe. 
'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow thai; 
shine, 540 

Between interminable tracts of pine, 

Within a temple stands an awful shrine, 

By an uncertain light revealed, that falls 

On the mute Image and the troubled walls. 

Oh ! give not me that eye of hard disdain 

That views, undimmed, Einsiedlen's wretch- 
ed fane. 

While ghastly faces through the gloom ap- 
pear, 

Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear; 

While prayer contends with silenced agony, 

Surely in other thoughts contempt may die 

If the sad grave of human ignorance bear 

One flower of hope — oh, pass and leave it 

there! 552 

The tall sun, pausing on an Alpine spire, 

Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire: 



DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES 



Now meet we other pilgrims ere the day 
Close on the remnant of their weary way; 
While they are drawing toward the sacred 

floor 
Where, so they fondly think, the worm shall 

gnaw no more. 
How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste 
The fountains reared for them amid the 

waste ! 56° 

Their thirst they slake : — they wash their 

toil-worn feet 
And some with tears of joy each other greet. 
Yes, I must see you when ye first behold 
Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold ; 
In that glad moment will for you a sigh 
Be heaved, of charitable sympathy; 
In that glad moment when your hands are 

prest 
In mute devotion on the thankful breast ! 

Last, let us turn to Chamouny that shields 
With rocks and gloomy woods her fertile 

fields : 570 

Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, 
And with wild flowers and blooming or- 
chards blend ; — 
A scene more fair than what the Grecian 

feigns 
Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains; 
Here all the seasons revel hand hi hand : 
'Mid lawns and shades by breezy rivulets 

faimed, 
They sport beneath that mountain's match- 
less height 
That holds no commerce with the summer 

night. 
From age to age, throughout his lonely 

bounds 
The crash of rum fitfully resounds; 580 

Appalling havoc! but serene his brow, 
Where daylight lingers on perpetual snow; 
Glitter the stars above, and all is black below. 
What marvel then if many a Wanderer 

sigh, 
While roars the sullen Arve in anger by, 
That not for thy reward, unrivalled Vale! 
Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal 

gale; 
That thou, the slaves of slaves, art doomed 

to pine 
And droop, while no Italian arts are thine, 
To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine. 590 
Hail Freedom ! whether it was mine to 

stray, 
With shrill winds whistling round nay lonely 

way, 



On the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad 
moors, 

Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's 
shores ; 

To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breath- 
ing rose, 

And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows; 

Still have I found, where Tyranny prevails, 

That virtue languishes and pleasure fails, 

While the remotest hamlets blessings share 

In thy loved presence known, and only 
there ; 6co 

i/eart-blessings — outward treasures, too, 
which the eye 

Of the sun peeping through the clouds can 

And every passing breeze will testify. 
There, to the porch, belike with jasmine 

bound 
Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is 

wound ; 
The housewife there a brighter garden sees, 
Where hum on busier wing her happy bees ; 
On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow ; 
And grey-haired men look up with livelier 

brow, — 
To greet the traveller needing food and 

rest; 610 

Housed for the night, or but a half-hour's 

guest. 
And oh, fair France! though now the 

traveller sees 
Thy three-striped bamier fluctuate on the 

breeze; 
Though martial songs have banished songs 

of love, 
And nightingales desert the village grove, 
Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's 

alarms, 
And the short thunder, and the flash of arms ; 
That cease not till night falls, when far and 

nigh, 
Sole sound, the Sourd prolongs his mourn- 
ful cry ! 
— Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads 

her power 620 

Beyond the cottage-hearth, the cottage-door : 
All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes 
Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. 
Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters 

glide 
Through rustling aspens heard from side to 

side, 
When from October clouds a milder light 
Fell where the blue flood rippled into white; 



GUILT AND SORROW 



19 



Methought from every cot the watchful bird 

Crowed with ear-piercing power till then 
unheard ; 

Each clacking mill, that broke the murmur- 
ing streams, 630 

Rocked the charmed thought in more de- 
lightful dreams; 

Chasing those pleasant dreams, the falling 
leaf 

Awoke a fainter sense of moral grief; 

The measured echo of the distant flail 

Wound hi more welcome cadence down the 
vale ; 

With more majestic course the water rolled, 

And ripening foliage shone with richer gold. 

— But foes are gathering — Liberty must 

raise 

Red on the hills her beacon's far-seen blaze ; 

Must bid the tocsin ring from tower to 
tower! — 640 

Nearer and nearer comes the trying hour ! 

Rejoice, brave Land, though pride's per- 
verted ire 

Rouse hell's own aid, and wrap thy fields hi 
fire: 

Lo, from the flames a great and glorious 
birth; 

As if a new-made heaven were hailing a 
new earth ! 

— All cannot be : the promise is too fair 
for creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial 

air: 
Yet not for this will sober reason frown 
Upon that promise, nor the hope disown; 649 
She knows that only from high aims ensue 
Rich guerdons, and to them alone are due. 
Great God ! by whom the strifes of men 
are weighed 
In an impartial balance, give thine aid 
To the just cause; and, oh ! do thou pre- 
side 
Over the mighty stream now spreading 

wide : 
So shall its waters, from the heavens sup- 
plied 
In copious showers, from earth by whole- 
some springs, 
Brood o'er the long-parched lands with Nile- 
like wings ! 
And grant that every sceptred child of clay 
Who cries presumptuous, " Here the flood 
shall stay," 660 

May in its progress see thy guiding hand, 
And cease the acknowledged purpose to 
withstand; 



Or, swept hi anger from the insulted shore, 

Shik with his servile bands, to rise no more ! 
To-night, my Friend, within this humble 
cot 

Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot 

In timely sleep; and when, at break of 
day, 

On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams 
play, 

With a light heart our course we may re- 
new, 

The first whose footsteps print the mountain 
dew. 670 



GUILT AND SORROW 

OR INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN 

i 79 i -4. 1842 

Unwilling' to be unnecessarily particular, I 
have assigned this poeru to the dates 1791 and 
'94 ; but in fact much of the " Female Va- 
grant's " story was composed at least two years 
before. All that relates to her sufferings as a 
sailor's wife in America, and her condition of 
mind during her voyage home, were faithfully 
taken from the report made to me of her own 
case by a friend who had been subjected to the 
same trials and affected in the same way. Mr. 
Coleridge, when I first became acquainted with 
him, was so much impressed with this poem, 
that it would have encouraged me to publish 
the whole as it then stood ; but the mariner's 
fate appeared to me so tragical as to require a 
treatment more subdued and yet more strictly 
applicable in expression than I had at first given 
to it. This fault was corrected nearly fifty 
years afterwards, when I determined to publish 
the whole. It may be worth while to remark, 
that, though the incidents of this attempt do 
only in a small degree produce each other, and 
it deviates accordingly from the general rule by 
which narrative pieces ought to be governed, 
it is not therefore wanting in continuous hold 
upon the mind, or in unity, which is effected by 
the identity of moral interest that places the 
two personages upon the same footing in the 
reader's sympathies. My rambles over .many 
parts of Salisbury Plain put me, as mentioned 
in the preface, upon writing this poem, and left 
on my mind imaginative impressions the force 
of which I have felt to this day. From that 
district I proceeded to Bath, Bristol, and so on 
to the banks of the Wye, where I took again 
to travelling on foot. In remembrance of that 
part of my journey, which was in '93, I began 
the verses— "Five years have passed." 



20 



GUILT AND SORROW 



ADVERTISEMENT 

PREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF THIS 
POEM, PUBLISHED IN 1842 

Not less than one third of the following poem, 
though it has from time to time been altered in 
the expression, was published so far back as the 
year 1798, under the title of " The Female Va- 
grant." The extract is of such length that an 
apology seems to be required for reprinting it 
here : but it was necessary to restore it to its 
original position, or the rest would have been 
unintelligible. The whole was written before 
the close of the year 1794, and I will detail, 
rather as matter of literary biography than for 
any other reason, the circumstances under which 
it was produced. 

During the latter part of the summer of 1793, 
having passed a month in the Isle of Wight, in 
view of the fleet which was then preparing for 
sea off Portsmouth at the commencement of 
the war, I left the place with melancholy fore- 
bodings. The American war was still fresh in 
memory. The struggle which was beginning, 
and which many thought would be brought to 
a speedy close by the irresistible arms of Great 
Britain being added to those of the allies, I was 
assured in my own mind would be of long contin- 
uance, and productive of distress and misery be- 
yond all possible calculation. This conviction 
was pressed upon me by having been a witness, 
during a long residence in revolutionary France, 
of the spirit which prevailed in that country. 
After leaving the Isle of Wight, I spent two 
days in wandering on foot over Salisbury Plain, 
which, though cultivation was then widely spread 
through parts of it, had upon the whole a still 
more impressive appearance than it now retains. 

The monuments and traces of antiquity, scat- 
tered in abundance over that region, led me 
unavoidably to compare what we know or guess 
of those remote times with certain aspects of 
modern society, and with calamities, principally 
those consequent upon war, to which, more than 
other classes of men, the poor are subject. In 
those reflections, joined with particular facts 
that had come to my knowledge, the following 
stanzas originated. 

In conclusion, to obviate some distraction in 
the minds of those who are well acquainted 
with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to say, 
that of the features described as belonging to 
it, one or two are taken from other desolate 
parts of England. 



A Traveller on the skirt of Sarum's 

Plain 
Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half 

bare; 



Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain 
Help from the staff he bore; for mien and 

air 
Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn 

with care 
Both of the time to come, and time long 

fled: 
Down fell hi straggling locks his thin grey 

hair; 
A coat he wore of military red 
But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch 

and shred. 



While thus he journeyed, step by step led 
on, io 

He saw and passed a stately inn, full 
sure 

That welcome in such house for him was 
none. 

No board inscribed the needy to allure 

Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and 
poor 

And desolate, " Here you will find a 
friend ! " 

The pendent grapes glittered above the 
door ; — 

On he must pace, perchance 'till night de- 
scend, 

Where'er the dreary roads their bare white 
lines extend. 



The gathering clouds grow red with stormy 

fire, 
In streaks diverging wide and mounting 

high ; 20 

That inn he long had passed; the distant 

spire, 
Which oft as he looked back had fixed his 

eye, 
Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank 

sky. 
Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, 
And scarce could any trace of man de- 
scry, 
Save cornfields stretched and stretching 

without bound ; 
But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to 

be found. 



No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant 

green, 
No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear ; 



GUILT AND SORROW 



Long files of corn-stacks here and there 

were seen, 3° 

But not one dwelling-place his heart to 

cheer. 
Some labourer, thought he, may perchance 

be near; 
And so he sent a feeble shout — in vain; 
No voice made answer, he could only hear 
Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, 
Or whistling thro' thin grass along the un- 

furrowed plain. 



Long had he fancied each successive slope 

Concealed some cottage, whither he might 
turn 

And rest; but now along heaven's darken- 
ing cope 

The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward 
borne. 4° 

Thus warned he sought some shepherd's 
spreading thorn 

Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, 

But sought in vain; for now, all wild, for- 
lorn, 

And vacant, a huge waste around him 
spread ; 

The wet cold ground, he feared, must be 
his only bed. 



And be it so — for to the chill night shower 
And the sharp wind his head he oft hath 

bared ; 
A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour 
Hath told; for, landing after labour hard, 
Full long endured hi hope of just reward, 
He to an armed fleet was forced away 51 
By seamen, who perhaps themselves had 

shared 
Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey, 
'Gainst all that hi his heart, or theirs per- 
haps, said nay. 



For years the work of carnage did not 
cease, 

And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed, 

Death's minister; then came his glad re- 
lease, 

And hope returned, and pleasure fondly 
made 

Her dwelling hi his dreams. By Fancy's 
aid 

The happy husband flies, his arms to throw 



Round his wife's neck; the prize of victory 
laid 61 

In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears 
flow 

As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she 
could know. 

VIII 

Vain hope! for fraud took all that he had 

earned. 
The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood 
Even hi the desert's heart; but he, re- 
turned, 
Bears not to those he loves their needful 

food. 
His home approaching, but in such a mood 
That from his sight his children might have 

run. 
He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his 
blood ; 70 

And when the miserable work was done 
He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's 
fate to shun. 



From that day forth no place to him could 

be 
So lonely, but that thence might come a 

pang 
Brought from without to inward misery. 
Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang 
A sound of chains along the desert rang; 
He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high 
A human body that in irons swang, 
Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; 80 
And, hovering, round it often did a raven 



It was a spectacle which none might view, 
In spot so savage, but with shuddering 

pain ; 
Nor only did for him at once renew 
All he had feared from man, but roused a 

train 
Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain. 
The stones, as if to cover him from day, 
Rolled at his back along the living plain; 
He fell, and without sense or motion lay; 
But, when the trance was gone, feebly pur- 
sued his way. 90 



As one whose brain habitual phrensy fires 
Owes to the fit hi which his soul hath tossed 



GUILT AND SORROW 



Profounder quiet, when the fit retires, 
Even so the dire phantasma which had 

crossed 
His sense, hi sudden vacancy quite lost, 
Left his mind still as a deep evening stream. 
Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed, 
Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem 
To traveller who might talk of any casual 

theme. 



Hurtle the clouds hi deeper darkness piled, 
Gone is the raven timely rest to seek; 101 
He seemed the only creature hi the wild 
On whom the elements their rage might 

wreak ; 
Save that the bustard, of those regions 

bleak 
Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light 
A man there wandering, gave a mournful 

shriek, 
And half upon the ground, with strange 

affright, 
Forced hard against the wmd a thick un- 
wieldy flight. 



All, all was cheerless to the horizon's 

bound ; 
The weary eye — which, wheresoe'er it 

strays, no 

Marks nothing but the red sun's setting 

round, 
Or on the earth strange lines, in former 

days 
Left by gigantic arms — at length surveys 
What seems an antique castle spreading 

wide; 
Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise 
Their brow sublime: hi shelter there to 

bide 
He turned, while ram poured down smok- 
ing on every side. 



Pile of Stone-henge! so proud to hint yet 

keep 
Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and 

hear 
The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's 

sweep, 120 

Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year; 
Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear 
For sacrifice its throngs of living men, 
Before thy face did ever wretch appear, 



Who hi his heart had groaned with deadlier 

pain 
Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter 

now would gain. 



Withm that fabric of mysterious form, 
Winds met hi conflict, each by turns su- 
preme ; 
And, from the perilous ground dislodged, 

through storm 
And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream 
From gulf of parting clouds one friendly 
beam, 13 1 

Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led; 
Once did the lightning's fahit disastrous 

gleam 
Disclose a naked guide-post's double head. 
Sight which tlio' lost at once a gleam of 
pleasure shed. 

XVI 

No swinging sign-board creaked from cot- 
tage elm 

To stay his steps with famtness over- 
come ; 

'T was dark and void as ocean's watery 
realm 

Roaring with storms beneath night's star- 
less gloom; 

No gipsy cowered o'er fire of furze or 
broom; i 4 o 

No labourer watched his red kiln glaring 
bright, 

Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's 
room ; 

Along the waste no line of mournful light 

From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed 
athwart the night. 



At length, though hid hi clouds, the moon 

arose ; 
The downs were visible — and now revealed 
A structure stands, which two bare slopes 

enclose. 
It was a spot, where, ancient vows ful- 
filled, 
Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build 
A lonely Spital, the belated swain 
From the night terrors of that waste to 
shield: 15a 

But there no human being could remain, 
And now the walls are named the ' Dead 
House ' of the plain. 



GUILT AND SORROW 



23 



Though he had little cause to love the abode 
Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, 
Yet when faint beams of light that ruin 

showed, 
How glad he was at length to find some 

trace 
Of human shelter in that dreary place. 
Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, 
Here shall much-needed sleep his frame 
embrace. 160 

In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows 
He lays his stiffened limbs, — his eyes be- 
gin to close; 



When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to 

come 
From one who mourned in sleep, he raised 

his head, 
And saw a woman in the naked room 
Outstretched, and turning on a restless 

bed: 
The moon a wan dead light around her 

shed. 
He waked her — spake in tone that would 

not fail, 
He hoped, to calm her mind ; but ill he sped, 
For of that ruin she had heard a tale 170 
Which now with freezing thoughts did all 

her powers assail; 



Had heard of one who, forced from storms 

to shroud, 
Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat 
Rock to incessant neighings shrill and 

loud, 
While his horse pawed the floor with fu- 
rious heat; 
Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, 
Struck, and still struck again, the troubled 

horse : 
The man half raised the stone with pain 

and sweat, 
Half raised, for well his arm might lose its 

force 
Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered 

corse. 180 



Such tale of this lone mansion she had 

learned 
And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep 

half drowned, 



By the moon's sullen lamp she first dis- 
cerned, 

Cold stony horror all her senses bound. 

Her he addressed in words of cheerhig 
sound; 

Recoverhig heart, like answer did she 
make ; 

And well it was that, of the corse there 
found, 

In converse that ensued she nothing spake ; 

She knew not what dire pangs hi him such 
tale could wake. 



But soon his voice and words of kind in- 
tent 19a 
Banished that dismal thought; and now the 

wind 
In fainter howlings told its rage was spent: 
Meanwhile discourse ensued of various 

kind, 
Which by degrees a confidence of mind 
And mutual interest failed not to create. 
And, to a natural sympathy resigned, 
In that forsaken building where they sate 
The Woman thus retraced her own unto- 
ward fate. 



" By Derwent's side my father dwelt — a 

man 
Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; 
And I believe that, soon as I began 201 

To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, 
And in his hearing there my prayers I said: 
And afterwards, by my good father taught, 
I read, and loved the books in which I 

read ; 
For books in every neighbouring house I 

sought, 
And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure 

brought. 



" A little croft we owned — a plot of corn, 
A garden stored with peas, and mint, and 

thyme, 
And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn 
Plucked while the church bells rang their 

earliest chime. 211 

Can I forget our freaks at shearing time ! 
My hen's rich nest through long grass 

scarce espied; 
The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy 

prune ; 



24 



GUILT AND SORROW 



The swans that with white chests upreared 

in pride 
Rushing and racing came to meet me at the 

water-side. 

xxv 

" The staff I well remember which upbore 
The bending body of my active sire; 
His seat beneath the honied sycamore 
Where the bees hummed, and chair by 

winter fire; 220 

When market-morning came, the neat 

attire 
With which, though bent on haste, myself 

I decked; 
Our watchful house-dog, that would tease 

and tire 
The stranger till its barking-fit I checked; 
The red-breast, known for years, which at 

my casement pecked. 



" The suns of twenty summers danced 

along, — 
Too little marked how fast they rolled 

away: 
But, through severe mischance and cruel 

wrong, 
My father's substance fell into decay: 
We toiled and struggled, hoping for a 

day 230 

When Fortune might put on a kinder 

look; 
But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they ; 
He from his old hereditary nook 
Must part ; the summons came ; — our final 

leave we took. 

XXVII 

" It was indeed a miserable hour 

When, from the last hill-top, my sire sur- 
veyed, 

Peering above the trees, the steeple tower 

That on his marriage day sweet music 
made ! 

Till then, he hoped his bones might there 
be laid 

Close by my mother in their native bow- 
ers: 240 

Bidding me trust in God, he stood and 
prayed ; — 

I could not pray : — through tears that fell 
in showers 

Glimmered our ilenr-loved home, alas ! no 
longer ours ! 



XXVIII 

*' There was a Youth whom I had loved so 
long, 

That when I loved him not I cannot say: 

'Mid the green mountains many a thought- 
less song 

We two had sung, like gladsome birds in 
May; 

When we began to tire of childish play, 

We seemed still more and more to prize 
each other; 

We talked of marriage and our marriage 
day; 250 

And I in truth did love him like a bro- 
ther, 

For never could I hope to meet with such 
another. 

XXIX 

" Two years were passed since to a distant 
town 

He had repaired to ply a gainful trade: 

What tears of bitter grief, till then un- 
known ! 

What tender vows, our last sad kiss de- 
layed ! 

To him we turned: — we had no other 
aid: 

Like one revived, upon his neck I wept; 

And her whom he had loved hi joy, he 
said, . 

He well could love in grief; his faith he 
kept ; 260 

And hi a quiet home once more my father 
slept. 



" We lived hi peace and comfort; and were 

blest 
With daily bread, by constant toil sup- 
plied. 
Three lovely babes had lam upon my 

breast ; 
And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I 

sighed, 
And knew not why. My happy father 

died, 
When threatened war reduced the children's 

meal: 
Thrice happy ! that for him the grave 

could hide 
The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent 

wheel, 
And tears that flowed for ills which patience 

might not heal. 270 



GUILT AND SORROW 



2 5 



XXXI 

" 'T was a hard change ; an evil time was 

come ; 
We had no hope, and no relief could gain: 
But some, with proud parade, the noisy 

drum 
Beat round to clear the streets of want and 

pain. 
My husband's arms now only served to 

strain 
Me and his children hungering in his view; 
In such dismay my prayers and tears were 

vain: 
To join those miserable men he flew, 
And now to the sea-coast, with numbers 

more, we drew. 

XXXII 

" There were we long neglected, and we 

bore 280 

Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor 

weighed ; 
Green fields before us, and our native shore, 
We breathed a pestilential air, that made 
Ravage for which no knell was heard. We 

prayed 
For our departure; wished and wished — 

nor knew, 
'Mid that long sickness and those hopes 

delayed, 
That happier days we never more must 

view. 
The parting signal streamed — at last the 

land withdrew. 

XXXIII 

"But the calm summer season now was 

past. 
On as we drove, the equinoctial deep 290 
Ran mountains high before the howling 

blast, 
And many perished in the whirlwind's 

sweep. 
We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, 
Untaught that soon such anguish must en- 
sue, 
Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, 
That we the mercy of the waves should rue : 
We reached the western world, a poor de- 
voted crew. 

XXXIV 

" The pains and plagues that on our heads 

came down, 
Disease and famine, agony and fear, 299 



In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, 
It would unman the firmest heart to hear. 
All perished — all hi one remorseless year, 
Husband and children ! one by one, by 

sword 
And ravenous plague, all perished: every 

tear 
Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board 
A British ship I waked, as from a trance 

restored." 

XXXV 

Here paused she, of all present thought for- 
lorn, 

Nor voice nor sound, that moment's pain 
expressed, 

Yet Nature, with excess of grief o'erborne, 

From her full eyes their watery load re- 
leased. 3 1° 

He too was mute; and, ere her weeping 
ceased, 

He rose, and to the ruin's portal went, 

And saw the dawn opening the silvery 
east 

With rays of promise, north and southward 
sent; 

And soon with crimson fire kindled the fir- 
mament. 



" O come," he cried, " come, after weary 

night 
Of such rough storm, this happy change to 

view." 
So forth she came, and eastward looked; 

the sight 
Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw; 
Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue 
Seemed to return, dried the last lingering 

tear, 321 

And from her grateful heart a fresh one 

drew: 
The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer 
Tempered fit words of hope; and the lark 

warbled near. 

XXXVII 

They looked and saw a lengthening road, 
and wain 

That rang down a bare slope not far re- 
mote: 

The barrows glistered bright with drops of 
rain, 

Whistled the waggoner with merry note, 

The cock far off sounded his clarion throat; 



26 



GUILT AND SORROW 



But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they 
viewed, 330 

Only were told there stood a lonely cot 

A long mile thence. While thither they pur- 
sued 

Their way, the Woman thus her mournful 
tale renewed. 



" Peaceful as this immeasurable plain 
Is now, by beams of dawning light im- 
prest, 
In the calm sunshine slept the glittering 

main; 
The very ocean hath its hour of rest. 
I too forgot the heavings of my breast. 
How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were! 
As quiet all within me. I was blest, 340 
And looked, and fed upon the silent air 
Until it seemed to bring a joy to my de- 
spair. 



" Ah ! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, 

And groans that rage of racking famine 
spoke ; 

The unburied dead that lay in festering 
heaps, 

The breathing pestilence that rose like 
smoke, 

The shriek that from the distant battle 
broke, 

The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid 
host 

Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder- 
stroke 

To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick an- 
guish tossed, 35° 

Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost ! 



" Some mighty gulf of separation past, 
I seemed transported to another world; 
A thought resigned with pain, when from 

the mast 
The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, 
And, whistling, called the wind that hardly 

curled 
The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts 

of home 
And from all hope I was for ever hurled. 
For me — farthest from earthly port to 

roam 
Was best, could I but shun the spot where 

man might come. 360 



XLI 

" And oft I thought (my fancy was so 
strong) 

That I, at last, a resting-place had found; 

' Here will I dwell,' said I, ' my whole life 
long, 

Roaming the illimitable waters round ; 

Here will I live, of all but heaven dis- 
owned, 

And end my days upon the peaceful flood.' — 

To break my dream the vessel reached its 
bound ; 

And homeless near a thousand homes I 
stood, 

And near a thousand tables pined and want- 
ed food. 

XLII 

" No help I sought ; in sorrow turned adrift, 
Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock ; 
Nor morsel to my mouth that day did 

lift, 37a 

Nor raised my hand at any door to knock. 
I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the 

cock 
From the cross - timber of an out-house 

hung: 
Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock ! 
At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely 

stung, 
Nor to the beggar's language could I fit 

my tongue. 



"So passed a second day; and, when the 

third 
Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's re- 
sort. 380 
— In deep despair, by frightful wishes 

stirred, 
Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort; 
There, pains which nature could no more 

support, 
With blindness linked, did on my vitals 

fall; 
And, after many interruptions short 
Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could 

crawl: 
Unsought for was the help that did my life 

recall. 

XLIV 

" Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain 
Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory; 



GUILT AND SORROW 



27 



I heard my neighbours in their beds com- 
plain 39° 
Of many things which never troubled me — 
Of feet still bustling round with busy 

glee, 
Of looks where common kindness had no 

part, 
Of service done with cold formality, 
Fretting the fever round the languid heart, 
And groans which, as they said, might 
make a dead man start. 



" These tilings just served to stir the slum- 
bering sense, 

Nor pam nor pity hi my bosom raised. 

With strength did memory return; and, 
thence 

Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, 4°° 

At houses, men, and common light, amazed. 

The lanes I sought, and, as the sun re- 
tired, 

Came where beneath the trees a faggot 
blazed, 

The travellers saw me weep, my fate in- 
quired, 

And gave me food — and rest, more wel- 
come, more desired. 

XLVI 

" Rough potters seemed they, trading so- 
berly 
With pamiiered asses driven from door to 

door ; 
But life of happier sort set forth to me, 
And other joys my fancy to allure — 409 
The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor 
In barn uplighted ; and companions boon, 
Well met from far with revelry secure 
Among the forest glades, while jocund June 
Rolled fast along the sky his warm and 
genial moon. 



"But ill they suited me — those journeys 

dark 
O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to 

hatch ! 
To charm the surly house-dog's faithful 

bark, 
Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. 
The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue 

match, 
The black disguise, the warning whistle 

shrill, 420 



And ear still busy on its nightly watch, 
Were not for me, brought up hi nothing ill: 
Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts 
were brooding still. 

XLVIII 

" What could I do, unaided and unblest ? 
My father ! gone was every friend of thine : 
And kindred of dead husband are at best 
Small help ; and, after marriage such as 

mine, 
With little kindness would to me incline. 
Nor was I then for toil or service fit ; 
My deep-drawn sighs no effort could con- 
fine ; 430 
In open ah* forgetful would I sit 
Whole hours, with idle arms hi moping sor- 
row knit. 



" The roads I paced, I loitered through the 
fields ; 

Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused. 

Trusted my life to what chance boimty 
yields, 

Now coldly given, now utterly refused. 

The ground I for my bed have often used : 

But what afflicts my peace with keenest 
ruth, 

Is that I have my inner self abused, 

Foregone the home delight of constant 
truth, 440 

And clear and open soul, so prized hi fear- 
less youth. 



" Through tears the rising sun I oft have 

viewed, 
Through tears have seen him towards that 

world descend 
Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude : 
Three years a wanderer now my course I 

bend — 
Oh ! tell me whither — for no earthly friend 
Have I." — She ceased, and weeping turned 

away ; 
As if because her tale was at an end, 
She wept ; because she had no more to say 
Of that perpetual weight which on her 

spirit lay. 450 



True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed, 
His looks — for pondering he was mute the 
while. 



28 



GUILT AND SORROW 



Of social Order's care for wretchedness, 
Of Time's sure help to calm and recon- 
cile, 
Joy's second spring and Hope's long-trea- 
sured smile, 
'Twas not for him to speak — a man so 

tried. 
Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style 
Proverbial words of comfort he applied, 
And not hi vain, while they went pacing 
side by side. 



Erelong, from heaps of turf, before their 
sight, 460 

Together smoking in the sun's slant beam, 
Rise various wreaths that mto one unite 
Which high and higher mounts with silver 

gleam : 
Fair spectacle, — but instantly a scream 
Thence bursting shrill did all remark pre- 
vent ; 
They paused, and heard a hoarser voice 

blaspheme, 
And female cries. Their course they 

thither bent, 
And met a man who foamed with anger 
vehement. 

Lin 

A woman stood with quivering lips and pale, 
And, pointing to a little child that lay 470 
Stretched on the ground, began a piteous 

tale ; 
How in a simple freak of thoughtless play 
He had provoked Ins father, who straight- 
way, 
As if each blow were deadlier than the 

last, 
Struck the poor iimocent. Pallid with dis- 
may 
The Soldier's Widow heard and stood 

aghast ; 
And stern looks on the man her grey- 
haired Comrade cast. 



His voice with indignation rising high 
Such further deed in manhood's name for- 
bade ; 
The peasant, wild in passion, made reply 
With bitter insult and revilings sad ; 481 
Asked him in scorn what business there he 

had ; 
What kind of plunder he was hunting now ; 



The gallows would one day of him be 
glad; — 

Though inward anguish damped the Sail- 
or's brow, 

Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poign- 
ant would allow. 



Softly he stroked the child, who lay out- 
stretched 
With face to earth ; and, as the boy turned 

round 
His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched 
As if he saw — there and upon that ground — 
Strange repetition of the deadly wound 
He had himself inflicted. Through his 
brain 492 

At once the griding iron passage found ; 
Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed 

amain, 
Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear 
restrain. 



Within himself he said — What hearts have 
we ! 

The blessing this a father gives his child ! 

Yet happy thou, poor boy ! compared with 
me, 

Suffering not doing ill — fate far more 
mild. 

The stranger's looks and tears of wrath be- 
guiled 500 

The father, and relenting thoughts awoke ; 

He kissed his son — so all was recon- 
ciled. 

Then, with a voice which inward trouble 
broke 

Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them be- 
spoke. 



" Bad is the world, and hard is the world's 
law 

Even for the man who wears the warmest 
fleece ; 

Much need have ye that time more closely 
draw 

The bond of nature, all unkindness cease, 

And that among so few there still be peace : 

Else can ye hope but with such numerous 
foes s'o 

Your pahis shall ever with your years in- 
crease ? " — 



GUILT AND SORROW 



29 



While from his heart the appropriate lesson 

flows, 
A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his 

woes. 



Forthwith the pair passed on ; and down 
they look 

Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene 

Where wreaths of vapour tracked a wind- 
ing brook, 

That babbled on through groves and mead- 
ows green ; 

A low-roofed house peeped out the trees 
between ; 

The dripping groves resound with cheerful 
lays, 

And melancholy lowings intervene 520 

Of scattered herds, that in the meadow 
graze, 

Some amid lingering shade, some touched 
by the sun's rays. 

LIX 

They saw and heard, and, winding with the 

road, 
Down a thick wood, they dropt into the 

vale; 
Comfort, by prouder mansions nnbestowed, 
Their wearied frames, she hoped, would 

soon regale. 
Erelong they reached that cottage in the 

dale : 
It was a rustic inn; — the board was spread, 
The milk-maid followed with her brimming 

pail, 
And lustily the master carved the bread, 
Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in 

comfort fed. 531 



Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, 

must part; 
Wanderers whose course no longer now 

agrees. 
She rose and bade farewell ! and, while her 

heart 
Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow 

ease, 
She left him there ; for, clustering round 

his knees, 
With his oak-staff the cottage children 

played; 
And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with 

trees 



And banks of ragged earth; beneath the 

shade 
Across the pebbly road a little runnel 

strayed. 54 o 



A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood; 
Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams 

shone. 
Sbe saw the carman bend to scoop the flood 
As the wain fronted her, — wherein lay 

one, 
A pale-faced Woman, hi disease far gone. 
The carman wet her lips as well' behoved; 
Bed under her lean body there was none ; 
Though even to die near one she most had 

loved, 
She could not of herself those wasted limbs 

have moved. 



The Soldier's Widow learned with honest 

pain 550 

And homefelt force of sympathy sincere, 
Why thus that worn-out wretch must there 

sustain 
The jolting road and morning air severe. 
The warn pursued its way; and folio whig 

near 
In pure compassion she her steps retraced 
Far as the cottage. " A sad sight is here," 
She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste 
The friends whom she had left but a few 

minutes past. 

LXIII 

While to the door with eager speed they ran, 

From her bare straw the Woman half up- 
raised 560 

Her bony visage — gaunt and deadly wan; 

No pity asking, on the group she gazed 

With a dim eye, distracted and amazed; 

Then sank upon hei straw with feeble moan. 

Fervently cried the housewife — " God be 
praised, 

I have a house that I can call my own; 

Nor shall she perish there, untended and 
alone 1 " 

LXIV 

So in they bear her to the chimney seat. 
And busily, though yet with fear, untie 
Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet 
And chafe her temples, careful hands apply 
Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh 



3° 



GUILT AND SORROW 



She strove, and not in vain, her head to 

rear; 573 

Then said — "I thank you all; if I must 

die, 
The God in heaven my prayers for you will 

hear; 
Till now I did not think my end had been 

so near. 



" Barred every comfort labour could pro- 
cure, 
Suffering what no endurance coidd assuage, 
I was compelled to seek my father's door, 
Though loth to be a burthen on his age. 580 
But sickness stopped me in an early stage 
Of my sad journey; and within the wain 
They placed me — there to end life's pil- 
grimage, 
Unless beneath your roof I may remain; 
For I shall never see my father's door again. 

LXVI 

"My life, Heaven knows, hath long been 

burthensome ; 
But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek 
May my end be ! Soon will this voice be 

dumb: 
Should child of mine e'er wander hither, 

speak 
Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek. — 
Torn from our hut, that stood beside the 

sea 591 

Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome 

creek, 
My husband served in sad captivity 
On shipboard, bound till peace or death 

should set him free. 

LXVII 

" A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, 
Yet two sweet little ones partook my 

bed; 
Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily 

prayers 
Our heavenly Father granted each day's 

bread ; 
Till one was found by stroke of violence 

dead, 
Whose body near our cottage chanced to 

lie; 600 

A dire suspicion drove us from our shed; 
In vain to find a friendly face we try, 
Nor could wo live together those poor boys 

and 1; 



LXVIII 

" For evil tongues made oath how on that 
day 

My husband lurked about the neighbour- 
hood; 

Now he had fled, and whither none could 

sa y> 

And he had done the deed in the dark 
wood — 

Near his own home ! — but he was mild and 
good; 

Never on earth was gentler creature seen; 

He 'd not have robbed the raven of its food. 

My husband's lovingkmdness stood between 

Me and all worldly harms and wrongs how- 
ever keen." 612 

LXIX 

Alas ! the thing she told with labouring 

breath 
The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness 
His hand had wrought; and when, in the 

hour of death, 
He saw his Wife's lips move his name to 

bless 
With her last words, unable to suppress 
His anguish, with his heart he ceased to 

strive ; 
And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, 
He cried — " Do pity me ! That thou 

shouldst live 6so 

I neither ask nor wish — forgive me, but 

forgive ! " 

LXX 

To tell the change that Voice within her 

wrought 
Nature by sign or sound made no essay; 
A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, 
And every mortal pang dissolved away. 
Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay, 
Yet still while over her the husband bent, 
A look was in her face which seemed to say, 
" Be blest ; by sight of thee from heaven 

was sent 
Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of 

content." 62° 



She slept in peace, — his pulses throbbed 

and stopped. 
Breathless he gazed upon her face, — then 

took 
Her hand in his, and raised it, but both 

dropped, 



LINES 



3* 



When on his own he cast a rueful look. 
His ears were never silent; sleep forsook 
His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as 

lead ; 
All night from time to time under him shook 
The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed; 
And oft he groaned aloud, " O God, that I 

were dead ! " 

LXXII 

The Soldier's Widow lingered hi the cot, 
And, when he rose, he thanked her pious 
care 641 

Through which his Wife, to that kind shel- 
ter brought, 
Died in his arms; and with those thanks a 

prayer 
He breathed for her, and for that merciful 

pair. 
The corse interred, not one hour he re- 
mained 
Beneath their roof, but to the open air 
A burthen, now with fortitude sustained, 
He bore within a breast where dreadful 
quiet reigned. 



Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared 
For act and suffering, to the city straight 
He journeyed, and forthwith his crime 

declared: 651 

" And from your doom," he added, " now I 

wait, 
Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate." 
Not ineffectual was that piteous claim; 
44 O welcome sentence which will end though 

late," 
He said, " the pangs that to my conscience 

came 
Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour ! is hi 

thy name ! " 



His fate was pitied. Him in iron case 
(Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) 
They hung not: — no one on his form or face 
Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; 
No kindred sufferer, to his death - place 

brought 662 

By lawless curiosity or chance, 
When into storm the evening sky is 

wrought, 
Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, 
And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable 

trance. 



LINES 

LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE, 
WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF 
ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF 
THE SHORE, COMMANDING A BEAUTI- 
FUL PROSPECT 

1795- 1798 

Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. 
The tree has disappeared, and the slip of 
Common on which it stood, that ran parallel to 
the lake and lay open to it, has long been en- 
closed ; so that the road lias lost much of its 
attraction. This spot was my favourite walk 
in the evenings during 1 the latter part of my 
school-time. The individual whose habits and 
character are here given, was a gentleman of 
the neighbourhood, a man of talent and learn- 
ing, who had been educated at one of our Uni- 
versities, and returned to pass his time in 
seclusion on his own estate. He died a bachelor 
in middle age. Induced by the beauty of the 
prospect, he built a small summer-house on the 
rocks above the peninsula on which the ferry- 
house stands. This property afterwards passed 
into the hands of the late Mr. Cnrwen. The 
site was long ago pointed out by Mr. West in 
his Guide, as the pride of the lakes, and now 
goes by the name of " The Station." So much 
used I to be delighted with the view from it, 
while a little boy, that some years before the 
first pleasure-house was built, I led thither 
from Hawkshead a youngster about my own 
age, an Irish boy, who was a servant to an 
itinerant conjuror. My motive was to witness 
the pleasure I expected the boy would receive 
from the prospect of the islands below and the 
intermingling water. I was not disappointed ; 
and I hope the fact, insignificant as it may ap- 
pear to some, may be thought worthy of note 
by others who may cast their eye over these 
notes. 

Nay, Traveller ! rest. This lonely Yew- 
tree stands 

Far from all human dwelling: what if 
here 

No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant 
herb? 

What if the bee love not these barren 
boughs ? 

Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling 
waves, 

That break against the shore, shall lull thy 
mind 

By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 



LINES 



Who he was 
That piled these stones and with the mossy- 
sod 
First covered, and here taught this aged 

Tree ro 

With its dark arms to forni a circling 

bower, 
I well remember. — He was one who owned 
No common soul. In youth by science 

nursed, 
And led by nature into a wild scene 
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 
A favoured Being, knowing no desire 
Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the 

tamt 
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and 

hate, 
And scorn, — against all enemies prepared, 
All but neglect. The world, for so it 

thought, 20 

Owed him no service; wherefore he at 

once 
With indignation turned himself away, 
And with the food of pride sustained his 

soul 
In solitude. — Stranger ! these gloomy 

boughs 
Had charms for him; and here he loved to 

sit, 
His only visitants a straggling sheep, 
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper: 
And on these barren rocks, with fern and 

heath, 
And jimiper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, 
Fixing his downcast eye, he many an 

hour 30 

A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here 
An emblem of his own unfruitful life: 
And, lifting up his head, he then would 

gaze 
On the more distant scene,' — how lovely 

'tis 



Thou seest, — and he would gaze till it 

became 
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 
The beauty, still more beauteous ! Nor, 

that time, 
When nature had subdued him to herself, 
Would he forget those Beings to whose 

minds, 
Warm from the labours of benevolence, 40 
The world, and human life, appeared a 

scene 
Of khidred loveliness : then he would sigh, 
Inly disturbed, to think that others felt 
What he must never feel: and so, lost 

Man! 
On visionary views would fancy feed, 
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this 

deep vale 
He died, — this seat his only monument. 
If Thou be one whose heart the holy 

forms 
Of young imagination have kept pure, 
Stranger ! henceforth be warned; and 

know that pride, 50 

Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, 
Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt 
For any living thing, hath faculties 
Which he has never used; that thought 

with him 
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 
Is ever on himself doth look on one, 
The least of Nature's works, one who 

might move 
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom 

holds 
Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou ! 
Instructed that true knowledge leads to 

love ; 60 

True dignity abides with him alone 
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, 
Can still suspect, and still revere himself, 
In lowliness of heart. 



ACT I 



THE BORDERERS 



33 



THE BORDERERS 



A TRAGEDY 



1795-96. 1842 

Of this dramatic work I have little to say in addition to the short note which will he found at 
the end of the volume. It was composed at Kacedown in Dorsetshire during the latter part of 
the year 1795, and in the course of the following- year. Had it been the work of a later period 
of life, it would have been different in some respects from what it is now. The plot would 
have been something - more complex, and a greater variety of characters introduced to relieve 
the mind from the pressure of incidents so mournful. The manners also would have been more 
attended to. My care was almost exclusively given to the passions and the characters, and the 
position in which the persons in the Drama stood relatively to each other, that the reader (for 
I had then no thought of the Stage) might be moved, and to a degree instructed, by lights 
penetrating somewhat into the depths of our nature. In this endeavour, I cannot think, upon a 
very late review, that I have failed. As to the scene and period of action, little more was re- 
quired for my purpose than the absence of established law and government ; so that the agents 
might be at liberty to act on their own impulses. Nevertheless I do remember that, having a 
wish to colour the manners in some degree from local history more than my knowledge enabled 
me to do, I read Redpath's History of the Borders, but found there nothing to my purpose. I 
once made an observation to Sir Walter Scott, in which he concurred, that it was difficult to 
conceive how so dull a book could be written on such a subject. Much about the same time, 
but a little after, Coleridge was employed in writing his tragedy of " Remorse," and it hap- 
pened that soon after, through one of the Mr. Pooles, Mr. Knight the actor heard that we 
had been engaged in writing Plays, and upon his suggestion mine was curtailed, and I believe 
Coleridge's also was offered to Mr. Harris, manager of Covent Garden. For myself. I had no 
hope nor even a wish (though a successful play would, in the then state of my finances, have 
been a most welcome piece of good fortune) that he should accept my performance ; so that I 
incurred no disappointment when the piece was judiciously returned as not calculated for the 
Stage. In this judgment I entirely concurred, and had it been otherwise, it was so natural for 
me to shrink from public notice, that any hope I might have had of success would not have 
reconciled me altogether to such an exhibition. Mr. C.'s Play was, as is well known, brought 
forward several years after through the kindness of Mr. Sheridan. In conclusion I may observe 
that while I was composing this Play I wrote a short essay illustrative of that constitution and 
those tendencies of human nature which make the apparently motiveless actions of bad men 
intelligible to careful observers. This was partly done with reference to the character of Oswald, 
and his persevering endeavour to lead the man he disliked into so heinous a crime ; but still 
more to preserve in my distinct remembrance what I had observed of transition in character, 
and the reflections I had been led to make during the time I was a witness of the changes 
through which the French Revolution passed. 

some eight or ten lines which I have not 
scrupled to retain in the places where they ori- 
ginally stood. It is proper, however, to add, 
that they would not have been used elsewhere, 
if I had foreseen the time when I might be in- 
duced to publish this Tragedy. 
February 28, 1842. 

ACT I 

Scene — Road in a Wood 

Wallace and Lacy 

Lacy. The troop will be impatient; let us 
hie 
Back to our post, and strip the Scottish 
Foray 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE 



Of the Band of Borderers. 



Marmaduke 

Oswald 

Wallace 

Lacy 

Lennox J 

Herbert. 

Wilfred, Servant to Marmaduke. 

Host. 

Forester. 

Eldred, a Peasant. 

Peasant, Pilgrims, etc. 

Idonea. 

Female Beorgar. 

Eleanor, Wife to Eldred. 

Scene — Borders of England and Scotland. 

Time — The Feign of Henry III. 

Readers already acquainted with my Poems 
will recognise, in the following composition, 



34 



THE BORDERERS 



ACT I 



Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the 

Border. 
— Pity that our young Chief will have no 

part 
In this good service. 

Wal. Rather let us grieve 

That, in the undertaking which has caused 
His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his 

aim, 
Companionship with One of crooked ways, 
From whose perverted soul can come no 

good 
To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader. 10 
Lacy. True; and, remembering how the 

Band have proved 
That Oswald finds small favour in our 

sight, 
Well may we wonder he has gained such 

power 
Over our much-loved Captain. 

Wal. I have heard 

Of some dark deed to which in early life 
His passion drove him — then a Voyager 
Upon the midland Sea. You knew his 

bearing 
In Palestine ? 

Lacy. Where he despised alike 

Mahommedan and Christian. But enough; 
Let us begone — the Band may else be 

foiled. [Exeunt. 

Enter Marmaduke and Wilfred. 

Wil. Be cautious, my dear Master ! 
Mar. I perceive 21 

That fear is like a cloak which old men 

huddle 
About their love, as if to keep it warm. 
Wil. Nay, but I grieve that we should 
part. This Stranger, 

For such he is 

Mar. Your busy fancies, Wilfred, 

Might tempt me to a smile; but what of 
him ? 
Wil. You know that you have saved his 

life. 
Mar. I know it. 

Wil. And that he hates you ! — Pardon 
me, perhaps 
That word was hasty. 

Mar. Fy ! no more of it. 

Wil. Dear Master ! gratitude 's a heavy 

burden 3° 

To a proud Soul. — Nobody loves this 

Oswald — 
Yourself, you do not love him. 



Mar. I do more, 

I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart 
Are natural ; and from no one can be learnt 
More of man's thoughts and ways than his 

experience 
Has given him power to teach: and then 

for courage 
And enterprise — what perils hath he 

slimmed ? 
What obstacles hath he failed to overcome ? 
Answer these questions, from our common 

knowledge, 
And be at rest. 

Wil. Oh, Sir ! 

Mar. Peace, my good Wilfred; 

Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band 41 
I shall be with them in two days, at far- 
thest. 
Wil. May He whose eye is over all pro- 
tect you ! [Exit. 

Enter Oswald (a bunch of plants in his 
hand). 

Osw. This wood is rich in plants and 

curious simples. 
Mar. (looking at them). The wild rose, 
and the poppy, and the nightshade: 
Which is your favourite, Oswald ? 

Osw. That which, while it is 

Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal — 

[Looking forward. 

Not yet in sight ! — We '11 saunter here 

awhile ; 
They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen. 
Mar. (a letter in his hand). It is no com- 
mon thing when one like you 50 
Performs these delicate services, and there- 
fore 
I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald ; 
'T is a strange letter this ! — You saw her 
write it ? 
Osw. And saw the tears with which she 

blotted it. 
Mar. And nothing less would satisfy 

him? 
Osw. No less; 

For that another in his Child's affection 
Should hold a place, as if 't were robbery, 
He seemed to quarrel with the very 

thought. 
Besides, I know not what strange prejudice 
Is rooted in his mind; this Band of ours, 60 
Which you 've collected for the noblest 

ends, 
Along: the confines of the Esk and Tweed 



ACT I 



THE BORDERERS 



35 



To guard the Innocent — he calls us " Out- 
laws " ; 
And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts 
This garb was taken up that indolence 
Might want no cover, and rapacity- 
Be better fed. 

Mar. Ne'er may I own the heart 

That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is. 
Osw. Thou know'st me for a Man not 
easily moved, 
Yet was I grievously provoked to think 70 
Of what I witnessed. 

Mar. This day will suffice 

To end her wrongs. 

Osw. But if the blind Man's tale 

Should yet be true ? 

Mar. Would it were possible! 

Did not the soldier tell thee that himself, 
And others who survived the wreck, beheld 
The Baron Herbert perish in the waves 
Upcu the coast of Cyprus ? 

Osw. Yes, even so, 

And I had heard the like before: hi sooth 
The tale of this his quondam Barony 
Is cunningly devised; and, on the back 80 
Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail 
To make the proud and vain his tributaries, 
And stir the pulse of lazy charity. 
The seignories of Herbert are in Devon; 
We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed: 't is 
much 

The Arch-Impostor 

Mar. Treat him gently, Oswald; 

Though I have never seen his face, me- 

thinks, 
There camiot come a day when I shall 

cease 
To love him. I remember, when a Boy 
Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath 
the Elm 90 

That casts its shade over our village school, 
'T was my delight to sit and hear Idonea 
Repeat her Father's terrible adventures, 
Till all the band of playmates wept to- 
gether ; 
And that was the beginning of my love. 
And, through all converse of our later 

years, 
An image of this old Man still was present, 
When I had been most happy. Pardon me 
If this be idly spoken. 

Osw. See, they come, 99 

Two Travellers ! 

Mar. (points). The woman is Idonea. 
Osw. And leading Herbert. 



Mar. We must let them pass — 

This thicket will conceal us. 

[They step aside. 

Enter Idonea, leading Herbert blind. 

Idon. Dear Father, you sigh deeply; 

ever since 
We left the willow shade by the brook-side, 
Your natural breathing has been troubled. 
Her. Nay. 

You are too fearful; yet must I confess, 
Our march of yesterday had better suited 
A firmer step than mine. 

Idon. That dismal Moor — 

In spite of all the larks that cheered our 

path, 
I never can forgive it: but how steadily 
You paced along, when the bewildering 

moonlight 1 1 1 

Mocked me with many a strange fantastic 

shape ! — ■ 
I thought the Convent never would appear; 
It seemed to move away from us: and yet, 
That you are thus the fault is mine; for 

the air 
Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the 

grass, 
And midway on the waste ere night had 

fallen 
I spied a Covert walled and roofed with 

sods — 
A miniature ; belike some Shepherd- 
boy, 
Who might have found a nothing-doing 

hour 120 

Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut 
We might have made a kindly bed of heath 
And thankfully there rested side by side 
Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited 

strength, 
Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, 

Father, — 
That staff of yours, I could almost have 

heart 
To fling 't away from you : you make no use 
Of me, or of my strength ; — come, let me 

feel 
That you do press upon me. There — in- 
deed 
You are quite exhausted. Let us rest 

awhile 130 

On this green bank. [He sits down. 

Her. (after some time). Idonea, you are 

silent, 
I And I divine the cause. 



36 



THE BORDERERS 



ACT I 



Idon. Do not reproach me : 

I pondered patiently your wish and will 
When I gave way to your request; and 

now, 
When I behold the ruins of that face, 
Those eyeballs dark — dark beyond hope of 

light, 
And think that they were blasted for nay 

sake, 
The name of Marmaduke is blown away: 
Father, I would not change that sacred 

feeling 139 

For all this world can give. 

Her. Nay, be composed: 

Few minutes gone a faintness overspread 
My frame, and I bethought me of two 

things 
I ne'er had heart to separate — my grave, 
And thee, my Child ! 

Idon. Believe me, honoured Sire ! 

T is weariness that breeds these gloomy 

fancies, 
And you mistake the cause: you hear the 

woods 
Resound with music, could you see the sun, 
And look upon the pleasant face of Na- 
ture 

Her. I comprehend thee — I should be 

as cheerfid 
As if we two were twins ; two songsters 

bred 150 

In the same nest, my spring-time one with 

thine. 
My fancies, fancies if they be, are such 
As come, dear Child ! from a far deeper 

source 
Than bodily weariness. While here we sit 
I feel my strength returning. — The be- 
quest 
Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive 
We have thus far adventured, will suffice 
To save thee from the extreme of penury ; 
But when thy Father must lie down and 

die 
How wilt thou stand alone ? 

Idon. Is he not strong ? 

Is he not valiant ? 

Her. Am I then so soon 161 

Forgotten ? have my warnings passed so 

quickly 
Out of thv mind ? My dear, my only, 

Child; 
Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed — 

This Marmaduke 

Idon. could you hear his voice: 



Alas ! you do not know him. He is one 
(I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him 

with you) 
All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks 
A deep and simple meekness : and that 

Soul, 
Which with the motion of a virtuous act 
Flashes a look of terror upon guilt, 171 

Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean, 
By a miraculous finger, stilled at once. 
Her. Unhappy Woman ! 
Idon. Nay, it was my duty 

Thixs much to speak; but think not I for- 
get — 
Dear Father ! how could I forget and live — 
You and the story of that doleful night 
When, Antioch blazing to her topmost 

towers, 
You rushed into the murderous flames, re- 
turned 
Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have 
told me, 180 

Clasping your infant Daughter to your 
heart. 
Her. Thy Mother too ! — scarce had I 
gamed the door, 
I caught her voice ; she threw herself upon 

me, 
I felt thy infant brother in her arms ; 
She saw my blasted face — a tide of sol- 
diers 
That instant rushed between us, and I heard 
Her last death-shriek, distinct among a 
thousand. 
Idon. Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear 

it all. 
Her. Dear Daughter ! precious relic of 
that time — 
For my old age, it doth remain with thee 
To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast 
been told, 191 

That when, on our return from Palestine, 
I found how my domains had been usurped, 
I took thee in my arms, and we began 
Our wanderings together. Providence 
At length conducted us to Rossland, — 

there, 
Our melancholy story moved a Stranger 
To take thee to her home — and for myself, 
Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuth- 

bert's 
Supplied my helplessness with food and rai- 
ment, 200 
And, as thou know'st, gave me that hum- 
ble Cot 



ACT I 



THE BORDERERS 



37 



Where now we dwell. — For many years I 

bore 
Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmi- 
ties 
Exacted thy return, and our reunion. 
I did not think that, during that long ab- 
sence, 
My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert, 
Had given her love to a wild Freebooter, 
Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed, 
Doth prey alike on two distracted Coun- 
tries, 209 
Traitor to both. 

Idon. Oh, could you hear his voice ! 

I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me, 
But let this kiss speak what is hi my heart. 

Enter a Peasant. 

Pea. Good morrow, Strangers ! H you 
want a Guide, 
Let me have leave to serve you ! 

Idon. My Companion 

Hath need of rest ; the sight of Hut or 

Hostel 
Would be most welcome. 

Pea. Yon white hawthorn gained, 

You will look dowu into a dell, and there 
Will see an ash from which a sign-board 

hangs ; 
The house is hidden by the shade. Old 

Man, 
You seem worn out with travel — shall I 
support you ? 220 

Her. I thank you; but, a resting-place 
so near, 
'T were wrong to trouble you. 

Pea. God speed you both. 

[Exit Peasant. 
Her. Idonea, we must part. Be not 
alarmed — 
'T is but for a few days — a thought has 
struck me. 
Idon. That I should leave you at this 
house, and thence 
Proceed alone. It shall be so; for strength 
Woidd fail you ere our journey's end be 
reached. 
[Exit Herbert supported by Idonea. 

Re-enter Makmaduke and Oswald. 

Mar. This instant will we stop him 

Osw. Be not hasty, 

For, sometimes, in despite of my convic- 
tion, 

He tempted me to think the Story true ; 230 



'T is plain he loves the Maid, and what he 

said 
That savoured of aversion to thy name 
Appeared the genuine colour of bis soul — - 
Anxiety lest mischief should befal her 
After his death . 

Mar. I have been much deceived. 

Osw. But sure he loves the Maiden, and 

never love 
Could find delight to nurse itself so strange- 

Thus to torment her with inventions! — 

death — 
There must be truth in this. 

Mar. Truth in his story ! 

He must have felt it then, known what it 
was, 240 

And hi such wise to rack her gentle heart 
Had been a tenfold cruelty. 

Osw. Strange pleasures 

Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves ! 
To see him thus provoke her tenderness 
With tales of weakness and infirmity ! 
I 'd wager on his life for twenty years. 
Mar. We will not waste an hour hi such 

a cause. 
Osw. Why, this is noble ! shake her off 

at once. 

Mar. Her virtues are his instruments. — 

A Man 

Who has so practised on the world's cold 

sense, 250 

May well deceive his Child — what ! leave 

her thus, 
A prey to a deceiver ? — no — no — no — 

'T is but a word and then 

Osw. Something is here 

More than we see, or whence this strong 

aversion ? 
Marmaduke ! I suspect unworthy tales 
Have reached his ear — you have had ene- 
mies. 
Mar. Enemies ! — of his own coinage. 
Osw. That may be, 

But wherefore slight protection such as you 
Have power to yield ? perhaps he looks 

elsewhere, — 
I am perplexed. 

Mar. What hast thou heard or seen? 

Osw. No — no — the thing stands clear 

of mystery; 261 

(As you have said) he coins himself the 

slander 
With which he taints her ear; — for a plair 
reason; 



38 



THE BORDERERS 



ACT I 



He dreads the presence of a virtuous man 
Like you ; he knows your eye would search 

his heart, 
Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds 
The punishment they merit. All is plain: 

It cannot be 

Mar. What cannot be ? 

Osw. Yet that a Father 

Should in his love admit no rivalship, 
And torture thus the heart of his own 

Child 270 

Mar. Nay, you abuse my friendship ! 
Osw. Heaven forbid ! — 

There was a circumstance, trifling indeed — 
It struck me at the time — yet I believe 
I never should have thought of it again 
But for the scene which we by chance have 
witnessed. 
Mar. What is your meaning ? 
Osw. Two days gone I saw, 

Though at a distance and he was disguised, 
Hovering round Herbert's door, a man 

whose figure 
Resembled much that cold voluptuary, 
The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he 
knows 280 

Where he can stab you deepest. 

Mar. Clifford never 

Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage door — 
It could not be. 

Osw. And yet I now remember, 

That, when your praise was warm upon my 

tongue, 
And the blind Man was told how you had 

rescued 
A maiden from the ruffian violence 
Of this same Clifford, he became impatient 
And would not hear me. 

Mar. No — it cannot be — 

I dare not trust myself with such a 

thought — 
Yet whence this strange aversion ? You 
are a man 290 

Not used to rash conjectures 

Osw. If you deem it 

A thing worth further notice, we must act 
With caution, sift the matter artfully. 

[Exeunt Marmaduke and Oswald. 

Scene — The Door of the Hostel 

Herbert, Idonea, and Host. 

Her. {seated). As I am dear to you, re- 
member, Child ! 
This last request. 



Idon. You know me, Sire ; farewell! 

Her. And are you going then? Come, 

come, Idonea, 
We must not part, — I have measured many 

a league 
When these old limbs had need of rest, — 

and now 
I will not play the sluggard, 

Idon. Nay, sit down. 

[Turning to Host. 

Good Host, such tendance as you would 

expect 300 

From your own Children, if yourself were 

sick, 
Let this old Man find at your hands ; poor 

Leader, [Looking at the dog. 

We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect 
This charge of thine, then ill befall thee ! — 

Look, 
The little fool is loth to stay behind. 
Sir Host ! by all the love you bear to cour- 
tesy, 
Take care of him, and feed the truant well, 
Host. Fear not, I will obey you; — but 

One so young, 
And One so fair, it goes against my heart 
That you should travel unattended, Lady ! — 
I have a palfrey and a groom : the lad 3 1 1 
Shall squire you, (would it not be better, 

Sir?) 
And for less fee than I would let him rim 
For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth , 
Idon. You know, Sir, I have been too 

long your guard 
Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears. 
Why, if a wolf should leap from out a 

thicket, 
A look of mine would send him scouring 

back, 
Unless I differ from the thing 1 am 3 1 , 
When you are by my side. 

Her. Idonea, wolves 

Are not the enemies that move my fears. 
Idon. No more, I pray, of this. Three 

days at farthest 
Will bring me back — protect him, Saints 

— farewell ! [Exit Idonea. 

Host. 'T is never drought with us — St. 

Cuthbert and his Pilgrims, 
Thanks to them, are to us a stream of com- 
fort: 
Pity the Maiden did not wait a while; 
She could not, Sir, have failed of company. 
Her. Now she is gone, I fain would call 

her back. 



ACT I 



THE BORDERERS 



39 



Host (calling). Holla ! 

Her. No, no, the business must be 

done. — 
What means this riotous noise? 

Host. The villagers 

Are flocking in — a wedding festival — 331 
That 's all — God save you, Sir. 

Enter Oswald. 

Osw. Ha! as I live, 

The Baron Herbert. 

Host. Mercy, the Baron Herbert ! 

Osw. So far into your journey ! on my life, 

You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare 

you? 

Her. Well as the wreck I am permits. 

And you, Sir? 
Osw. I do not see Idonea. 
Her. Dutiful Girl, 

She is gone before, to spare my weariness. 
But what has brought you hither? 

Osto. A slight affair, 

That will be soon despatched. 

Her. Did Marmaduke 

Receive that letter? 

Osw. Be at peace. — The tie 341 

Is broken, you will hear no more of him. 
Her. This is true comfort, thanks a thou- 
sand times ! — 
That noise! — would I had gone with her 

as far 
As the Lord Clifford's Castle: I have heard 
That, in his milder moods, he has expressed 
Compassion for me. His influence is great 
With Henry, our good King; — the Baron 

might 
Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at 

Court. 
No matter — he 's a dangerous Man. — That 
noise ! — 350. 

'T is too disorderly for sleep or rest. 
Idonea would have fears for me, — the Con- 
vent 
Will give me quiet lodging. You have a 

boy, good Host, 
And he must lead me back. 

Osw. Yoix are most lucky; 

I have been waiting in the wood hard by 
For a companion — here he comes ; our 
journey 

Enter Marmaduke. 

Lies on your way; accept us as your 
Guides. 
Her. Alas ! I creep so slowly. 



Osw. Never fear; 

We '11 not complain of that. 

Her. My limbs are stiff 

And need repose. Could you but wait an 

hour ? 360 

Osw. Most willingly ! — Come, let me 

lead you in, 

And, while you take your rest, think not of 

us: 
We '11 stroll into the wood ; lean on my arm. 
[Conducts Herbert into the house. Exit 
Marmaduke. 

Enter Villagers. 

Osw. (to himself coming out of the Hostel). 
I have prepared a most apt Instru- 
ment — 

The Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering 
somewhere 

About this ground; she hath a tongue well 
skilled, 

By mingling natural matter of her own 

With all the daring fictions I have taught 
her, 

To win belief, such as my plot requires. 

[Exit Oswald. 

Enter more Villagers, a Musician among 
them. 

Host (to them). Into the court, my Friend, 
and perch yourself 370 

Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids, 
Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry 

thoughts, 
Are here, to send the sun into the west 
More speedily than you belike would wish. 

Scene changes to the Wood adjoining the 
Hostel 

Marmaduke and Oswald entering. 

Mar. I would fain hope that we deceive 

ourselves: 
When first I saw him sitting there, alone, 
It struck upon my heart I know not how. 
Osw. To-day will clear up all. — You 

marked a Cottage, 37 8 

That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock 
By the brook-side: it is the abode of One, 
A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford, 
Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas ! 
What she had seen and suffered turned her 

brain. 
Cast off by her Betrayer, she dwells alone, 



40 



THE BORDERERS 



ACT I 



Nor moves her hands to any needful work : 
She eats her food which every day the 

peasants 
Bring to her hut; and so the Wretch has 

lived 
Ten years ; and no one ever heard her voice ; 
But every night at the first stroke of twelve 
She quits her house, and, in the neighbour- 
ing Churchyard 390 
Upon the self-same spot, in ram or storm, 
She paces out the horn- 'twixt twelve and 

one — 
She paces round and round an Infant's 

grave, 
And hi the churchyard sod her feet have 

worn 

A hollow ring; they say it is knee-deep 

Ah ! what is here ? 

[/I female Beggar rises up, rubbing her 

eyes as if in sleep — a Child in her 

arms. 

Beg. Oh ! Gentlemen, I thank you ; 

I 've had the saddest dream that ever 

troubled 
The heart of living creature. — My poor 

Babe 
Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread 
When I had none to give him; whereupon, 
I put a slip of foxglove in his hand, 401 

Which pleased him so, that he was hushed 

at once: 
When, into one of those same spotted bells 
A bee came darting, which the Child with 

i°y 

Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear, 
And suddenly grew black, as he woidd die. 
Mar. We have no time for this, my bab- 
bling Gossip; 
Here 's what will comfort you. 

[Gives her money. 

Beg. The Saints reward you 

For this good deed ! — Well, Sirs, this 

passed away; 
And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog, 
Trotting alone along the beaten road, 41 1 
Came to my child as by my side he slept 
And, fondling, licked his face, then on a 

sudden 
Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head : 
But here he is (kissing the Child) it must 
have been a dream. 
Osw. When next inclined to sleep, take 
my advice, 
And put your head, good Woman, under 



Beg. Oh, sir, you would not talk thus, if 
you knew 
What life is this of ours, how sleep will 

master 
The weary-worn. — You gentlefolk have 
got _ 420 

Warm chambers to your wish. I 'd rather 

be 
A stone than what I am. — But two nights 

gone, 
The darkness overtook me — wind and rain 
Beat hard upon my head — and yet I saw 
A glow-worm, through the covert of the 

furze, 
Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky: 
At which I half accused the God in 

Heaven. — 
You must forgive me. 

Osw. Ay, and if you think 

The Fairies are to blame, and you should 

chide 
Your favourite saint — no matter — this 
good day 430 

Has made amends. 

Beg. Thanks to you both; but, O sir ! 
How would you like to travel on whole 

hours 
As I have clone, my eyes upon the ground, 
Expecting still, I knew not how, to find 
A piece of money glittering through the 
dust. 
Mar. This woman is a prater. Pray, 
good Lady ! 
Do you tell fortimes ? 

Beg. Oh, Sir, you are like the rest. 

This Little-one — it cuts me to the heart — 
Well ! they might turn a beggar from their 

doors, 
But there are Mothers who can see the 
Babe 440 

Here at my breast, and ask me where I 

bought it: 
This they can do, and look upon my face — 
But you, Sir, should be kinder. 

Mar. Come hither, Fathers, 

And learn what nature is from this poor 
Wretch ! 
Beg. Ay, Sir, there 's nobody that feels 
for us. 
Why now — but yesterday I overtook 
A blind old Greybeard and accosted him, 
I' th' name of all the Saints, and by the 

Mass 
He should have used me better ! — Charity ! 
If you can melt a rock, he is your man; 



ACT I 



THE BORDERERS 



4i 



But I '11 be even with him — here again 431 
Have I been waiting for him. 

Osw. Well, but softly, 

Who is it that hath wronged you ? 

Beg. Mark you me ; 

I '11 point him out; — a Maiden is his guide, 
Lovely as Spring's first rose ; a little dog, 
Tied by a woollen cord, moves on before 
With look as sad as he were dumb ; the cur, 
I owe him no ill will, but in good sooth 
He does his Master credit. 

Mar. As I live, 459 

'T is Herbert and no other ! 

Beg. 'T is a feast to see him, 

Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders bent, 
And long beard white with age — yet ever- 
more, 
As if he were the only Saint on earth, 
He turns his face to heaven. 

Osw. But why so violent 

Against this venerable Man ? 

Beg. I '11 tell you: 

He has the very hardest heart on earth; 
I had as lief turn to the Friars' school 
And knock for entrance, in mid holiday. 

Mar. But to your story. 

Beg. I was saying, Sir — 

Well ! — he has often spurned me like a 
toad, 470 

But yesterday was worse than all; — at last 
I overtook him, Sirs, my Babe and I, 
And begged a little aid for charity: 
But he was snappish as a cottage cur. 
Well then, says I — I'll out with it; at 

which 
I cast a look upon the Girl, and felt 
As if my heart would burst; and so I left 
him. 

Osw. I think, good Woman, you are the 
very person 
Whom, but some few days past, I saw in 
Eskdale, 479 

At Herbert's door. 

Beg. Ay; and if truth were known 

I have good business there. 

Osw. I met you at the threshold, 

And he seemed angry. 

Beg. Angry ! well he might; 

And long as I can stir I '11 dog him. — Yes- 
terday, 
To serve me so, and knowing that he owes 
The best of all he has to me and mine, 
But 'tis all over now. — That good old 

Lady 
Has left a power of riches; and, I say it, 



If there 's a lawyer in the land, the knave 
Shall give me half. 

Osw. What 's this ? — I fear, good Wo- 
man, 4^9 
You have been insolent. 

Beg. And there 's the Baron, 

I spied him skulking hi his peasant's dress. 
Osw. How say you ? hi disguise ? — 
Mar. But what 's your business 

With Herbert or his Daughter ? 

Beq. Daughter ! truly — 

But how 's the day ? — I fear, my little 

Boy, 

We 've overslept ourselves. — Sirs, have 

you seen him ? {Offers to go. 

Mar. I must have more of this; — you 

shall not stir 

An inch, till I am answered. Know you 

aught 
That doth concern this Herbert ? 

Beg. You are provoked, 

And will misuse me, Sir ? 499 

Mar. No trifling, Woman ! 

Osw. You are as safe as hi a sanctuary; 
Speak. 

Mar. Speak ! 

Beg. He is a most hard-hearted Man. 
Mar. Your life is at my mercy. 
Beg. Do not harm me, 

And I will tell you all ! — You know not, 

Sir, 
What strong temptations press upon the 
Poor. 
Osw. Speak out. 

Beg. Oh Sir, I 've been a wicked Wo- 
man. 
Osw. Nay, but speak out ! 
Beq. He flattered me, and said 

What harvest it would bring us both; and 

so, 
I parted with the Child. 

Mar. Parted with whom ? 

Beg. Idonea, as he calls her; but the Girl 
Is mine. 

Mar. Yours, Woman ! are you Herbert's 

wife? 5'° 

Beg. Wife, Sir! his wife — not I; my 

husband, Sir, 

Was of Kirkoswald — many a snowy winter 

We 've weathered out together. My poor 

Gilfred ! 
He has been two years in his grave. 

Mar. Enough. 

Osw. We 've solved the riddle — Mis' 
creant ! 



42 



THE BORDERERS 



ACT II 



Mar. Do you, 

Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait 

For my return; be sure you shall have 

justice. 

Osw. A lucky woman ! go, you have 

done good service. [Aside. 

Mar. (to himself). Eternal praises on 

the power that saved her ! — 
Osw. (gives her money). Here 's for your 
little boy — and when you christen 
him 520 

I'll be bis Godfather. 

Beg. Oh Sir, you are merry with me. 
In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely 

owns 
A dog that does not know me. — These 

good Folks, 
For love of God, I must not pass their 

doors ; 
But I '11 be back with my best speed: for 

you — 
God bless and thank you both, my gentle 
Masters. [Exit Beggar. 

Mar. (to himself) . The cruel Viper ! — 
Poor devoted Maid, 
Now I do love thee. 

Osiv. I am thunderstruck. 

Alar. Where is she — holla ! 
[Calling to the Beggar, who returns ; he 
looks at her stedfastly. 

You are Idonea's mother ? — 
Nay, be not terrified — it does me good 530 
To look upon you. 

Osiv. (interrupting). In a peasant's dress 
You saw, who was it ? 

Beg. Nay, I dare not speak; 

He is a man, if it should come to his ears 
I never shall be heard of more. 

Osw. Lord Clifford ? 

Beg. What can I do ? believe me, gentle 

Sirs, 

I love her, though I dare not call her 

daughter. 

Osw. Lord Clifford — did you see him 

talk with Herbert ? 
Beg. Yes, to my sorrow — under the 
great oak 
At Herbert's door — and when he stood 

beside 
The blind Man — at the silent Girl he 
looked 540 

With such a look — it makes me tremble, 

Sir, 
To think of it. 

Osw. Enough ! you may depart. 



Mar. (to himself). Father ! — to God 
himself we cannot give 
A holier name; and, under such a mask, 
To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed, 
To that abhorred den of brutish vice ! — 
Oswald, the firm foundation of my life 
Is going from under me; these strange 

discoveries — 
Looked at from every point of fear or hope, 
Duty, or love — involve, I feel, my ruin. 

ACT II 

Scene — A Chamber in the Hostel 

Oswald alone, rking from a Table on which 
he had been writing. 

Osw. They chose him for their Chief ! — 

what covert part 
He, in the preference, modest Youth, might 

take, 
I neither know nor care. The insult bred 
More of contempt than hatred; both are 

flown ; 
That either e'er existed is my shame: 
'T was a dull spark — a most unnatural fire 
That died the moment the air breathed 

upon it. 
— These fools of f eeling are mere birds of 

winter 
That haunt some barren island of the north, 
Where, if a famishing man stretch forth his 

hand, 10 

They think it is to feed them. I have left 

him 
To solitary meditation; — now 
For a few swelling phrases, and a flash 
Of truth, enough to dazzle and to blind, 
And he is mine for ever — here he comes. 

Enter Marmaduke. 

Mar. These ten years she has moved her 
lips all day 
And never speaks ! 

Osiv. Who is it ? 

Mar. I have seen her. 

Osw. Oh ! the poor tenant of that ragged 
homestead, 
Her whom the Monster, Clifford, drove to 
madness. 
Mar. I met a peasant near the spot ; he 
told me, 20 

These ten years she had sate all day alone 
Within those empty walls. 



ACT II 



THE BORDERERS 



43 



Osio. I too have seen her; 

Chancing to pass this way some six months 

_ gone, 
At midnight, I hetook me to the Church- 
yard: 
The moon shone clear, the air was still, so 

still 
The trees were silent as the graves beneath 

them. 
Long did I watch, and saw her pacing 

round 
Upon the self-same spot, still round and 

round, 
Her lips for ever moving. 

Mar. At her door 

Rooted I stood; for, looking at the woman, 
I thought I saw the skeleton of Idonea. 31 

Osw. But the pretended Father 

Mar. Earthly law 

Measures not crimes like his. 

Osw. We rank not, happily, 

With those who take the spirit of their ride 
From that soft class of devotees who feel 
Reverence for life so deeply, that they 

spare 
The verminous brood, and cherish what 

they spare 
While feeding on their bodies. Would that 

Idonea 
Were present, to the end that we might hear 
What she can urge in his defence; she loves 
him. 40 

Mar. Yes, loves him; 'tis a truth that 
multiplies 
His guilt a thousand-fold. 

Osw. 'T is most perplexing: 

What must be done ? 

Mar. We will conduct her hither; 

These walls shall witness it — from first to 

last 
He shall reveal himself. 

Osw. Happy are we, 

Who live in these disputed tracts, that own 
No law but what each man makes for him- 
self ; 
Here justice has indeed a field of triumph. 
Mar. Let us be gone and bring her 
hither ; — here 
The truth shall be laid open, his guilt 
proved 50 

Before her face. The rest be left to me. 
Osw. You will be firm: but though we 
well may trust 
The issue to the justice of the cause, 
Caution must not be flung aside ; remember, 



Yours is no common life. Self-stationed 

here 
Upon these savage confines, we have seen 

you 
Stand like an isthmus 'twixt two stormy 

seas 
That oft have checked their fury at your 

bidding. 
Mid the deep holds of Solway's mossy 

waste, 
Your single virtue has transformed a 
Band 60 

Of fierce barbarians into Ministers 
Of peace and order. Aged men with tears 
Have blessed their steps, the fatherless re- 
tire 
For shelter to their banners. But it is, 
As you must needs have deeply felt, it is 
In darkness and hi tempest that we seek 
The majesty of Him who rules the world. 
Benevolence, that has not heart to use 
The wholesome ministry of pain and evil, 
Becomes at last weak and contemptible. 70 
Your generous qualities have won due 

praise, 
But vigorous Spirits look for something 

more 
Than Youth's spontaneous products ; and 

to-day 
You will not disappoint them ; and here- 
after 

Mar. You are wasting words ; hear me 
then, once for all : 
You are a Man — and therefore, if com- 
passion, 
Which to our kind is natural as life, 
Be known unto you, you will love this 

Woman, 
Even as I do ; but I should loathe the light, 
If I could think one weak or partial feel- 
ing 80 

Osw. You will forgive me 

Mar. If I ever knew 

My heart, could penetrate its inmost core, 
'T is at this moment. — Oswald, I have 

loved 
To be the friend and father of the oppressed, 
A comforter of sorrow ; — there is some- 
thing 
Which looks like a transition in my soul, 
And yet it is not. — Let us lead him hither. 
Osw. Stoop for a moment ; 't is an act of 
justice ; 
And where 's the triumph if the delegate 
Must fall in the execution of his office ? 90 



44 



THE BORDERERS 



ACT II 



The deed is done — if you will have it so — 
Here where we stand — that tribe of vul- 
gar wretches 
(You saw them gathering for the festival) 

Rush in — the villains seize us 

Mar. Seize ! 

Osw. Yes, they — 

Men who are little given to sift and weigh — 
Would wreak on us the passion of the mo- 
ment. 
Mar. The cloud will soon disperse — 
farewell — but stay, 
Thou wilt relate the story. 

Osw. Am I neither 

To bear a part in this Man's punishment, 
Nor be its witness ? 

Mar. I had many hopes 100 

That were most dear to me, and some will 

bear 
To be transferred to thee. 

Osw. When I 'm dishonoured ! 

Mar. I would preserve thee. How may 

this be done ? 
Osw. By showing that you look beyond 
the instant. 
A few leagues hence we shall have open 

ground, 
And nowhere upon earth is place so fit 
To look upon the deed. Before we enter 
The barren Moor, hangs from a beetling 

rock 
The shattered Castle in which Clifford oft 
Has held infernal orgies — with the gloom, 
And very superstition of the place, m 

Seasoning his wickedness. The Debauchee 
Would there perhaps have gathered the 

first fruits 
Of this mock Father's guilt. 

Enter Host conducting Herbert. 

Host. The Baron Herbert 

Attends your pleasure. 

Osw. (to Host). We are ready — 

(To Herbert) Sir ! 
I hope you are refreshed. — I have just 

written 
A notice for your Daughter, that she may 

know 
What is become of you. — You '11 sit down 

and sign it ; 
'T will glad her heart to see her father's 
signature. 

[Gives the letter he had written. 
Her. Thanks for your care. 

[Sits down and icrites. Exit Host. 



Osw. (aside to Marmaduke). Perhaps it 
would be useful i 2 o 

That you too should subscribe your name. 
[Marmaduke overlooks Herbert — then 
writes — examines the letter eagerbj. 
Mar. I cannot leave this paper. 

[He puts it up, agitated. 
Osw. (aside). Dastard ! Come. 

[Marmaduke goes towards Herbert and 
supports him — Marmaduke trem- 
blingly beckons Oswald to take his 
place. 
Mar. (as he quits Herbert). There is a 
palsy in his limbs — he shakes. 
[Exeunt Oswald and Herbert — Mar- 
maduke following. 

Scene ckanges to a Wood 
A group of Pilgrims, Idonea with them. 

First Pil. A grove of darker and more 
lofty shade 

I never saw. 

Second Pil. The music of the birds 

Drops deadened from a roof so thick with 
leaves. 
Old Pil. This news ! It made my heart 

leap up with joy. 
Idon. I scarcely can believe it. 
Old Pil. Myself, I heard 

The Sheriff read, in open Court, a letter 129 

Which purported it was the royal pleasure 

The Baron Herbert, who, as was supposed, 

Had taken refuge in this neighbourhood, 

Should be forthwith restored. The hear- 
ing, Lady, 

Filled my dim eyes with tears. — When I 
returned 

From Palestine, and brought with me a 
heart, 

Though rich in heavenly, poor in earthly, 
comfort, 

I met your Father, then a wandering Out- 
cast : 

He had a Guide, a Shepherd's boy ; but 
grieved 

He was that One so young should pass his 
youth 

In such sad service ; and he parted with him. 

We joined our tales of wretchedness to- 
gether, M i 

And begged our daily bread from door to 
door. 

I talk familiarly to you, sweet Lady ! 

For once you loved me. 



ACT II 



THE BORDERERS 



45 



Idon. You shall back with me 

And see your Friend again. The good old 

Man 
Will be rejoiced to greet you. 

Old Pil. It seems but yesterday 

That a fierce storm o'ertook us, worn with 

travel, 
In a deep wood remote from any town. 
A cave that opened to the road presented 
A friendly shelter, and we entered in. 150 
Idon. And I was with you ? 
Old Pil. If indeed 't was you — 

But you were then a tottering Little-one — 
We sate us down. The sky grew dark and 

darker : 
I struck my flint, and built up a small fire 
With rotten boughs and leaves, such as the 

winds 
Of many autumns in the cave had piled. 
Meanwhile the storm fell heavy on the 

woods ; 
Our little fire sent forth a cheering warmth 
And we were comforted, and talked of 

comfort ; 
But 't was an angry night, and o'er our 

heads 160 

The thunder rolled in peals that would 

have made 
A sleeping man uneasy in his bed. 
O Lady, you have need to love your Father. 
His voice — methinks I hear it now, his 

voice 
When, after a broad flash that filled the cave, 
He said to me, that he had seen his Child, 
A face (no cherub's face more beautiful) 
Revealed by lustre brought with it from 

Heaven ; 
And it was you, dear Lady ! 

Idon. God be praised, 

That I have been his comforter till now ! 170 
And will be so through every change of 

fortime 
And every sacrifice his peace requires. — 
Let us be gone with speed, that he may hear 
These joyful tidings from no lips but mine. 
[Exeunt Idonea and Pilgrims. 

Scene — The Area of a half-ruined Castle 
— on one side the entrance to a dungeon 

Oswald and Marmaduke pacing back- 
wards and forwards. 

Mar. 'T is a wild night. 
Osvu I 'd give my cloak and bonnet 

For sight of a warm fire. 



Mar. The wind blows keen; 

My hands are numb. 

Osw. Ha! ha! 't is nipping cold. 

[Blowing his fngers. 

I long for news of our brave Comrades; 

Lacy 
Would drive those Scottish Rovers to their 

dens 
If once they blew a horn this side the 
Tweed. 180 

Mar. I think I see a second range of 
Towers ; 
This castle has another Area — come, 
Let us examhie it. 

Osw. 'T is a bitter night; 

I hope Idonea is well housed. That horse- 
man, 
Who at full speed swept by us where the 

wood 
Roared hi the tempest, was within an ace 
Of sending to his grave our precious Charge : 
That would have been a vile mischance. 
Mar. It would. 

Osw. Justice had been most cruelly de- 
frauded. 
Mar. Most cruelly. 

Osw. As up the steep we clomb, 

I saw a distant fire hi the north-east; 191 
I took it for the blaze of Cheviot Beacon: 
With proper speed our quarters may be 

gained 
To-morrow evening. 

[Looks restlessly towards the mouth of the 
dungeon. 
Mar. When, upon the plank, 

I had led him 'cross the torrent, his voice 

blessed me: 
You could not hear, for the foam beat the 

rocks 
With deafening noise, — the benediction fell 
Back on himself; but changed into a 
curse. 
Osw. As well indeed it might. 
Mar. And this you deem 

The fittest place? 

Osiv. (aside). He is growing pitiful. 200 
Mar. (listening). What an odd moaning 

that is ! — 
Osw. Mighty odd 

The wind should pipe a little, while we 

stand 
Cooling our heels in this way! — I '11 begin 
And count the stars. 

Mar. (still listening). That dog of his, 
you are sure, 



46 



THE BORDERERS 



ACT II 



Could not come after us — he must have 
perished ; 

The torrent would have dashed an oak to 
splinters. 

You said you did not like his looks — that he 

Would trouble us; if he were here again, 

I swear the sight of him would quail me 
more 

Than twenty armies. 

Osw. How? 

Mar. The old blind Man, 

When you had told hirn the mischance, was 
troubled 2 1 : 

Even to the shedding of some natural tears 

Into the torrent over which he hung, 

Listening in vain. 

Osw. He has a tender heart! 

[Oswald offers to go down into the dun- 
geon. 
Mar. How now, what mean you? 
Osw. Truly, I was going 

To waken our stray Baron. Were there not 

A farm or dwelling-house within five leagues, 

We should deserve to wear a cap and bells, 

Three good round years, for playing the 
fool here 

In such a night as this. 

Mar. Stop, stop. 

Osw. Perhaps, 

You 'd better like we should descend to- 
gether, 22 1 

And lie down by his side — what say you 
to it? 

Three of us — we should keep each other 
warm : 

I '11 answer for it that our four-legged friend 

Shall not disturb us ; further I '11 not engage ; 

Come, come, for manhood's sake! 

Mar. These drowsy shiverings, 

This mortal stupor which is creeping over 
me, 

What do they mean? were this my single 
body 

Opposed to armies, not a nerve would trem- 
ble: 

Why do I tremble now? — Is not the depth 

Of this Man's crimes beyond the reach of 
thought? 231 

And yet, in plumbing the abyss for judg- 
ment, 

Something I strike upon which turns my 
mind 

Back on herself, I think, again — my breast 

Concentres all the terrors of the Universe: 

I look at him and tremble like a child. 



Osw. Is it possible? 

Mar. One thing you noticed not: 

Just as we left the glen a clap of thunder 
Burst on the mountains with hell-rousing 

force. 

This is a time, said he, when guilt may 

shudder ; 240 

But there 's a Providence for them who walk 

In helplessness, when innocence is with 

them. 
At this audacious blasphemy, I thought 
The spirit of vengeance seemed to ride the 
air. 
Osiv. Why are you not the man you were 
that moment? 
[He draws Marmaduke to the dungeon. 
Mar. You say he was asleep, — look at 
this arm, 
And tell me if 't is fit for such a work. 
Oswald, Oswald! [Leans upon Oswald. 

Osw. This is some sudden seizure ! 

Mar. A most strange faintness, — will 
you himt me out 249 

A draught of water? 

Osw. Nay, to see you thus 

Moves me beyond my bearing. — I will try 

To gam the torrent's brink. [Exit Oswald. 

Mar. (after a pause). It seems an age 

Since that Man left me. — No, I am not lost. 

Her. (at the mouth of the dungeon). Give 

me your hand; where are you, 

Friends? and tell me 

How goes the night. 

Mar. 'T is hard to measure time, 

In such a weary night, and such a place. 
Her. I do not hear the voice of my friend 

Oswald. 
Mar. A minute past, he went to fetch a 
draught 
Of water from the torrent. 'T is, you '11 say, 
A cheerless beverage. 

Her. How good it was in you 

To stay behind! — Hearing at first no an- 
swer, 261 
I was alarmed. 

Mar. No wonder ; this is a place 

That well may put some fears into your 
heart. 
Her. Why so? a roofless rock had been 
a comfort, 
Storm-beaten and bewildered as we were; 
And in a night like this, to lend your cloaks 
To make a bed for me ! — My Girl will 

weep 
When she is told of it. 



ACT II 



THE BORDERERS 



47 



Mar. This Daughter of yours 

Is very dear to you. 

Her. Oh! but you are young; 

Over your head twice twenty years must 

roll, 270 

With all their natural weight of sorrow and 

pain, 
Ere can be known to you how much a Fa- 
ther 
May love his Child. 

Mar. Thank you, old Man, for this ! 

[Aside. 
Her. Fallen am I, and worn out, a useless 
Man; 
Kindly have you protected me to-night, 
And no return have I to make but prayers; 
May you in age be blest with such a daugh- 
ter ! — 
When from the Holy Land I had returned 
Sightless, and from my heritage was driven, 
A wretched Outcast — but this strain of 
thought 2S0 

Would lead me to talk fondly. 

Mar. Do not fear; 

Your words are precious to my ears ; go on. 
Her. You will forgive me, but my heart 
runs over. 
When my old Leader slipped into the flood 
And perished, what a piercing outcry you 
Sent after him. I have loved you ever since. 
You start — where are we? 

Alar. Oh, there is no danger; 

The cold blast struck me. 

Her. 'T was a foolish question. 

Mar. But when you were an Outcast ? — 
Heaven is just; 
Your piety would not miss its due reward; 
The little Orphan then would be your suc- 
cour, 291 
And do good service, though she knew it 
not. 
Her. I turned me from the dwellings of 
my Fathers, 
Where none but those who trampled on my 

rights 
Seemed to remember me. To the wide 

world 
I bore her, in my arms; her looks won 

She was my Raven in the wilderness, 
And brought me food. Have I not cause to 
love her ? 29S 

Mar. Yes. 

Her. More than ever Parent loved a 
Child ? 



Mar. Yes, yes. 

Her. I will not murmur, merciful God ! 
I will not murmur; blasted as I have 

been, 
Thou hast left me ears to hear my Daugh- 
ter's voice, 
And arms to fold her to my heart. Sub- 
missively 
Thee I adore, and find my rest in faith. 

Enter Oswald. 

Osw. Herbert ! — confusion ! (Aside.) 
Here it is, my Friend, 

[Presents the Horn. 
A charming beverage for you to carouse, 
This bitter night. 

Her. Ha ! Oswald ! ten bright crosses 
I would have given, not many minutes gone, 
To have heard your voice. 

Osw. Your couch, I fear, good Baron, 

Has been but comfortless; and yet that 

place, 3 10 

When the tempestuous wind first drove us 

hither, 
Felt warm as a wren's nest. You 'd better 

turn 
And under covert rest till break of day, 
Or till the storm abate. 
{To Marmaduke aside.) He has restored 

you. 
No doubt you have been nobly entertained ? 
But soft ! — how came he forth ? The 

Night-mare Conscience 
Has driven him out of harbour ? 

Mar. I believe 

You have guessed right. 

Her. The trees renew their murmur: 
Come, let us house together. 

[Oswald conducts him to the dungeon. 

Osw. (returns). Had I not 

Esteemed you worthy to conduct the affair 

To its most fit conclusion, do you think 321 

I would so long have struggled with mj 

Nature, 
And smothered all that 's man in me ? — 
away ! — 

[Looking toivards the dungeon. 
This man 's the property of him who best 
Can feel his crimes. I have resigned a 

privilege ; 
It now becomes my duty to resume it. 

Mar. Touch not a finger 

Osw. What then must be done ? 

Mar. Which way soe'er I turn, I am per- 
plexed. 



4 8 



THE BORDERERS 



ACT II 



Osw. Now, on my life, I grieve for you. 

The misery 
Of doubt is insupportable. Pity, the facts 
Did not admit of stronger evidence; 331 
Twelve honest men, plain men, would set 

us right; 
Their verdict would abolish these weak 

scruples. 
Mar. Weak ! I am weak — there does 

my torment lie, 
Feeding itself. 

Osw. Verily, when he said 

How his old heart would leap to hear her 

steps, 
You thought his voice the echo of Idonea's. 
Mar. And never heard a sound so terri- 
ble. 
Osw. Perchance you think so now ? 
Mar. I cannot do it: 

Twice did I spring to grasp his withered 

throat, 340 

When such a sudden weakness fell upon 

me, 
I could have dropped asleep upon his breast. 
Osw. Justice — is there not thunder in 

the word ? 
Shall it be law to stab the petty robber 
Who aims but at our purse; and shall this 

Parricide — 
Worse is he far, far worse (if foul dishonour 
Be worse than death) to that confiding 

Creature 
Whom he to more than filial love and duty 
Hath falsely trained — shall he fulfil his 

purpose ? 349 

But you are fallen. 

Mar. Fallen should I be indeed — 

Murder — perhaps asleep, blind, old, alone, 
Betrayed, in darkness ! Here to strike the 

blow — 

Away ! away ! 

[Flings away his stoord. 

Osio. Nay, I have done with you: 

We '11 lead him to the Convent. He shall 

live, 
And she shall love him. With unquestioned 

title 
He shall be seated in his Barony, 
And we too chant the praise of his good 

deeds. 
I now perceive we do mistake our masters, 
And most despise the men who best can 

teach us: 
Henceforth it shall be said that bad men 

only 360 



Are brave: Clifford is brave; and that old 

Man 
Is brave. 

[ Taking Marmaduke's sword and giving 

it to him. 

To Clifford's arms he would have led 

His Victim — haply to this desolate house. 

Mar. (advancing to the dungeon). It 

must be ended ! — 
Osw. Sof tly ; do not rouse him ; 

He will deny it to the last. He lies 
Within the Vault, a spear's length to the 

left. 
[Marmaduke descends to the dungeon. 
(Alone.) The Villains rose hi mutiny to de- 
stroy me; 
I could have quelled the Cowards, but this 

Stripling 
Must needs step in, and save my life. The 

look 
With which he gave the boon — I see it 

now ! 370 

The same that tempted me to loathe the 

gift. - 
For this old venerable Greybeard — faith 
'T is his own fault if he hath got a face 
Which doth play tricks with them that look 

on it: 
'T was this that put it in my thoughts — that 

countenance — 
His staff — his figure — Murder ! — what, 

of whom ? 
We kill a worn-out horse, and who but 

women 
Sigh at the deed ? Hew down a withered 

tree, 
And none look grave but dotards. He may 

live 
To thank me for this service. Rainbow 

arches, 380 

Highways of dreaming passion, have too 

long, 
Young as he is, diverted wish and hope 
From the unpretending ground we mortals 

tread ; — 
Then shatter the delusion, break it up 
And set him free. What follows ? I have 

learned 
That things will work to ends the slaves o' 

the world 
Do never dream of. I have been what he — 
This Boy — when he comes forth with 

bloody hands — 
Might envy, and am now, — but he shall 

know 389 



ACT II 



THE BORDERERS 



49 



What I am now — 

[Goes and listens at the dungeon. 
Praying or parleying ? — tut ! 
Is he not eyeless ? He has heen half-dead 
These fifteen years 

Enter female Beggar with two or three of her 
Companions. 

( Turning abruptly.) Ha ! speak — what 

Thing art thou ? 
(Recognizes her.) Heavens ! my good 
Friend ! [ To her. 

Beg. Forgive me, gracious Sir ! — 

Osw. (to her companions). Begone, ye 
Slaves, or I will raise a whirlwind 
And send ye dancing to the clouds, like 
leaves. [They retire affrighted. 

Beg. Indeed we meant no harm; we 
lodge sometimes 
In this deserted Castle — / repent me. 

[Oswald goes to the dungeon — listens — 
returns to the Beggar. 
Osw. Woman, thou hast a helpless Infant 
— keep 
Thy secret for its sake, or verily 
That wretched life of thine shall be the 
forfeit. 400 

Beg. I do repent me, Sir; I fear the curse 
Of that blind Man. 'T was not your money, 

sir 

Osio. Begone ! 

Beg. (going). There is some wicked deed 

in hand: [Aside. 

Would I coidd find the old Man and his 

Daughter. [Exit Beggar. 

Marmaduke (re-enters from the dungeon). 

Osw. It is all over then ; — your foolish 
fears 
Are hushed to sleep, by your own act and 

deed, 
Made quiet as he is. 

Mar. Why came you down ? 

And when I felt your hand upon my arm 
And spake to you, why did you give no 

answer ? 

Feared you to waken him ? he must have 

been 410 

In a deep sleep. I whispered to him thrice. 

There are the strangest echoes in that 

place ! 

Osw. Tut ! let them gabble till the day 

of doom. 
Mar. Scarcely, by groping, had I reached 
the Spot, 



When round my wrist I felt a cord drawn 

tight, 
As if the blind Man's dog were pulling at 
it. 
Osw. But after that ? 
Mar. The features of Idonea 

Lurked in his face 

Osw. Psha ! Never to these eyes 

Will retribution show itself again 419 

With aspect so inviting. Why forbid me 
To share your triumph ? 

Mar. Yes, her very look, 

Smiling in sleep 

Osw. A pretty feat of Fancy ! 

Mar. Though but a glimpse, it sent me 

to my prayers. 
Osw. Is he alive ? 

Mar. What mean you ? who alive ? 

Osw. Herbert ! since you will have it, 
Baron Herbert; 
He who will gain his Seignory when Idonea 
Hath become Clifford's harlot — is he liv- 
ing ? 
Mar. The old Man in that dungeon is 

alive. 

Osw. Henceforth, then, will I never in 

camp or field 

Obey you more. Your weakness, to the 

Band 430 

Shall be proclaimed: brave Men, they all 

shall hear it. 
You a protector of humanity ! 
Avenger you of outraged innocence ! 

Mar. 'T was dark — dark as the grave ; 
yet did I see, 
Saw him — his face turned toward me ; and 

I tell thee 
Idonea's filial countenance was there 
To baffle me — it put me to my prayers. 
Upwards I cast my eyes, and, through a 

crevice, 
Beheld a star twinkling above my head, 
And, by the living God, I could not do 
it. [Sinks exhausted. 

Osw. (to himself). Now may I perish if 
this turn do more 44 i 

Than make me change my course. 
(To Marmaduke.) Dear Marmaduke, 

My words were rashly spoken; I recall 

them : 
I feel my error; shedding human blood 
Is a most serious thing. 

Mar. Not I alone, 

Thou too art deep in guilt. 

Osw. We have indeed 



5° 



THE BORDERERS 



Been niost presumptuous. There is guilt in 

this, 
Else could so strong a mind have ever 

known 
These trepidations ? Plain it is that Heaven 
Has marked out this foul Wretch as one 

whose crimes 450 

Must never come before a mortal judgment- 
seat, 
Or be chastised by mortal instruments. 
Mar. A thought that 's worth a thousand 

worlds ! [Goes towards the dungeon. 

Osw. I grieve 

That, hi my zeal, I have caused you so much 

pain. 
Mar. Think not of that ! 't is over — we 

are safe. 
Osw. (as if to himself, yet speaking aloud). 

The truth is hideous, but how stifle 

it ? [ Turning to Marmaduke. 
Give me your sword — nay, here are stones 

and fragments, 
The least of which woidd beat out a man's 

brains ; 
Or you might drive your head against that 

wall. 459 

No ! this is not the place to hear the tale: 
It should be told you pinioned in your bed, 
Or on some vast and solitary plain, 
Blown to you from a trumpet. 

Mar. Why talk thus ? 

Whate'er the monster brooding in your 

breast 
I care not: fear I have none, and cannot 

fear 

[The sound of a horn is heard. 
That horn again — 'T is some one of our 

Troop ; 
What do they here ? Listen ! 

Osw. What ! dogged like thieves ! 

Enter Wallace and Lacy, etc. 

Lacy. You are found at last, thanks to 
the vagrant Troop 
For not misleading us. 

Osw. (looking at Wallace). That subtle 

Greybeard — 

I 'd rather see my father's ghost. 470 

Lacy (to Marmaduke). My Captain, 

We come by order of the Band. Belike 

STou have not heard that Henry has at 

last 
Dissolved the Barons' League, and sent 

abroad 
His Sheriffs with fit force to reinstate 



The genuine owners of such Lands and 

Baronies 
As, in these long commotions, have been 

seized. 
His Power is this way tending. It befits us 
To stand upon our guard, and with our 

swords 
Defend the innocent. 

Mar. Lacy ! we look 

But at the surfaces of things; we hear 480 
Of towns in flames, fields ravaged, young 

and old 
Driven out hi troops to want and nakedness; 
Then grasp our swords and rush upon a cure 
That flatters us, because it asks not thought: 
The deeper malady is better hid; 
The world is poisoned at the heart. 

Lacy. What mean you ? 

Wal. (whose eye has been fi zed suspiciously 

upon Oswald). Ay, what is it you 

mean ? 
Mar. Hark'e, my Friends ; — 

[Appearing gay. 
Were there a Man who, being weak and 

helpless 
And most forlorn, should bribe a Mother, 

pressed 
By penury, to yield him up her Daughter, 
A little Infant, and instruct the Babe, 491 
Prattling upon his knee, to call him 

Father 

Lacy. Why, if his heart be tender, that 

offence 
I could forgive him. 

Mar. (going on). And should he make 

the Child 
An instrument of falsehood, should he teach 

her 
To stretch her arms, and dim the gladsome 

light 
Of infant playfulness with piteous looks 

Of misery that was not 

• Lacy. Troth, 't is hard — 

But in a world like ours 

Mar. (changing his tone). This selfsame 

Man — 
Even while he printed kisses on the cheek 
Of this poor Babe, and taught its innocent 

tongue 501 

To lisp the name of Father — could he look 
To the unnatural harvest of that time 
When he should give her up, a Woman 

grown, 
To him who bid the highest in the market 
Of foul pollution 



ACT II 



THE BORDERERS 



5* 



Lacy. The whole visible world 

Contains not such a Monster ! 

Mar. For this purpose 

Should he resolve to taint her Soul by 
means 

Which bathe the limbs in sweat to think of 
them ; 

Should he, by tales which would draw tears 
from iron, 5 10 

Work on her nature, and so turn compas- 
sion 

And gratitude to ministers of vice, 

And make the spotless spirit of filial love 

Prime mover in a plot to damn his Victim 

Both soul and body 

Wal. - Tis too horrible; 

Oswald, what say you to it ? 

Lacy. Hew him down, 

And fling him to the ravens. 

Mar. But his aspect 

It is so meek, his countenance so venerable. 
Wal. {with an appearance of mistrust). 

But how, what say you, Oswald ? 
Lacy (at the same moment). Stab him, 
were it 

Before the Altar. 

Mar. What, if he were sick, 

Tottering upon the very verge of life, 521 

And old, and blind 

Lacy. Blind, say you ? 

Osw. (coming forward) . Are we Men, 

Or own we baby Spirits ? Genuine cour- 
age • 

Is not an accidental quality, 

A thing dependent for its casual birth 

On opposition and impediment. 

Wisdom, if Justice speak the word, beats 
down 

The giant's strength; and, at the voice of 
Justice, 

Spares not the worm. The giant and the 
worm — 

She weighs them in one scale. The wiles 
of woman, 530 

And craft of age, seducing reason, first 

Made weakness a protection, and obscured 

The moral shapes of things. His tender 
cries 

And helpless hmocence — do they protect 

The infant lamb ? and shall the infirmities, 

Which have enabled this enormous Culprit 

To perpetrate his crimes, serve as a Sanc- 
tuary 

To cover him from punishment ? Shame ! 
— Justice, 



Admitting no resistance, bends alike 

The feeble and the strong. She needs not 

here 540 

Her bonds and chains, which make the 

mighty feeble. 
— We recognize in this old Man a victim 
Prepared already for the sacrifice. 

Lacy. By heaven, his words are reason ! 
Osw. Yes, my Friends, 

His countenance is meek and venerable; 
And, by the Mass, to see him at his 

prayers ! — 
I am of flesh and blood, and may I perish 
When my heart does not ache to think of 

it! — 
Poor Victim ! not a virtue under heaven 
But what was made an engine to ensnare 

thee; 550 

But yet I trust, Idonea, thou art safe. 
Lacy. Idonea ! 
Wal. How ! what ? your Idonea ? 

(To Marmaduke.) 

Mar. Mine ! 

But now no longer mine, You know Lord 

Clifford; 
He is the Man to whom the Maiden — 

pure 
As beautiful, and gentle and benign, 
And in her ample heart loving even me — 
Was to be yielded up. 

Lacy. Now, by the head 

Of my own child, this Man must die; my 

hand, 
A worthier wanting, shall itself entwine 
In his grey hairs ! — 

Mar. (to Lacy). I love the Father hi 

thee. 560 

You know me, Friends ; I have a heart to 

feel, 
And I have felt, more than perhaps becomes 

me 
Or duty sanctions. 

Lacy. We will have ample justice. 

Who are we, Friends ? Do we not live on 

ground 
Where Souls are self-defended, free to 

grow 
Like mountain oaks rocked by the stormy 

wind. 
Mark the Almighty Wisdom, which decreed 
This monstrous crime to be laid open — 

here, 
Where Reason has an eye that she can use, 
And Men alone are Umpires. To the 

Camp 570 



5 2 



THE BORDERERS 



ACT III 



He shall be led, and there, the Country 

round 
All gathered to the spot, in open day 
Shall Nature be avenged. 

Osw. 'T is nobly thought; 

His death will be a monument for ages. 
Mar. (to Lacy). I thank you for that 

hint. He shall be brought 
Before the Camp, and would that best and 

wisest 
Of every country might be present. There, 
His crime shall be proclaimed; and for the 

rest 
It shall be done as Wisdom shall decide: 
Meanwhile, do you two hasten back and 

see 5S0 

That all is well prepared. 

Wal. We will obey you. 

(Aside.) But softly ! we must look a little 

nearer. 
Mar. Tell where you found us. At some 

future time 
I will explain the cause. [Exeunt. 



ACT III 
Scene — The Door of the Hostel 

A group q/* Pilgrims as before ; IdoneaomJ 
the Host among them. 

Host. Lady, you '11 find your Father at the 
Convent 
As I have told you: He left us yesterday 
With two Companions; one of them, as 

seemed, 
His most familiar Friend. (Going.) There 

was a letter 
Of which I heard them speak, but that I 

fancy 
Has been forgotten. 

Idon. (to Host). Farewell ! 
Host. Gentle pilgrims, 

St. Cuthbert speed you on your holy errand. 
[Exeunt Idonea and Pilgrims. 

Scene — A desolate Moor 
Oswald (alone). 

Osw. Carry him to the Camp ! Yes, to 

the Camp. 
Oh, Wisdom ! a most wise resolve ! and 

then, 
That half a word should blow it to the 

winds ! io 



This last device must end my work. — Me- 

thinks 
It were a pleasant pastime to construct 
A scale and table of belief — as thus — 
Two columns, one for passion, one for 

proof; 
Each rises as the other falls: and first, 
Passion a unit and against vis — proof — 
Nay, we must travel in another path, 
Or we're stuck fast for ever; — passion, 

then, 
Shall be a unit for us; proof — no, passion ! 
We '11 not insult thy majesty by time, 20 
Person, and place — the where, the when, 

the how, 
And all particulars that dull brains require 
To constitute the spiritless shape of Fact, 
They bow to, calling the idol, Demonstra- 
tion. 
A whipping to the Moralists who preach 
That misery is a sacred thing: for me, 
I know no cheaper engine to degrade a 

man, 
Nor any half so sure. This Stripling's 

mind 
Is shaken till the dregs float on the surface ; 
And, in the storm and anguish of the heart, 
He talks of a transition in his Soul, 31 

And dreams that he is happy. We dissect 
The senseless body, ancl why not the 

mind ? — 
These are strange sights — the mind of man, 

upturned, 
Is in all natures a strange spectacle; 
In some a hideous one — hem ! shall I 

stop ? 
No. — Thoughts and feelings will sink deep, 

but then 
They have no substance. Pass but a few 

minutes, 
And something shall be done which Memory 
May touch, whene'er her Vassals are at 

work. 4 o 

Enter Marmaduke, from behind. 

Osw. (turning to meet him). But listen, 
for my peace 

Mar. Why, I believe you. 

Osw. But hear the proofs 

Mar. Ay, prove that when two peas 

Lie snugly in a pod, the pod must then 
Be larger than the peas — prove this — 

't were matter 
Worthy the hearing. Fool was I to dream 
It ever could be otherwise ! 



ACT III 



THE BORDERERS 



53 



Osw. Last night 

When I returned with water from the brook, 
I overheard the Villains — every word 
Like red-hot iron burnt hito my heart. 
Said one, " It is agreed on. The blind 

Man 50 

Shall feign a sudden illness, and the Girl, 
Who on her journey must proceed alone, 
Under pretence of violence, be seized. 
She is," continued the detested Slave, 
" She is right willing — strange if she were 

not ! — 
They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man; 
But, faith, to see him in his silken tunic, 
Fitting his low voice to the minstrel's harp, 
There 's witchery in 't. I never knew a 

maid 
That could withstand it. True," continued 

he, 60 

" When we arranged the affair, she wept a 

little 
(Not the less welcome to my Lord for that) 
And said, ' My Father he will have it so.' " 
Mar. I am your hearer. 
Osw. This I caught, and more 

That may not be retold to any ear. 
The obstinate bolt of a small iron door 
Detained them near the gateway of the 

Castle. 
By a dim lantern's light I saw that wreaths 
Of flowers were in their hands, as if de- 
signed 
For festive decoration; and they said, 70 
With brutal laughter and most foul allu- 
sion, 
That they should share the banquet with 

their Lord 
And his new Favourite. 

Mar. Misery ! — 

Osic. I knew 

How you would be disturbed by this dire 

news, 
And therefore chose this solitary Moor, 
Here to impart the tale, of which, last 

night, 
I strove to ease my mind, when our two 

Comrades, 
Commissioned by the Band, burst in upon 

us. 
Mar. Last night, when moved to lift the 

avenging steel, 
I did believe all things were shadows — 

yea, 80 

Living or dead all things were bodiless, 
Or but the mutual mockeries of body, 



Till that same star summoned me back 

again. 
Now I could laugh till my ribs ached. Oh 

Fool ! 
To let a creed, built in the heart of things, 
Dissolve before a twinkling atom ! — Os- 
wald, 
I could fetch lessons out of wiser schools 
Than you have entered, were it worth the 

pains. 
Young as I am, I might go forth a teacher, 
And you should see how deeply I could 
reason go 

Of love in all its shapes, beginnings, ends; 
Of moral qualities in their diverse aspects; 
Of actions, and their laws and tendencies. 

Osw. You take it as it merits 

Mar. One a King, 

General or Cham, Sultan or Emperor, 
Strews twenty acres of good meadow- 

groimd 
With carcases, in lineament and shape 
And substance nothing differing from his 

own, 
But that they cannot stand up of them- 
selves; 
Another sits i' th' sun, and by the hour 100 
Floats kingcups in the brook — a Hero one 
We call, and scorn the other as Time's 

spendthrift ; 
But have they not a world of common 

ground 
To occupy — both fools, or wise alike, 
Each in his way ? 

Osw. Troth, I begin to think so. 

Mar. Now for the corner-stone of my 
philosophy : 
I would not give a denier for the man 
Who, on such provocation as this earth 
Yields, could not chuck his babe beneath 

the chin, 
And send it with a fillip to its grave. no 
Osw. Nay, you leave me behind. 
Mar. That such a One, 

So pious in demeanour ! in his look 

So saintly and so pure ! Hark'e, my 

Friend, 
I '11 plant myself before Lord Clifford's 

Castle, 
A surly mastiff kennels at the gate, 
And he shall howl and I will laugh, a med- 
ley 
Most tunable. 

Osw. In faith, a pleasant scheme; 

But take your sword along with you, for that 



54 



THE BORDERERS 



ACT III 



Might in such neighbourhood find seemly 

use. — 

But first, how wash our hands of this old 

Man ? 1 20 

Mar. Oh yes, that mole, that viper in 

the path; 

Plague on my memory, him I had forgotten. 

Usw. You know we left him sitting — 

see him yonder. 
Mar. Ha ! ha ! — 

Osw. As 't will be but a moment's work, 
I will stroll on; you follow when 't is done. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene changes to atiother part of the 
Moor at a short distance 

Herbert is discovered seated on a stone. 

Her. A sound of laughter, too ! — 't is 

well — I feared, 
The Stranger had some pitiable sorrow 
Pressing upon his solitary heart. 
Hush ! — 't is the feeble and earth-loving 

wind 
That creejjs along the bells of the crisp 

heather. 130 

Alas ! 't is cold — I shiver in the sunshine — - 
What can this mean ? There is a psalm 

that speaks 
Of God's parental mercies — with Idonea 
I used to sing it. — Listen ! — what foot is 

there ? 

Enter Marmaduke. 

Mar. (aside — loolcin g at Herbert). And 

I have loved this Man ! and she hath 

loved him ! 
And I loved her, and she loves the Lord 

Clifford ! 
And there it ends; — if this be not enough 
To make mankind merry for evermore, 
Then plain it is as day, that eyes were made 
For a wise purpose — verily to weep with ! 
[Looking round. 
A pretty prospect this, a masterpiece 141 
Of Nature, finished with most curious skill ! 
(To Herbert.) Good Baron, have you ever 

practised tillage ? 
Pray tell me what this land is worth by the 

acre ? 
Her. How glad I am to hear your voice ! 

I know not 
Wherein I have offended you ; — last night 
I found in you the kindest of Protectors; 
This morning, when I spoke of weariness, 



You from my shoulder took my scrip and 
threw it 

About your own; but for these two hours 
past 1 50 

Once only have you spoken, when the lark 

Whirred from among the fern beneath our 
feet, 

And I, no coward in my better days, 

Was almost terrified. 

Mar. That 's excellent ! — 

So, you bethought you of the many ways 

In which a man may come to his end, 
whose crimes 

Have roused all Nature up against him — 
pshaw ! — 
Her. For mercy's sake, is nobody in 
sight ? 

No traveller, peasant, herdsman ? 

Mar. Not a soul: 

Here is a tree, ragged, and bent and 
bare, 160 

That turns its goat's-beard flakes of pea- 
green moss 

From the stern breathing of the rough sea- 
wind ; 

This have we, but no other company: 

Commend me to the place. If a man 
should die 

And leave his body here, it were all one 

As he were twenty fathoms underground. 
Her. Where is our common Friend ? 
Mar. A ghost, methinks — 

The Spirit of a murdered man, for in- 
stance — 

Might have fine room to ramble about here, 

A grand domain to squeak and gibber 
in. 170 

Her. Lost Man ! if thou have any close- 
pent guilt 

Pressing upon thy heart, and this the hour 

Of visitation 

Mar. A bold word from you ! 

Her. Restore him, Heaven ! 
Mar. The desperate Wretch ! — A 

Flower, 

Fairest of all flowers, was she once, but 
now 

They have snapped her from the stem — 
Poh ! let her lie 

Besoiled with mire, and let the houseless 
snail 

Feed on her leaves. You knew her well — 
ay, there, 17S 

Old Man ! you were a very Lynx, you knew 

The worm was in her 



ACT III 



THE BORDERERS 



55 



Her. Mercy ! Sir, what mean you ? 

Mar. You have a Daughter ! 
Her. Oh that she were here ! — 

She hath an eye that sinks into all hearts, 
And if I have in aught offended you, 
Soon would her gentle voice make peace 

between us. 
Mar. {aside). I do believe he weeps — 

I could weep too — 
There is a vein of her voice that rims 

through his: 
Even such a Man my fancy bodied forth 
From the first moment that I loved the 

Maid ; 
And for his sake I loved her more: these 

tears — 
I did not think that aught was left in me 190 
Of what I have been — yes, I thank thee, 

Heaven ! 
One happy thought has passed across my 

mind. 
— It may not be — I am cut off from man ; 
No more shall I be man — no more shall I 
Have human feelings ! — (To Herbert) — 

Now, for a little more 
About your Daughter ! 

Her. Troops of armed men, 

Met hi the roads, woidd bless us; little chil- 
dren, 
Rushing along in the full tide of play, 
Stood silent as we passed them ! I have 

heard 
The boisterous carman, in the miry road, 
Check his loud whip and hail us with mild 

voice, 201 

And speak with milder voice to his poor 

beasts. 
Mar. And whither were you going ? 
Her. Learn, young Man, 

To fear the virtuous, and reverence misery, 
Whether too much for patience, or, like 

mine, 
Softened till it becomes a gift of mercy. 
Mar. Now, this is as it should be ! 
Her. I am weak ! — 

My Daughter does not know how weak I 

am ; 
And, as thou see'st, under the arch of 

heaven 
Here do I stand, alone, to helplessness, 210 
By the good God, our common Father, 

doomed ! — 

But I had once a spirit and an arm 

Mar. Now, for a word about your 

Barony : 



I fancy when you left the Holy Land, 
And came to — what 's your title — eh ? 

your claims 
Were undisputed ! 

Her. Like a mendicant, 

Whom no one comes to meet, I stood 

alone ; — 
I murmured — but, remembering Him who 

feeds 
The pelican and ostrich of the desert, 
From my own threshold I looked up to 

Heaven 220 

And did not want glimmerings of quiet 

hope. 
So, from the court I passed, and down the 

brook, 
Led by its murmur, to the ancient oak 
I came; and when I felt its cooling shade, 
I sate me down, and cannot but believe — 
While in my lap I held my little Babe 
And clasped her to my heart, my heart that 

ached 
More with delight than grief — I heard a 

voice 
Such as by Cherith on Elijah called; 
It said, "I will be with thee." A little 

boy, 230 

A shepherd-lad, ere yet my trance was 

gone, 
Hailed us as if he had been sent from 

heaven, 
And said, with tears, that he would be our 

guide : 
I had a better guide — that innocent 

Babe — 
Her, who hath saved me, to this hour, from 

harm, 
From cold, from hunger, penury, and 

death ; 
To whom I owe the best of all the good 
I have, or wish for, upon earth — and more 
And higher far than lies within earth's 

bounds : 
Therefore I bless her: when I think of 

Man, 240 

I bless her with sad spirit, — when of God, 
I bless her in the fulness of my joy ! 

Mar. The name of daughter in his 

mouth, he prays ! 
With nerves so steady, that the very flies 
Sit unmolested on his staff. — Innocent ! — 
If he were innocent — then he would 

tremble 
And be disturbed, as I am. ( Turning aside.) 

I have read 



56 



THE BORDERERS 



act nr 



In Story, what men now alive have wit- 
nessed, 
How, when the People's mind was racked 

with doubt, 
Appeal was made to the great Judge: the 

Accused 250 

With naked feet walked over burning 

ploughshares. 
Here is a Man by Nature's hand prepared 
For a like trial, but more merciful. 
Why else have I been led to this bleak 

Waste ? 
Bare is it, without house or track, and 

destitute 
Of obvious shelter, as a shipless sea. 
Here will I leave him — here — All-seeing 

God! 
Such as he is, and sore perplexed as I am, 
I will commit him to this final Ordeal ! — ; 
He heard a voice — a shepherd-lad came to 

him 260 

And was his guide ; if once, why not again, 
And in this desert ? If never — then the 

whole 
Of what he says, and looks, and does, and 

is, 
Makes up one damning falsehood. Leave 

him here 
To cold and hunger ! — Pain is of the heart, 
And what are a few throes of bodily suffer- 
ing 
If they can waken one pang of remorse ? 

[Goes up to Herbert. 
Old Man ! my wrath is as a flame burnt 

out, 
It cannot be rekindled. Thou art here 
Led by my hand to save thee from perdi- 
tion; 270 
Thou wilt have time to breathe and 

think 

Her. Oh, Mercy ! 

Afar. I know the need that all men have 

of mercy, 
And therefore leave thee to a righteous 

judgment. 
Her. My Child, my blessed Child ! 
Mar. No more of that; 

Thou wilt have many guides if thou art 

innocent ; 
Yea, from the utmost corners of the earth, 
That Woman will come o'er this Waste to 

save thee. 
[He pauses and looks at Herbert's staff". 
Ha ! what is here ? and carved by her own 

hand ! [Reads upon the staff. 



" I am eyes to the blind, saith the Lord. 
He that puts his trust in me shall noi 
fail ! " 280 

Yes, be it so; — repent and be forgiven — 
God and that staff are now thy only guides. 
[He leaves Herbert on the Moor. 

Scene — An eminence, a Beacon on the 

summit 

Lacy, Wallace, Lennox, etc. etc. 

Several of the Band {confusedly'). But 

patience ! 
One of the Band. Curses on that Traitor, 

Oswald ! — 
Our Captain made a prey to foul device ! — 
Len. (to Wal.). His tool, the wandering 

Beggar, made last night 
A plain confession, such as leaves no doubt, 
Knowing what otherwise we know too well, 
That she revealed the truth. Stand by me 

now; 
For rather would I have a nest of vipers 
Between my breast-plate and my skin, than 

make 290 

Oswald my special enemy, if you 
Deny me your support. 

Lacy. We have been fooled — 

But for the motive ? 

Wal. Natures such as his 

Spin motives out of their own bowels, Lacy ! 
I learned this when I was a Confessor. 
I know him well; there needs no other 

motive 
Than that most strange incontinence in 

crime 
Which haunts this Oswald. Power is life 

to him 
And breath and being; where he cannot 

govern, 
He will destroy. 

Lacy. To have been trapped like 

moles ! — 300 

Yes, you are right, we need not hunt for 

motives: 
There is no crime from which this man 

would shrink; 
He recks not human law; and I have 

noticed 
That often when the name of God is 

uttered, 
A sudden blankness overspreads his face. 
Len. Yet, reasoner as he is, his pride has 

built 
Some uncouth superstition of its own. 



ACT III 



THE BORDERERS 



57 



Wal. I have seen traces of it. 
Len. Once he headed 

A hand of Pirates in the Norway seas; 
And when the King of Denmark summoned 
him 310 

To the oath of fealty, I well remember, 
'T was a strange answer that he made ; he 

said, 
" I hold of Spirits, and the Sun in heaven." 
Lacy. He is no madman. 
Wal. A most subtle doctor 

Were that man, who could draw the line 

that parts 
Pride and her daughter, Cruelty, from 

Madness, 
That should be scourged, not pitied. Rest- 
less Minds, 
Such Minds as find amid their fellow-men 
No heart that loves them, none that they 

can loye, 
Will turn perforce and seek for sympathy 
In dim relation to imagined Beings. 321 
One of the Band. What if he mean to 
offer up our Captain 
An expiation and a sacrifice 
To those infernal fiends ! 

Wal. Now, if the event 

Should be as Lennox has foretold, then 

swear, 
My Friends, his heart shall have as many 

wounds 
As there are daggers here. 

Lacy. What need of swearing ! 

One of the Band. Let us away! 
Another. Away ! 

A third. Hark! how the horns 

Of those Scotch Rovers echo through the 
vale. 
Lacy. Stay you behind ; and when the sun 
is down, 330 

Light up this beacon. 

One of the Band. You shall be obeyed. 
{They go out together. 

Scene — The Wood on the edge of the 
Moor 

Marmaduke {alone). 

Mar. Deep, deep and vast, vast beyond 

human thought, 
Yet calm. — I could believe, that there was 

here 
The only quiet heart on earth. In terror, 
Remembered terror, there is peace and 

rest. 



Enter Oswald. 
Osw. Ha! my dear Captain. 
Mar. A later meeting, Oswald, 

Would have been better timed. 

Osio. Alone, I see; 

You have done your duty. I had hopes, 

which now 
I feel that you will justify. 

Mar. I had fears, 

From which I have freed myself — but 't is 
my wish 340 

To be alone, and therefore we must part. 
Osw. Nay, then — I am mistaken. 
There 's a weakness 
About you still; you talk of solitude — 
I am your friend. 

Mar. What need of this assurance 

At any time ? and why given now ? 

Osw. Because 

You are now in truth my Master ; you have 

taught me 
What there is not another living man 
Had strength to teach; — and therefore 

gratitude 
Is bold, and would relieve itself by praise. 
Alar. Wherefore press this on me ? 
Osiu. Because I feel 

That you have shown, and by a signal in- 
stance, 351 
How they who would be just must seek the 

rule 
By diving for it into their own bosoms. 
To-day you have thrown off a tyranny 
That lives but hi the torpid acquiescence 
Of our emasculated souls, the tyranny 
Of the world's masters, with the musty rules 
By which they uphold their craft from age 

to age: 
You have obeyed the only law that sense 
Submits to recognise ; the immediate law, 360 
From the clear light of circumstances, flashed 
Upon an independent Intellect. 
Henceforth new prospects open on your path ; 
Your faculties should grow with the demand ; 
I still will be your friend, will cleave to you 
Through good and evil, obloquy and scorn, 
Oft as they dare to follow on your steps. 
Mar. I would be left alone. 
Osw. (exultingly). I know your motives ! 
I am not of the world's presumptuous judges, 
Who damn where they can neither see nor 
feel, 370 

With a hard-hearted ignorance ; your strug- 
gles 
I witnessed, and now hail your victory. 



58 



THE BORDERERS 



act in 



Mar. Spare me awhile that greeting. 
Osw. It may be, 

That some there are, squeamish half -think- 
ing cowards, 
Who will turn pale upon you, call you mur- 
derer, 
And you will walk in solitude among them. 
A mighty evil for a strong-built mind ! — 
Join twenty tapers of unequal height 
And light them joined, and you will see the 

less 
How 't will burn down the taller; and they 
all 380 

Shall prey upon the tallest. Solitude ! — 
The Eagle lives in Solitude. 

Alar. Even so, 

The Sparrow so on the housetop, and I, 
The weakest of God's creatures, stand re- 
solved 
To abide the issue of my act, alone. 

Osw. Now would you ? and for ever ? — 
My young Friend, 
As time advances either we become 
The prey or masters of our own past deeds. 
Fellowship we must have, willing or no; 
And if good Angels fail, slack in their duty, 
Substitutes, turn our faces where we may, 
Are still forthcoming; some which, though 
they bear 392 

111 names, can render no ill services, 
In recompense for what themselves re- 
quired. 
So meet extremes in this mysterious world, 
And opposites thus melt into each other. 
Mar. Time, since Man first drew breath, 
has never moved 
With such a weight upon his wings as now ; 
But they will soon be lightened. 

Osw. Ay, look up — 

Cast round you your mind's eye, and you 
will learn 4°° 

Fortitude is the child of Enterprise: 
Great actions move our admiration, chiefly 
Because they carry in themselves an earnest 
That we can suffer greatly. 

Mar. Very true. 

Osw. Action is transitory — a step, a blow, 
The motion of a muscle — this way or that — 
'T is done, and in the after-vacancy 
We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed : 
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, 
And shares the nature of infinity. 4-0 

Mar. Truth — and I feel it. 
Osw. What ! if you had bid 

Eternal farewell to unmingled joy 



And the light dancing of the thoughtless 

heart ; 
It is the toy of fools, and little fit 
For such a world as this. The wise abjure 
All thoughts whose idle composition lives 
In the entire forgetf ulness of pain. 

— I see I have disturbed you. 

Mar. By no means. 

Osw. Compassion ! — pity ! — pride can 

do without them; 
And what if you should never know them 

more ! — 420 

He is a puny soul who, feeling pain, 
Finds ease because another feels it too. 
If e'er I open out this heart of mine 
It shall be for a nobler end — to teach 
And not to purchase puling sympathy. 

— Nay, you are pale. 

Mar. It may be so. 

Osw. Remorse — 

It camiot live with thought ; think on, think 

on, 
And it will die. What ! in this universe, 
Where the least things control the greatest, 

where 
The faintest breath that breathes can move 

a world ; 430 

What ! feel remorse, where, if a cat had 

sneezed, 
A leaf had fallen, the thing had never been 
Whose very shadow gnaws us to the vitals. 
Mar. Now, whither are you wandering ? 

That a man 
So used to suit his language to the time, 
Should thus so widely differ from himself — 
It is most strange. 

Osw. Murder ! — what 's in the word ! — 
I have no cases by me ready made 
To fit all deeds. Carry him to the Camp! — 
A shallow project; — you of late have seen 
More deeply, taught us that the institutes 
Of Nature, by a cunning usurpation 442 
Banished from human intercourse, exist 
Only in our relations to the brutes 
That make the fields their dwelling. If a 

snake 
Crawl from beneath our feet we do not 

ask 
A license to destroy him: our good governors 
Hedge in the life of every pest and plague 
That bears the shape of man; and for what 

purpose, 
But to protect themselves from extirpa- 
tion ? — 450 
This flimsy barrier you have overleaped. 



ACT III 



THE BORDERERS 



59 



Mar. My Office is fulfilled — the Man is 
now 
Delivered to the Judge of all things. 

Osio. Dead ! 

Alar. I have borne my burthen to its 

destined end. 
Osw. This instant we '11 return to our 
companions — 
Oh how I long to see their faces again ! 

Enter Idonea, with Pilgrims who continue 
their journey. 

I don. {after some time). What, Marma- 
duke! now thou art mine for ever. 
And Oswald, too ! ( To Marmaduke.) On 

will we to my Father 
With the glad tidings which this day hath 
brought; 459 

We '11 go together, and, such proof received 
Of his own rights restored, his gratitude 
To God above will make him feel for ours. 
Osw. I interrupt you ? 
Idon. Think not so. 

Mar. Idonea, 

That I should ever live to see this moment! 
Idon. Forgive me. — Oswald knows it all 
— he knows, 
Each word of that imhappy letter fell 
As a blood drop from my heart. 

Osw. 'T was even so. 

Mar. I have much to say, but for whose 

ear ? — not thine. 
Idon. Ill can I bear that look — Plead 
for me, Oswald ! 
You are my Father's Friend. 
{To Marmaduke.) Alas, you know not, 
And never can you know, how much he 
loved me. 47 i 

Twice had he been to me a father, twice 
Had given me breath, and was I not to be 
His daughter, once his daughter ? could I 

withstand 
His pleading face, and feel his clasping 

arms, 
And hear his prayer that I would not for- 
sake him 

In his old age [Hides her face. 

Mar. Patience — Heaven grant me 

patience ! — 
She weeps, she weeps — my brain shall burn 

for hours 
Ere / can shed a tear. 

Idon. I was a woman; 

And, balancing the hopes that are the dear- 
est 480 



To womankind with duty to my Father, 
I yielded up those precious hopes, which 

noxight 
On earth could else have wrested from me ; 

— if erring, 
Oh let me be forgiven ! 

Mar. I do forgive thee. 

Idon. But take me to your arms — this 
breast, alas ! 
It throbs, and you have a heart that does 
not feel it. 
Mar. (cxultingly). She is innocent. 

[He embraces her. 
Osw. (aside). Were I a Moralist, 

I should make wondrous revolution here; 
It were a quaint experiment to show 489 
The beauty of truth — [Addressing them. 
I see I interrupt you; 
I shall have business with you, Marmaduke ; 
Follow me to the Hostel. [Exit Oswald. 

Idon. Marmaduke, 

This is a happy day. My Father soon 
Shall sim himself before his native doors; 
The lame, the hungry, will be welcome 

there. 
No more shall he complain of wasted 

strength, 
Of thoughts that fail, and a decaying heart; 
His good works will be balm and life to him. 
Mar. This is most strange ! — I know 
not what it was, 
But there was something which most plainly 
said, 500 

That thou wert innocent. 

Idon. How innocent .' — 

Oh heavens ! you 've been deceived. 

Mar. Thou art a Woman, 

To bring perdition on the universe. 

Idon. Already I 've been punished to the 
height 
Of my offence. [Smiling affectionately. 

I see you love me still, 
The labours of my hand are still your 

j°y; 

Bethink you of the hour when on your 

shoulder 
I hung this belt. 

[Pointing to the belt on which was suspended 

Herbert's scrip. 
Mar. Mercy of Heaven ! [Sinks. 

Idon. What ails you ! [Distractedly. 
Mar. The scrip that held his food, and I 
forgot 
To give it back again ! 

Idon. What mean your words ? 



THE BORDERERS 



ACT IV 



Mar. I know not what I said — all may 

be well. 511 

Idon. That srnile hath life in it ! 

Mar. This road is perilous; 

I will attend yon to a Hut that stands 

Near the wood's edge — rest there to-night, 

I pray you: 
For me, I have business, as you heard, with 

Oswald, 
But will return to you by break of day. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT IV 

Scene — A desolate prospect — a ridge of 
rocks — a Chapel 011 the summit of one 
— Moon behind the rocks — night 
stormy — irregular sound of a Bell 

Herbert enters exhausted. 

Her. That Chapel-bell hi mercy seemed 

to guide me, 
But now it mocks my steps ; its fitful stroke 
Can scarcely be the work of human hands. 
Hear me, ye Men, upon the cliffs, if such 
There be who pray nightly before the Altar. 
Oh that I had but strength to reach the 

place ! 
My Child — my child — dark — dark — I 

faint — this wind — 
These stifling blasts — God help me ! 

Enter Eldred. 

Eld. Better this bare rock, 

Though it were tottering over a man's head, 
Than a tight case of dungeon walls for 

shelter 10 

From such rough dealing. 

[A moaning voice is heard. 

Ha ! what sovmd is that ? 

Trees creaking in the wind (but none are 

here) 
Send forth such noises — and that weary 

bell! 
Surely some evil Spirit abroad to-night 
Is ringing it — 't would stop a Saint in 

prayer, 
And that — what is it ? never was sound so 

like 
A human groan. Ha ! what is here ? 

Poor Man — 
Murdered ! alas ! speak — speak, I am your 

friend : 
No answer — hush — lost wretch, he lifts 

his hand 



And lays it to his heart — (Kneels to him). 
I pray you speak ! 20 

What has befallen you ? 

Her. (feebly). A stranger has done this, 

And in the arms of a stranger I must die. 

Eld. Nay, think not so : come, let me 

raise you up: [Raises him. 

This is a dismal place — well — that is 

well — 
I was too fearful — take me for your guide 
And your support — my hut is not far off. 
[Draws him gently off the stage. 

Scene — A room in the Hostel 

Marmaduke and Oswald. 

Mar. But for Idonea ! — I have cause to 
think 
That she is innocent. 

Osw. Leave that thought awhile, 

As one of those beliefs, which in then- hearts 

Lovers lock up as pearls, though oft no 

better 30 

Than feathers clinging to their points of 

passion. 
This day's event has laid on me the duty 
Of opening out my story ; you must hear it, 
And without further preface. — In my 

youth, 
Except for that abatement which is paid 
By envy as a tribute to desert, 
I was the pleasure of all hearts, the darling 
Of every tongue — as you are now. You 've 

heard 
That I embarked for Syria. On our voyage 
Was hatched among tlie crew a foul Con- 
spiracy 40 
Against my honour, in the which our Cap- 
tain 
Was, I believed, prime Agent. The wind 

fell; 
We lay becalmed week after week, until 
The water of the vessel was exhausted; 
I felt a double fever in my veins, 
Yet rage suppressed itself; — to a deep still- 
ness 
Did my pride tame my pride ; — for many 

days, 
On a dead sea under a burning sky, 
I brooded o'er my injuries, deserted 
By man and nature ; — if a breeze had 
blown, 50 

It might have found its way into my heart, 
And I had been — no matter — do you mark 
me? 



ACT IV 



THE BORDERERS 



61 



Mar. Quick — to the point — if any un- 
told crime 
Doth haunt your memory. 

Osw. Patience, hear me further ! — 

One day in silence did we drift at noon 
By a bare rock, narrow, and white, and 

bare ; 
No food was there, no drink, no grass, no 

shade, 
No tree, nor jutting eminence, nor form 
Inanimate large as the body of man, 
Nor any living thing whose lot of life 60 
Might stretch beyond the measure of one 

moon. 
To dig for water on the spot, the Captain 
Landed with a small troop, myself being 

one: 
There I reproached him with his treachery. 
Imperious at all times, his temper rose; 
He struck me ; and that instant had I killed 

him, 
And put an end to his insolence, but my 

Comrades 
Rushed in between us: then did I insist 
(All hated him, and I was stung to mad- 
ness) 
That we should leave him there, alive ! — 

we did so. 70 

Mar. And he was famished ? 
Ohio. Naked was the spot; 

Methhiks I see it now — how in the sun 
Its stony surface glittered like a shield; 
And in that miserable place we left him, 
Alone but for a swarm of minute creatures 
Not one of which could help him while 

a\ive, 
Or mourn him dead. 

Mar. A man by men cast off, 

Left without burial ! nay, not dead nor 

dying, 
But standing, walking, stretching forth his 

arms, 
In all things like ourselves, but in the 

agony So 

With which he called for mercy; and — 

even so — 
He was forsaken ? 

Osw. There is a power in sounds: 

The cries he uttered might have stopped 

the boat 

That bore us through the. water 

Mar. You returned 

Upon that dismal hearing — did you not ? 
Osw. Some scoffed at him with hellish 

mockery, 



And laughed so loud it seemed that the 

smooth sea 
Did from some distant region echo us. 
Mar. We all are of one blood, our veins 
are filled 89 

At the same poisonous fountain ! 

Osw. 'T was an island 

Oidy by sufferance of the winds and waves, 
Which with their foam could cover it at 

will. 
I know not how he perished; but the calm, 
The same dead calm, continued many days. 
Mar. But his own crime had brought on 
him this doom, 
His wickedness prepared it; these expe- 
dients 
Are terrible, yet ours is not the fault. 
Osw. The man was famished, and was 

innocent ! 
Mar. Impossible ! 

Osw. The man had never wronged me. 

Mar. Banish the thought, crush it, and 

be at peace. 10c 

His guilt was marked — these things could 

never be 
Were there not eyes that see, and for good 

ends, 
Where ours are baffled. 

Osw. I had been deceived. 

Mar. And from that hour the miserable 
man 
No more was heard of ? 

Osw. I had been betrayed. 

Mar. And he found no deliverance ! 
Osw. The Crew 

Gave me a hearty welcome ; they had laid 
The plot to rid themselves, at any cost, 
Of a tyrannic Master whom they loathed. 
So we pursued our voyage : when we landed, 
The tale was spread abroad; my power at 
once 1 1 1 

Shrunk from me; plans and schemes, and 

lofty hopes — 
All vanished. I gave way — do you attend ? 
Mar. The Crew deceived you ? 
Osw. Nay, command yourself. 

Mar. It is a dismal night — how the wind 

howls ! 
Osvj. I hid my head within a Convent, 
there 
Lay passive as a dormouse in mid-winter. 
That was no life for me — I was o'erthrown, 
But not destroyed. 
Mar. The proofs — you ought to have 
seen 



62 



THE BORDERERS 



ACT IV 



The guilt — have touched it — felt it at 

your heart — 120 

As I have done. 

Osw. A fresh tide of Crusaders 

Drove by the place of my retreat: three 

nights 
Did constant meditation dry my blood; 
Three sleepless nights I passed hi sounding 

on, 
Through words and things, a dim and 

perilous way; 
And, wheresoe'er I turned me, I beheld 
A slavery compared to which the dungeon 
And clanking chains are perfect liberty. 
You understand me — I was comforted ; 
I saw that every possible shape of action 
Might lead to good — I saw it and burst 

forth 131 

Thirsting for some of those exploits that fill 
The earth for sure redemption of lost peace. 

[Marking Marmaduke's countenance. 
Nay, you have had the worst. Ferocity 
Subsided in a moment, like a wind 
That drops down dead out of a sky it 

vexed. 
And yet I had within me evermore 
A salient spring of energy; I mounted 
From action up to action with a mind 
That never rested — without meat or drink 
Have I lived many days — my sleep was 

bound 14 1 

To purposes of reason — not a dream 
But had a continuity and substance 
That waking life had never power to give. 
Mar. O wretched Human-kind ! — Until 

the mystery 
Of all this world is solved, well may we 

env> 
The worm, that, underneath a stone whose 

weight 
Woidd crush the lion's paw with mortal 

anguish, 
Doth lodge, and feed, and coil, and sleep, 

in safety. 
Fell not the wrath of Heaven upon those 

traitors ? 1 ?o 

Osiv. Give not to them a thought. From 

Palestine 
We marched to Syria : oft I left the Camp, 
When all that multitude of hearts was 

still, 
And followed on, through woods of gloomy 

eedar, 
Into deep chasms troubled by roaring 

streams; 



Or from the top of Lebanon surveyed 
The moonlight desert, and the moonlight 

sea: 
In these my lonely wanderings I perceived 
What mighty objects do impress their 

forms 
To elevate our intellectual being; 160 

And felt, if aught on earth deserves a 

curse, 
'T is that worst principle of ill which dooms 
A thing so great to perish self-consumed. 
— So much for my remorse ! 

Mar. Unhappy Man ! 

Osw. When from these forms I turned 

to contemplate 
The World's opinions and her usages, 
I seemed a Being who had passed alone 
Into a region of futurity, 

Whose natural element was freedom 

Mar. Stop — 

I may not, caimot, follow thee. 

Osiv. You must. 

I had been nourished by the sickly food 171 
Of popular applause. I now perceived 
That we are praised, oidy as men in us 
Do recognise some image of themselves, 
An abject counterpart of what they are, 
Or the empty thing that they would wish 

to be. 
I felt that merit has no surer test 
Than obloquy ; that, if we wish to serve 
The world in substance, not deceive by 

show, 
We must become obnoxious to its hate, 180 
Or fear disguised in simulated scorn. 
Mar. I pity, can forgive, you; but those 

wretches — 
That monstrous perfidy ! 

Osw. Keep down your wrath. 

False Shame discarded, spurious Fame de- 
spised, 
Twin sisters both of Ignorance, I found 
Life stretched before me smooth as some 

broad way 
Cleared for a monarch's progress. Priests 

might spin 
Their veil, but not for me — 't was in fit 

place 
Among its kindred cobwebs. I had been, 
And in that dream had left my native land, 
One of Love's simple bondsmen — the soft 

chain 191 

Was off for ever ; and the men, from whom 
This liberation came, you would destroy: 
Join me in thanks for their blind services. 



ACT IV 



THE BORDERERS 



63 



Mar. 'T is a strange aching that, when we 

would curse 
And cannot. — You have betrayed me — I 

have done — 
I am content — I know that he is guilt- 
less — 
That both are guiltless, without spot or 

stain, 
Mutually consecrated. Poor old Man ! 
And I had heart for this, because thou 

lovedst 200 

Her who from very infancy had been 
Light to thy path, warmth to thy blood ! — 

Together [Turning to Oswald. 

We propped his steps, he leaned upon us 

both. 
Osio. Ay, we are coupled by a chain of 

adamant ; 
Let us be fellow-labourers, then, to enlarge 
Man's intellectual empire. We subsist 
In slavery; all is slavery; we receive 
Laws, but we ask not whence those laws 

have come; 
We need an inward sting to goad us on. 
Mar. Have you betrayed me ? Speak 

to that. 
Osw. The mask, 210 

Which for a season I have stooped to wear, 
Must be cast off. — Know then that I was 

urged, 
(For other impulse let it pass) was driven, 
To seek for sympathy, because I saw 
In you a mirror of my youthful self ; 
I would have made us equal once again, 
But that was a vain hope. You have struck 

home, 
With a few drops of blood cut short the 

business ; 
Therein for ever you must yield to me. 
But what is done will save you from the 

blank 220 

Of living without knowledge that you live: 
Now you are suffering — for the future 

day, 
'T is his who will command it. — Think of 

my story — 
Herbert is innocent. 

Mar. (in a faint voice, and doubtingly). 
You do but echo 
My own wild words ? 

Osw. Young Man, the seed must lie 

Hid in the earth, or there can be no har- 
vest; 
'T is Nature's law. What I have done in 

darkness 



I will avow before the face of day. 
Herbert is innocent. 

Mar. What fiend could prompt 

This action ? Innocent ! — oh, breaking 

heart ! — 230 

Alive or dead, I '11 find him. [Exit. 

Osw. Alive — perdition ! [Exit. 

Scene — The inside of a poor Cottage 

Eleanor and Idonea seated. 

Idon. The storm beats hard — Mercy 
for poor or rich, 
Whose heads are shelterless in such a night ! 
-•I Voice loithout. Holla ! to bed, good 

Folks, within ! 
Elea. O save us ! 

Idon. What can this mean ? 
Elea. Alas, for my poor husband ! — 

We '11 have a counting of our flocks to- 
morrow ; 
The wolf keeps festival these stormy nights: 
Be calm, sweet Lady, they are wassailers 

[ The voices die away in the distance. 
Returning from their Feast — my heart 

beats so — 
A noise at midnight does so frighten 
me. 240 

Idon. Hush ! [Listening. 

Elea. They are gone. On such a 

night my husband, 
Dragged from his bed, was cast into a dun- 
geon, 
Where, hid from me, he counted many 

years, 
A criminal in no one's eyes but theirs — 
Not even in theirs — whose brutal violence 
So dealt with him. 

Idon. I have a noble Friend 

First among youths of knightly breeding, 

One 
Who lives but to protect the weak or injured. 
The^e again ! [Listening. 

Elea. 'T is my husband's foot. Good 
Eldred 
Has a kind heart; but his imprisonment 250 
Has made him fearful, and he '11 never be 
The man he was. 

Idon. I will retire ; — good night ! 

[She goes within. 

Enter Eldred (hides a bundle). 

Eld. Not yet in bed, Eleanor ! — there 
are stains in that frock which must be 
washed out. 



64 



THE BORDERERS 



ACT IV 



Elea. What has befallen you ? 

Eld. I am belated, and you must know 
the cause — (speaking low) that is the blood 
of an unhappy Man. 

Elea. Oh ! we are undone for ever. 260 

Eld. Heaven forbid that I should lift 
my hand against any man. Eleanor, I have 
shed tears to-night, and it comforts me to 
think of it. 

Elea. Where, where is he ? 

Eld. I have done him no harm, but 

it will be forgiven me; it would not have 
been so once. 

Elea. You have not buried anything ? 
You are no richer than when you left 
me ? 271 

Eld. Be at peace ; I am innocent. 

Elea. Then God be thanked — 

[.4 short pause • she falls upon his neck. 

Eld. To-night I met with an old Man 
lying stretched upon the ground — a sad 
spectacle: I raised him up with a hope 
that we might shelter and restore bun. 

Elea. (as if ready to run). Where is 
he ? You were not able to bring him all 
the way with you; let us return, I can 
help you. [Eldred shakes his head. 281 

Eld. He did not seem to wish for life: 
as I was struggling on, by the light of the 
moon I saw the stains of blood upon my 
clothes — he waved his hand, as if it were 
all useless; and I let him sink again to the 
ground. 

Elea. Oh that I had been by your side ! 

Eld. I tell you his hands and his body 
were cold — how coidd I disturb his last 
moments ? he strove to turn from me as if 
he wished to settle into sleep. 292 

Elea. But, for the stains of blood — 

Eld. He must have fallen, I fancy, for 
his head was cut; but I think his malady 
was cold and hunger. 

Elea. Oh, Eldred, I shall never be able 
to look up at this roof in storm or fair but 
I shall tremble. 299 

Eld. Is it not enough that my ill stars 
have kept me abroad to-night till this hour ? 
I come home, and this is my comfort ! 

Elea. But did he say nothing which 
might have set you at ease ? 

Eld. I thought he grasped my hand 
while he was muttering something about 
his Child — his Daughter — (starting as if 
he heard a noise). What is that ? 

Elea. Eldred, you are a father. 



Eld. God knows what was in my heart, 
and will not curse my son for my sake. 311 

Elea. But you prayed by him ? you 
waited the hour of his release ? 

Eld. The night was wasting fast; I have 
no friend ; I am spited by the world — his 
wound terrified me — if I had brought him 
along with me, and he had died in my 

arms ! 1 am sure I heard something 

breathing — and this chair ! 319 

Elea. Oh, Eldred, you will die alone. 
You will have nobody to close your eyes — 
no hand to grasp your dying hand — I shall 
be in my grave. A curse will attend us all. 

Eld. Have you forgot your own troubles 
when I was in the dungeon ? 

Elea. And you left him alive ? 

Eld. Alive ! — the damps of death were 
upon him — he could not have survived an 
hour. 

Elea. In the cold, cold night. 330 

Eld. (in a savage tone). Ay, and his 
head was bare; I suppose you would have 
had me lend my bonnet to cover it. — You 
will never rest till I am brought to a felon's 
end. 

Elea. Is there nothing to be done ? can- 
not we go to the Convent ? 

Eld. Ay, and say at once that I mur- 
dered him ! 339 

Elea. Eldred, I know that ours is the 
only house upon the Waste; let us take 
heart; this Man may be rich; and could 
he be saved by our means, his gratitude 
may reward us. 

Eld. 'T is all in vain. 

Elea. But let us make the attempt. This 
old Man may have a wife, and he may have 
children — let us return to the spot; we 
may restore him, and his eyes may yet open 
upon those that love him. 350 

Eld. He will never open them more; 
even when he spoke to me, he kept them 
firmly sealed as if he had been blind. 

I don. (rushing out). It is, it is, my 
Father — 

Eld. We are betrayed (looking at Ido- 
nea). 

Elea. His Daughter ! — God have mercy ! 
(turning to Idonea). 

Idon. (sinking down). Oh ! lift me up 
and carry me to the place. 360 

You are safe; the whole world shall not 
harm you. 

Elea. This Lady is his Daughter. 



ACT V 



THE BORDERERS 



65 



Eld. {moved). I '11 lead you to the spot. 

Jdon. {springing up). Alive! — you 

heard hiio breathe ? quick, quick — 

[Exeunt. 



Scene 



ACT V 

• A wood on the edge of the 
Waste 



Enter Oswald and a Forester. 

For. He leaned upon the bridge that 
spans the glen, 
And down into the bottom cast his eye, 
That fastened there, as it would check the 
current. 
Osw. He listened too; did you not say 

he listened ? 
For. As if there came such moaning 
from the flood 
As is heard often after stormy nights. 
Osw. But did he utter nothing ? 
For. See him there ! 

Marmaduke appearing. 

Mar. Buzz, buzz, ye black and winged 
freebooters ; 
That is no substance which ye settle on ! 
For. His senses play him false; and see, 
his arms 10 

Outspread, as if to save himself from fall- 
ing ! — 
Some terrible phantom I believe is now 
Passing before him, such as God will not 
Permit to visit any but a man 
Who has been guilty of some horrid crime. 
[Marmaduke disappears. 
Osw. The game is up ! — 
For. If it be needful, Sir, 

I will assist you to lay hands upon 
him. 
Osw. No, no, my Friend, you may pursue 
your business — 
'T is a poor wretch of an unsettled mind, 
Who has a trick of straying from his keep- 
ers; 20 
We must be gentle. Leave him to my 
care. [Exit. Forester. 
If his own eyes play false with him, these 

freaks 
Of fancy shall be quickly tamed by mine ; 
The goal is reached. My Master shall be- 
come 
A shadow of myself — made by myself. 



Scene — The edge of the Moor 

Marmaduke and Eldred enter from 
opposite sides. 

Alar, (raising his eyes and perceiving 

Eldred). In any corner of this 

savage Waste, 
Have you, good Peasant, seen a blind old 

Man ? 

Eld. I heard 

Mar. You heard him, where ? when 

heard him ? 
Eld. As you know, 

The first hours of last night were rough 

with storm: 29 

I had been out in search of a stray heifer ; 
Returning late, I heard a moaning sound; 
Then, thinking that my fancy had deceived 

me, 
I hurried on, when straight a second moan, 
A human voice distinct, struck on my ear, 
So guided, distant a few steps, I found 
An aged Man, and such as you describe. 
Mar. You heard ! — he called you to 

him ? Of all men 
The best and kindest ! — but where is he ? 

guide me, 
That I may see him. 

Eld. On a ridge of rocks 

A lonesome Chapel stands, deserted now: 
The bell is left, which no one dares remove; 
And, when the stormy wind blows o'er the 

peak, 42 

It rings, as if a human hand were there 
To pidl the cord. I guess he must have 

heard it; 
And it had led him towards the precipice, 
To climb up to the spot whence the sound 

came ; 
But he had failed through weakness. From 

his hand 
His staff had dropped, and close upon the 

brink 
Of a small pool of water he was laid, 
As if he had stooped to drink, and so re- 
mained 50 
Without the strength to rise. 

Mar. Well, well, he lives, 

And all is safe : what said he ? 

Eld. But few words: 

He only spake to me of a dear Daughter, 
Who, so he feared, w T ould never see him 

more; 
And of a Stranger to him, One by whom 
He had been sore misused; but he forgave 



66 



THE BORDERERS 



ACT V 



The wrong and the wrong-doer. You are 

troubled — 
Perhaps you are his son ? 

Mar. The All-seeing knows, 

I did not think he had a living Child. — 
But whither did you carry him ? 

Eld. He was torn, 

His head was bruised, and there was blood 

about him 61 

Mar. That was no work of mine. 
Eld. Nor was it mine. 

Mar. But had he strength to walk ? I 
could have borne him 
A thousand miles. 

Eld. I am in poverty, 

And know how busy are the tongues of men; 
My heart was willing, Sir, but I am one 
Whose good deeds will not stand by their 

own light; 
And, though it smote me more than words 

can tell, 
I left him. 

Mar. I believe that there are phantoms, 
That in the shape of man do cross our path 
On evil instigation, to make sport 71 

Of our distress — and thou art one of them ! 
But things substantial have so pressed on 

me 

Eld. My wife and children came into my 

mind. 
Mar. Oh Monster ! Monster ! there are 
three of us, 
And we shall howl together. 

[After a pause and in a feeble voice. 

I am deserted 

At my worst need, my crimes have in a net 

(Pointing to Eldred) Entangled this poor 

man. — Where was it ? where ? 

[Dragging him along. 
Eld. 'T is needless; spare your violence. 

His Daughter 

Mar. Ay, in the word a thousand scor- 
pions lodge 80 
This old man had a Daughter. 

Eld. To the spot 

I hurried back with her. — O save me, Sir, 

From such a journey! there was a black 

tree, 
A single tree; she thought it was her 

Father. — 
Oh Sir, I would not see that hour again 
For twenty lives. The daylight dawned, 

and now — 
Nay ; hear my tale, 't is fit that you should 
hear it — 



As we approached, a solitary crow 

Rose from the spot; — the Daughter 

clapped her hands, 
And then I heard a shriek so terrible go 
[Marmaduke shrinks back. 
The startled bird quivered upon the wing. 
Mar. Dead, dead ! — 
Eld. {after a pause). A dismal matter, 
Sir, for me, 
And seems the like for you; if 't is your 

wish, 
I '11 lead you to his Daughter; but 't were 

best 
That she should be prepared ; I '11 go before. 
Mar. There will be need of preparation. 
[Eldred goes off. 
Elea. (enters). Master! 

Your limbs sink vmder you, shall I support 
you? 
Mar. (taking her arm). Woman, I 've 
lent my body to the service 
Which now thou tak'st upon thee. God for- 
bid 
That thou shouldst ever meet a like occa- 
sion 100 
With such a purpose in thine heart as mine 
was. 
Elea. Oh, why have I to do with things 
like these ? [Exeunt. 

Scene changes to the door of Eldred's 
cottage 

Idonea seated — enter Eldred. 

Eld. Your Father, Lady, from a wilful 
hand 
Has met unkindness; so indeed he told me, 
And you remember such was my report: 
From what has just befallen me I have 

cause 
To fear the very worst. 

I don. My Father is dead ; 

Why dost thou come to me with words like 
these ? 
Eld. A wicked Man should answer for 
his crimes. 109 

Id on. Thou seest me what I am. 
Eld. It was most heinous, 

And doth call out for vengeance. 

Idon. Do not add, 

I prithee, to the harm thou 'st done already. 

Eld. Hereafter you will thank me for 

this service. 

Hard by, a Man I met, who, from plain 

proofs 



ACT V 



THE BORDERERS 



67 



Of interfering Heaven, I have no doubt, 
Laid hands upon your Father. Fit it were 
You should prepare to meet him. 

Idon. I have nothing 

To do with others; help me to my Father — 
[She turns and sees Marmaduke leaning 
on Eleanor — throws herself upon his 
neck, and after some time, 
In joy I met thee, but a few hours past; 
And thus we meet again; one human stay 
Is left me still hi thee. Nay, shake not so. 
Mar. In such a wilderness — to see no 
thing, 122 

No, not the pitying moon ! 

Idon. And perish so. 

Mar. Without a dog to moan for him. 
Idon. Think not of it, 

But enter there and see him how he sleeps, 
Tranquil as he had died hi his own bed. 
Mar. Tranquil — why not ? 
Idon. Oh, peace ! 

Mar. He is at peace; 

His body is at rest: there was a plot, 
A hideous plot, against the soul of man: 
It took effect — and yet I baffled it, 130 
In some degree. 

Idon. Between us stood, I thought, 

A cup of consolation, filled from Heaven 
For both our needs ; must I, and in thy pre- 
sence, 
Alone partake of it? — Beloved Marmaduke ! 
Mar. Give me a reason why the wisest 
thing 
That the earth owns shall never choose to 

die, 
But some one must be near to count his 

groans. 
The wounded deer retires to solitude, 
And dies hi solitude: all things but man, 
All die in solitude. 

[Moving toamrds the cottage door. 

Mysterious God, 140 

If she had never lived I had not done it ! — 

Idon. Alas, the thought of such a cruel 

death 

Has overwhelmed him. — I must follow. 

Eld. Lady ! 

You will do well; (she goes) unjust suspicion 

may 
Cleave to this Stranger: if, upon his enter- 
ing. 
The dead Man heave a groan, or from his 

side 
Uplift his hand — that would be evidence. 
Elea. Shame ! Eldred, shame ! 



Mar. (both returning). The dead have 
but one face (to himself). 

And such a Man — so meek and unoffend- 
ing— 149 

Helpless and harmless as a babe: a Man, 

By obvious signal to the world's protection, 

Solemnly dedicated — to decoy him ! — 
Idon. Oh, had you seen him living ! — 
Mar. I (so filled 

With horror is this world) am unto thee 

The thing most precious, that it now con- 
tains: 

Therefore through me alone must be re- 
vealed 

By whom thy Parent was destroyed, Idonea! 

I have the proofs ! — 

Idon. O miserable Father ! 

Thou didst command me to bless all man- 
kind; 

Nor to this moment, have I ever wished 160 

Evil to any living thing; but hear me, 

Hear me, ye Heavens ! — (kneeling) — may 
vengeance haunt the fiend 

For this most cruel murder: let him live 

And move in terror of the elements; 

The thunder send him on his knees to prayer 

In the open streets, and let him think he 
sees, 

If e'er he entereth the house of God, 

The roof, self-moved, unsettling o'er his 
head; 

And let him, when he would lie down at 
night, 

Point to his wife the blood-drops on his 

pillow ! 170 

Mar. My voice was silent, but my heart 

hath joined thee. 
Idon. (leaning on, Marmaduke). Left to 
the mercy of that savage Man ! 

How could he call upon his Child ! — O 
Friend! [Turns to Marmaduke. 

My faithful true and only Comforter. 
Mar. Ay, come to me and weep. (He 
kisses her.) (To Eldred.) Yes, Var- 
let, look, 

The devils at such sights do clap their hands. 
[Eldred retires alarmed. 
Idon. Thy vest is torn, thy cheek is dead- 
ly pale; 

Hast thou pursued the monster ? 

Mar. I have found him. — 

Oh ! would that thou hadst perished in the 
flames ! 
Idon. Here art thou, then can I be deso- 
late ? — 180 



63 



THE BORDERERS 



ACT V 



Mar. There was a time, when this pro- 
tecting hand 
Availed against the mighty; never more 
Shall blessings wait upon a deed of mine. 
Idon. Wild words for me to hear, for me, 
an orphan 
Committed to thy guardianship by Heaven; 
And, if thou hast forgiven me, let me hope, 
In this deep sorrow, trust, that I am thine 
For closer care ; — here, is no malady. 

[ Taking his arm. 
Mar. There, is a malady — 
(Striking his heart and forehead) . And here, 

and here, 
A mortal malady. — I am accurst: 190 

All nature curses me, and in my heart 
Thy curse is fixed; the truth must be laid 

bare. 
It must be told, and borne. I am the man, 
( Abused, betrayed, but how it matters not ) 
Presumptuous above all that ever breathed, 
Who, casting as I thought a guilty Person 
Upon Heaven's righteous judgment, did be- 
come 
An instrument of Fiends. Through me, 

through me 
Thy Father perished. 

Idon. Perished — by what mischance ? 
Mar. Beloved ! — if I dared, so would I 
call thee — 200 

Conflict must cease, and, in thy frozen heart, 
The extremes of suffering meet in absolute 
peace. [He gives her a letter. 

Idon. (reads). " Be not surprised if you 
hear that some signal judgment has befallen 
the man who calls himself your father; he 
is now with me, as his signature will shew: 
abstain from conjecture till you see me. 
" Herbert. 
" Marmaduke." 
The writing Oswald's; the signature my 

Father's !• 
(Looks steadily at the paper). And here is 
yours, — or do my eyes deceive me ? 
You have then seen my Father ? 

Mar. He has leaned 

Upon this arm. 

Idon. You led him towards the Convent ? 
Mar. That Convent was Stone- Arthur 
Castle. Thither 212 

We were his guides. I on that night re- 
solved 
That he should wait thy coming till the day 
Of resurrection. 

Idon. Miserable Woman, 



Too quickly moved, too easily giving way, 
I put denial on thy suit, and hence, 
With the disastrous issue of last night, 
Thy perturbation, and these frantic woids. 
Be calm, I pray thee ! 

Mar. Oswald 

Idon. Name him not. 

Enter female Beggar. 

Beg. And he is dead ! — that Moor — 
how shall I cross it ? 221 

By night, by day, never shall I be able 

To travel half a mile alone. — Good Lady ! 

Forgive me ! — Saints forgive me. Had I 
thought 

It would have come to this ! — 

Idon. What brings you hither ? speak ! 
Beg. (pointing to Marmaduke). This in- 
nocent Gentleman. Sweet heavens ! 
I told him 

Such tales of your dead Father ! — God is 
my judge, 

I thought there was no harm: but that bad 
Man, 

He bribed me with his gold, and looked so 
fierce. 

Mercy ! I said I know not what — oh pity 
me — 230 

I said, sweet Lady, you were not his Daugh- 
ter — 

Pity me, I am haunted; — thrice this day 

My conscience made me wish to be struck 
blind ; 

And then I would have prayed, and had no 
voice. 
Idon. (to Marmaduke). Was it my Fa- 
ther ? — no, no, no, for he 

Was meek and patient, feeble, old and blind, 

Helpless, and loved me dearer than his life. 

— But hear me. For one question, I have 
a heart 

That will sustain me. Did you murder him ? 

Mar. No, not by stroke of arm. But 

learn the process: 240 

Proof after proof was pressed upon me; 
guilt 

Made evident, as seemed, by blacker guilt, 

Whose impious folds enwrapped even thee; 
and truth 

And innocence, embodied in his looks, 

His words and tones and gestures, did but 
serve 

With me to aggravate his crimes, and 
heaped 

Ruin upon the cause for which they pleaded. 



ACT V 



THE BORDERERS 



6 9 



Then pity crossed the path of my resolve: 
Confounded, I looked up to Heaven, and 

east, 
Idonea ! thy blind Father, on the Ordeal 250 
Of the bleak Waste — left hini — and so he 

died ! — 
[Idonea sinks senseless • Beggar, Elea- 
nor, etc., crowd round, and bear her off. 
Why may we speak these things, and do no 

more ; 
Why should a thrust of the arm have such 

a power, 
And words that tell these things be heard 

in vain ? 
She is not dead. Why ! — if I loved this 

Woman, 
I would take care she never woke again; 
But she will wake, and she will weep for 

me, 
And say, no blame was mine — and so, poor 

fool, 
Will waste her curses on another name. 

[He walks about distractedly. 

Enter Oswald. 

Osw. (to himself). Strong to o'erturn, 

strong also to build up. 260 

[To Marmaduke. 

The starts and sallies of our last encounter 

Were natural enough; but that, I trust, 

Is all gone by. You have cast off the 
chains 

That fettered your nobility of mind — 

Delivered heart and head ! 

Let us to Palestine; 

This is a paltry field for enterprise. 

Afar. Ay, what shall we encounter next ? 
This issue — 

'T was nothing more than darkness deepen- 
ing darkness, 

And weakness crowned with the impotence 
of death ! — 

Your pupil is, you see, an apt proficient. 
(Ironically.) 270 

Start not ! — Here is another face hard by ; 

Come, let us take a peep at both together, 

And, with a voice at which the dead will 
quake, 

Resound the praise of your morality — 

Of this too much. 

[Drawing Oswald towards the Cottage 
— stops short at the door. 

Men are there, millions, Oswald, 

Who with bare hands would have plucked 
out thy heart 



And flung it to the dogs: but I am raised 
Above, or sunk below, all further sense 
Of provocation. Leave me, with the weight 
Of that old Man's forgiveness on thy 
heart, 2S0 

Pressing as heavily as it doth on mine. 
Coward I have been; know, there Hes not 

now 
Within the compass of a mortal thought, 
A deed that I would shrink from ; — but to 

endure, 
That is my destiny. May it be thine: 
Thy office, thy ambition, be henceforth 
To feed remorse, to welcome every sting 
Of penitential anguish, yea with tears. 
When seas and continents shall lie between 

us — 
The wider space the better — we may 
find 290 

In such a course fit links of sympathy, 
An incommunicable rivalship 
Maintained, for peaceful ends beyond our 
view. 
[Confused voices — several of the band 
enter — rush upon Oswald., and seize 
him. 
One of them. I would have dogged him 

to the jaws of hell — 
Osw. Ha ! is it so ! — That vagrant Hag I 
— this comes 
Of having left a thing like her alive ! 

[Aside. 
Several voices. Despatch him ! 
Osw. If I pass beneath a rock 

And shout, and, with the echo of my voice, 
Bring down a heap of rubbish, and it crush 
me, 209 

I die without dishonour. Famished, starved, 
A Fool and Coward blended to my wish ! 
[Smiles scornfully and exultingly at 
Marmaduke. 
Wal. 'T is done ! (Stabs him) . 
Another of the Band. The ruthless 

Traitor ! 
Mar. A rash deed ! — 

Witli that reproof I do resign a station 
Of which I have been proud. 

Wil. (approaching Marmaduke). O my 

poor Master ! 
Mar. Discerning Monitor, my faithful 
Wilfred, 
Why art thou here ? [ Turning to Wallace. 
Wallace, upon these Borders, 
Many there be whose eyes will not want 
cause 



7 o 



THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN 



To weep that I am gone. Brothers in 

arras ! 
Raise on that dreary Waste a monument 
That may record my story: nor let words — 
Few must they be, and delicate in their 

touch 3 i i 

As light itself — be these withheld from 

Her 
Who, through most wicked arts, was made 

an orphan 
By One who would have died a thousand 

times, 
To shield her from a moment's harm. To 

you, 
Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady, 
By lowly nature reared, as if to make 

her 
In all things worthier of that noble birth, 
Whose long-suspended rights are now on 

the eve 319 

Of restoration: with your tenderest care 

Watch over her, I pray — sustain her 

Several of the Band {eagerly). Captain! 



Mar. No more of that; in silence hear 

my doom: 
A hermitage has furnished fit relief 
To some offenders : other penitents, 
Less patient in their wretchedness, have 

fallen, 
Like the old Roman, on their own sword's 

point. 
They had their choice: a wanderer must I go, 
The Spectre of that innocent Man, my 

guide. 
No human ear shall ever hear me speak; 
No human dwelling ever give me food, 330 
Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and 

wild, 
In search of nothing, that this earth can 

give, 
But expiation, will I wander on — 
A Man by pain and thought compelled to 

live, 
Yet loathing life — till anger is appeased 
In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to 

die. 



THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN 

1797. 1800 

This arose out of my observation of the af- 
fecting music of these birds hanging in this 
■way in the London streets during- the freshness 
and stillness of the Spring- morning. 

At the corner of Wood Street, when day- 
light appears, 

Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has 
sung for three years: 

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has 
heard 

In the silence of morning the song of the 
Bird. 

'T is a note of enchantment ; what ails her ? 

She sees 
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; 
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury 

glide, 
And a river flows on through the vale of 

Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst of 

the dale, 
Down which she so often has tripped with 

her pail; 



And a single small cottage, a nest like a 

dove's, 
The one only dwelling on earth that she 

loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but 

they fade, 
The mist and the river, the hill and the 

shade : 
The stream will not flow, and the hill will 

not rise, 
And the colours have all passed away from 

her eyes ! 



THE BIRTH OF LOVE 

1797- 1S42 

Translated from some French stanzas by 
Francis Wrangham, and printed in " Poems by 
Francis Wrangham, M. A." 

When Love was born of heavenly line, 
What dire intrigues disturbed Cythera's 
joy ! 
Till Venus cried, " A mother's heart is 
mine; 
None but myself shall nurse my boy." 



WE ARE SEVEN 



7i 



But, infant as he was, the child 

In that divine embrace enchanted lay; 

And, by the beauty of the vase beguiled, 
Forgot the beverage — and pined away. 

"And must my offspring languish in my 
sight ? " 
(Alive to all a mother's pain, ' 10 

The Queen of Beauty thus her court 
addressed) 
" No: Let the most discreet of all my train 
Receive him to her breast: 
Think all, he is the God of young delight." 

Then Tenderness with Candour joined, 

And Gaiety the charming office sought; 
Nor even Delicacy stayed behind: 

But none of those fair Graces brought 
Wherewith to nurse the child — and still 

he pined. 

Some fond hearts to Compliance seemed 

inclined ; 20 

But she had surely spoiled the boy: 

And sad experience forbade a thought 

On the wild Goddess of Voluptuous Joy. 

Long undecided lay th' important choice, 
Till of the beauteous court, at length, a voice 
Pronounced the name of Hope : — The 

conscious child 
Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled. 

'T is said Enjoyment (who averred 
The charge belonged to her alone) 

Jealous that Hope had been preferred 30 
Laid snares to make the babe her own. 

Of Innocence the garb she took, 
The blushing mien and downcast look; 

And came her services to proffer: 
And Hope ( what has not Hope believed ! ) 
By that seducing air deceived, 

Accepted of the offer. 

It happened that, to sleep inclined, 
Deluded Hope for one short hour 
To that false Innocence's power 40 

Her little charge consigned. 

The Goddess then her lap with sweetmeats 
filled 
And gave, in handfuls gave, the treacher- 
ous store: 
A wild delirium first the infant thrilled; 
But soon upon her breast he sunk — to 
wake no more. 



A NIGHT-PIECE 

179S. 1815 

Composed on the road between Nether 
Stowey and Alfoxden, extempore. I distinctly 
recollect the very moment when I was struck, 
as described, — *' He looks up — the clouds are 
split," etc. 

The sky is overcast 

With a continuous cloud of texture close, 
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, 
Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, 
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, 
Chequering the ground — from rock, plant, 

tree, or tower. 
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam 
Startles the pensive traveller while he 

treads 
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye 
Bent earthwards ; he looks up — the clouds 

are split 
Asimder, — and above his head he sees 
The clear Moon, and the glory of the hea- 
vens. 
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, 
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss 
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel 

away, 
Yet vanish not ! — the wind is hi the tree, 
But they are silent; — still they roll along 
Immeasurably distant; and the vault, 
Built round by those white clouds, enor- 
mous clouds, 
Still deepens its unfathomable depth. 
At length the Vision closes; and the mind, 
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, 
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, 
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 



WE ARE SEVEN 

1798- 1798 

Written at Alfoxden in the spring 1 of 1708, 
under circumstances somewhat remarkable. 
The little girl who is the heroine I met within 
the area of Goodrich Castle in the year 1793. 
Having left the Isle of Wight and crossed 
Salisbury Plain, as mentioned in the preface to 
'' Guilt and Sorrow," I proceeded by Bristol up 
the Wye, and so on to North Wales, to the 
Vale of Clwydd, where I spent my summer 



7 2 



WE ARE SEVEN 






under the roof of the father of my friend, Rob- 
ert Jones. In reference to this Poem I will 
here mention one of the most remarkable facts 
in my own poetic history and that of Mr. Cole- 
ridge. In the spring of the year 1798, he, my 
Sister, and myself, started from Alfoxden, 
pretty late in the afternoon, with a view to 
visit Lenton and the valley of Stones near it ; 
and as our united funds were very small, we 
agreed to defray the expense of the tour by 
writing a poem, to be sent to the New Monthly 
Magazine set up by Phillips the bookseller, and 
edited by Dr. Aikin. Accordingly we set off 
and proceeded along the Quantock Hills to- 
wards Watchet, and in the course of this walk 
was planned the poem of the "Ancient Mari- 
ner," founded on a dream, as Mr. Coleridge 
said, of his friend, Mr. Cruikshank. Much the 
greatest part of the story was Mr. Coleridge's 
invention ; but certain parts I myself sug- 
gested : — for example, some crime was to be 
committed which should bring upon the old 
Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted 
to call him, the spectral persecution, as a con- 
sequence of that crime, and his own wander- 
ings. I had been reading in Shelvock's Voy- 
ages a day or two before that while doubling 
Cape Horn they frequently saw Albatrosses 
in that latitude, the largest sort of sea-fowl, 
some extending their wings twelve or fifteen 
feet. " Suppose," said I, '' you represent him 
as having killed one of these birds on entering 
the South Sea, and that the tutelary Spirits of 
those regions take upon them to avenge the 
crime." The incident was thought fit for the 
purpose and adopted accordingly. I also sug- 
gested the navigation of the ship by the dead 
men, but do not recollect that I had anything 
more to do with the scheme of the poem. The 
Gloss with which it was subsequently accom- 
panied was not thoug'ht of hy either of us at 
the time ; at least, not a hint of it was given to 
me, and I have no douht it was a gratuitous 
after-thought. We began the composition to- 
gether on that, to me. memorable evening. I 
furnished two or three lines at the beginning of 
the poem, in particular : — 

• " And listened like a three years' child ; 
The Mariner had his will." 

These trifling contributions, all but one (which 
Mr. C. has with unnecessary scrupulosity re- 
corded) slipt out of his mind as they well 
might. As we endeavoured to proceed con- 
jointly (I speak of the same evening) our re- 
spective manners proved so widely different 
that it would have been quite presumptuous in 
me to do anything but separate from an under- 
taking upon which I could only have been a 
clog. We returned after a few daya from a 



delightful tour, of which I have many pleas- 
ant, and some of them droll-enough, recollec- 
tions. We returned by Dulverton to Alfoxden. 
The "Ancient Mariuer" grew and grew till it 
became too important for our first object, 
which was limited to our expectation of five 
pounds, and we began to talk of a Volume, 
which was to consist, as Mr. Coleridge has told 
the world, of poems chiefly on supernatural 
subjects taken from common life, but looked 
at, as much as might be, through an imagina- 
tive medium. Accordingly I wrote " The Idiot 
Boy," " Her eyes are wild," etc., " We are 
seven," "The Thorn," and some others. To 
return to " We are seven," the piece that called 
forth this note, I composed it while walking in 
the grove at Alfoxden. My friends will not 
deem it too trifling to relate that while walking 
to and fro I composed the last stanza first, hav- 
ing begun with the last line. When it was all 
but finished, I came in and recited it to Mr. 
Coleridge and my Sister, and said, " A prefa- 
tory stanza must be added, and I should sit 
down to our little tea-meal with greater plea- 
sure if my task were finished." I mentioned in 
substance what I wished to be expressed, and 
Coleridge immediately threw off the stanza 
thus : — 

" A little child, dear brother Jem," — 

I objected to the rhyme, " dear brother Jem," 
as being ludicrous, but we all enjoyed the joke 

of hitching-in our friend, James T 's name, 

who was familiarly called Jem. He was the 
brother of the dramatist, and this reminds me 
of an anecdote which it may be worth while 
here to notice. The said Jem got a sight of 
the Lyrical Ballads as it was going through the 
press at Bristol, during which time I was resid- 
ing in that city. One evening he came to me 
with a grave face, and said, " Wordsworth, I 
have seen the volume that Coleridge and you 
are about to publish. There is one poem in it 
which I earnestly entreat you will cancel, for, if 
published, it will make you everlastingly ridi- 
culous." I answered that I felt much obliged 
by the interest he took in my good name as a 
writer, and begged to know what was the un- 
fortunate piece he alluded to. He said, '' It is 
called ' We are seven.' " Nay ! said I, that 
shall take its chance, however, and he left me 
in despair. I have only to add that in the 
spring of 1S41 I revisited Goodrich Castle, not 
having seen that part of the Wye since 1 met 
the little Girl there in 1793. It would have 
given me greater pleasure to have found in the 
neighbouring hamlet traces of one who had in- 
terested me so much ; but that was impossible, 
as unfortunately I did not even know her 
name. The ruin, from its position and fea- 



ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS 



73 



tures, is a most impressive object. I could not 
but deeply regret that its solemnity was im- 
paired by a fantastic new Castle set up on a 
projection of the same ridge, as if to show how 
far modern art can go in surpassing all that 
could be done by antiquity and nature with 
their united graces, remembrances, and associa- 
tions. 

A SIMPLE Child, 

That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb, 
What should it know of death ? 

I met a little cottage Girl: 
She was eight years old, she said; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air, 

And she was wildly clad: 10 

Her eyes were fair, and very fair; 

— Her beauty made me glad. 

" Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
How many may you be ? " 
" How many ? Seven in all," she said 
And wondering looked at me. 

" And where are they ? I pray you tell." 

She answered, " Seven are we ; 

And two of us at Conway dwell, 

And two are gone to sea. 20 

" Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
My sister and my brother; 
And, in the church-yard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother." 

" You say that two at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea, 
Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell, 
Sweet Maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little Maid reply, 
" Seven boys and girls are we ; 30 

Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
Beneath the church-yard tree." 

" You rim about, my little Maid, 
Your limbs they are alive; 
If two are in the church-yard laid, 
Then ye are only five." 

" Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
The little Maid replied, 



" Twelve steps or more from my mother's 

door, 
And they are side by side. 40 

" My stockings there I often knit, 
My kerchief there I hem; 
And there upon the ground I sit, 
And sing a song to them. 

" And often after sunset, Sir, 
When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer, 
And eat my supper there. 

" The first that died w r as sister Jane; 

In bed she moaning lay, 50 

Till God released her of her pain; 

And then she went away. 

" So in the church-yard she was laid ; 
And, when the grass was dry, 
Together roimd her grave we played, 
My brother John and I. 

" And when the ground was white with 

snow, 
And I could run and slide, 
My brother John was forced to go, 
And he lies by her side." 60 

" How many are you, then," said I, 
" If they two are in heaven ? " 
Quick was the little Maid's reply, 
" O Master ! we are seven." 

" But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 
Their spirits ar-e in heaven ! " 
'T was throwing words away ; for still 
The little Maid would have her wdl, 
And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " 



ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS 
1798. 1798 

" Retine vim istam, falsa eniin dicaui, si coges." — 
Eusebius. 

This was suggested in front of Alfoxden. 
The Boy was a son of my friend, Basil Mon- 
tagu, who had been two or three years under 
our care. The name of Kilve is from a village 
on the Bristol Channel, about a mile from Al- 
foxden ; and the name of Liswyn Farm was 
taken from a beautiful spot on the Wye. 
When Mr. Coleridge, my Sister, and I, had 



74 



THE THORN 



been visiting the famous John Thelwall, who 
had taken refuge from politics, after a trial for 
high treason, with a view to bring up his fam- 
ily by the profits of agriculture, which proved 
as unfortunate a speculation as that he had 
lied from, Coleridge and he had both been 
public lecturers ; Coleridge mingling, with his 
politics, Theology, from which the other elocu- 
tionist abstained, unless it were for the sake of 
a sneer. This quondam community of public 
employment induced Thelwall to visit Cole- 
ridge at Nether Stowey, where he fell in my 
way. He really was a man of extraordinary 
talent, an affectionate husband, and a good 
father. Though brought up in the City, he 
was truly sensible of the beauty of natural ob- 
jects. I remember once, when Coleridge, he, 
and I were seated together upon the turf on 
the brink of a stream in the most beautiful 
part of the most beautiful glen of Alfoxden, 
Coleridge exclaimed, " This is a place to recon- 
cile one to all the jarrings and conflicts of the 
wide world." — "'Nay," said Thelwall, "to 
make one forget them altogether." The visit 
of this man to Coleridge was, as I believe 
Coleridge has related, the occasion of a spy 
being sent by Government to watch our pro- 
ceedings, which were, I can say with truth, 
such as the world at large would have thought 
ludicrously harmless. 

I have a boy of five years old ; 
His face is fair and fresh to see; 
His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, 
And dearly he loves me. 

One morn we strolled on our dry walk, 
Our quiet home all full in view, 
And held such intermitted talk 
As we are wont to do. 

My thoughts on former pleasures ran; 
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, 10 
Our pleasant home when spring began, 
A long, long year before. 

A clay it was when I could bear 
Some fond regrets to entertain; 
With so much happiness to spare, 
I could not feel a pain. 

The green earth echoed to the feet 
Of lambs that bounded through the glade, 
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet 
From sunshine back to shade. 20 

Birds warbled round me — and each trace 
Of inward sadness had its charm ; 



Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place, 
And so is Liswyn farm. 

My boy beside me tripped, so slim 
And graceful in his rustic dress ! 
And, as we talked, I questioned him, 
In very idleness. 

" Now tell me, had you rather be," 
I said, and took him by the arm, 30 

" On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, 
Or here at Liswyn farm ? " 

In careless mood he looked at me, 
While still I held him by the arm, 
And said, " At Kilve I 'd rather be 
Than here at Liswyn farm." 

" Now, little Edward, say why so: 

My little Edward, tell me why." — 

" I cannot tell, I do not know." — 

" Why, this is strange," said I; 40 

" For, here are woods, hills smooth and 

warm: 
There surely must some reason be 
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm 
For Kilve by the green sea." 

At this, my boy hung down his head, 
He blushed with shame, nor made reply; 
And three times to the child I said, 
" Why, Edward, tell me why ? " 

His head he raised — there was in sight, 
It caught his eye, he saw it plain — 50 

Upon the house-top, glittering bright, 
A broad and gilded vane. 

Then did the boy his tongue unlock, 
And eased his mind with this reply: 
" At Kilve there was no weather-cock; 
And that 's the reason why." 

O dearest, dearest boy ! my heart 
For better lore would seldom yearn, 
Could I but teach the hundredth part 
Of what from thee I learn. 60 



THE THORN 

1798. 1798 

Written at Alfoxden. Arose out of my ob- 
serving, on the ridge of Quantock Hill, on a 



THE THORN 



75 



stormy day, a thorn which I had often past, in 
calm and bright weather, without noticing 1 it. 
I said to myself, " Cannot I by some invention 
do as much to make tliis Thorn permanently an 
impressive object as the storm has made it to 
my eyes at this moment ? " I began the poem 
accordingly, and composed it with great rapid- 
ity. Sir George Beaumont painted a picture 
from it which Wilkie thought his best. He gave 
it me ; though when he saw it several times at 
Rydal Mount afterwards, he said, " I could 
make a better, and would like to paint the same 
subject over again." The sky in this picture 
is nobly done, but it reminds one too much of 
Wilson. The only fault, however, of any con- 
sequence is the female figure, which is too old 
and decrepit for one likely to frequent an emi- 
nence on such a call. 



" There is a Thorn — it looks so old, 

In truth, you 'd find it hard to say 

How it could ever have been young, 

It looks so old and grey. 

Not higher than a two years' child 

It stands erect, this aged Thorn; 

No leaves it has, no prickly points; 

It is a mass of knotted joints, 

A wretched thing forlorn. 

It stands erect, and like a stone 

With lichens is it overgrown. 



" Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, 

With lichens to the very top, 

And hung with heavy tufts of moss, 

A melancholy crop: 

Up from the earth these mosses creep, 

And this poor Thorn they clasp it round 

So close, you 'd say that they are bent 

With plain and manifest intent 

To drag it to the ground; 20 

And all have joined in one endeavour 

To bury this poor Thorn for ever. 

Ill 

" High on a mountain's highest ridge, 

Where oft the stormy winter gale 

Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds 

It sweeps from vale to vale; 

Not five yards from the mountain path, 

This Thorn you on your left espy; 

And to the left, three yards beyond, 

You see a little muddy pond 30 

Of water — never dry 

Though but of compass small, and bare 

To thirsty suns and parching air. 



" And, close beside this aged Thorn, 

There is a fresh and lovely sight, 

A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, 

Just half a foot hi height. 

All lovely colours there you see, 

All colours that were ever seen; 

And mossy network too is there, 

As if by hand of lady fair 

The work had woven been; 

And cups, the darlings of the eye, 

So deep is their vermilion dye. 



" Ah me ! what lovely tints are there 

Of olive green and scarlet bright, 

In spikes, hi branches, and in stars, 

Green, red, and pearly white ! 

This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, 

Which close beside the Thorn you see, 50 

So fresh hi all its beauteous dyes, 

Is like an infant's grave hi size, 

As like as like can be: 

But never, never any where, 

An infant's grave was half so fair. 

VI 

" Now would you see this aged Thorn, 

This pond, and beauteous hill of moss, 

You must take care and choose your time 

The mountain when to cross. 

For oft there sits between the heap 60 

So like an hifant's grave in size, 

And that same pond of which I spoke, 

A Woman in a scarlet cloak, 

And to herself she cries, 

' Oh misery ! oh misery ! 

Oh woe is me ! oh misery ! ' 

VII 

" At all times of the day and night 

This wretched Woman thither goes; 

And she is known to every star, 

And every wind that blows; 70 

And there, beside the Thorn, she sits 

When the blue daylight 's in the skies 

And when the whirlwind 's on the hill, 

Or frosty air is keen and still, 

And to herself she cries, 

' Oh misery ! oh misery ! 

Oh woe is me 1 oh misery ! ' " 

VIII 

"Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, 
In rain, hi tempest, and in snow, 



76 



THE THORN 



Thus to the dreary mountain-top 

Does this poor Woman go ? 

And why sits she heside the Thorn 

When the blue daylight 's in the sky, 

Or when the whirlwind 's on the hill, 

Or frosty air is keen and still, 

And wherefore does she cry ? — 

O wherefore ? wherefore ? tell me why 

Does she repeat that doleful cry ? " 



" I cannot tell ; I wish I could ; 

For the true reason no one knows: 

But woidd you gladly view the spot, 

The spot to which she goes; 

The hillock like an infant's grave, 

The pond — and Thorn, so old and grey ; 

Pass by her door — 't is seldom shut — 

And, if you see her in her hut — 

Then to the spot away ! 

I never heard of such as dare 

Approach the spot when she is there." 



" But wherefore to the mountain-top 

Can this unhappy Woman go ? 

Whatever star is hi the skies, 

Whatever wind may blow ? " 

" Full twenty years are past and gone 

Since she (her name is Martha Ray) 

Gave with a maiden's true good-will 

Her company to Stephen Hill; 

And she was blithe and gay, 

While friends and kindred all approved 

Of him whom tenderly she loved. 

XI 

" And they had fixed the wedding day, 

The morning that must wed them both; 

But Stephen to another Maid 

Had sworn another oath; 

And, with this other Maid, to church 

Unthinking Stephen went — 

Poor Martha ! on that woeful day 

A pang of pitiless dismay 

Into her soul was sent; 

A fire was kindled in her breast, 

Which might not burn itself to rest. 



" They say, full six months after this, 
While yet the summer leaves were green, 
She to the mountain-top would go, 
And there was often seen. 
What could she seek ? — or wish to hide ? 



Her state to any eye was plain ; 

She was with child, and she was mad ; 

Yet often was she sober sad 

From her exceeding pain. 130 

O guilty Father — would that death 

Had saved him from that breach of faith ! 



" Sad case for such a brain to hold 

Communion with a stirring child ! 

Sad case, as you may think, for one 

Who had a brain so wild ! 

Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, 

And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen 

Held that the unborn infant wrought 

About its mother's heart, and brought 

Her senses back again: 

And, when at last her time drew near, 

Her looks were calm, her senses clear. 



" More know I not, I wish I did, 

And it should all be told to you; 

For what became of this poor child 

No mortal ever knew; 

Nay — if a child to her was born 

No earthly tongue could ever tell; 

And if 't was born alive or dead, 150 

Far less could this with proof be said; 

But some remember well, 

That Martha Ray about this time 

Would up the mountain often climb. 

xv 

" And all that whiter, when at night 

The whid blew from the mountain-peak, 

'T was worth your while, though in the dark, 

The churchyard path to seek! 

For many a time and oft were heard 

Cries coming from the mountain head: 160 

Some plainly living voices were; 

And others, I 've heard many swear, 

Were voices of the dead: 

I cannot think, whate'er they say, 

They had to do with Martha Ray. 

XVI 

" But that she goes to this old Thorn, 
The Thorn which I described to you, 
And there sits in a scarlet cloak 
I will be sworn is true. 
For one day with my telescope, 170 

To view the ocean wide and bright, 
When to this country first I came, 
Ere I had heard of Martha's name, 



GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL 



77 



I climbed the mountain's height: — 
A storm came on, and I could see 
No object higher than my knee. 



" 'T was mist and ram, and storm and 

ram: 
No screen, no fence could I discover; 
And then the wind ! in sooth, it was 
A wind full ten times over. 180 

I looked around, I thought I saw 
A jutting crag, — and off I ran, 
Head-foremost, through the drivmg rain, 
The shelter of the crag to gain; 
And, as I am a man, 
Instead of jutting crag, I found 
A Woman seated on the ground. 



" I did not speak — I saw her face ; 

Her face ! — it was enough for me ; 

I turned about and heard her cry, 190 

' Oh misery ! oh misery ! ' 

And there she sits, until the moon 

Through half the clear blue sky will go; 

And, when the little breezes make 

The waters of the pond to shake, 

As all the country know, 

She shudders, and you hear her cry, 

' Oh misery ! oh misery ! ' " 

XIX 

" But what 's the Thorn ? and what the 

pond? 
And what the hill of moss to her ? 200 

And whr\t the creeping breeze that comes 
The little pond to stir ? " 
" I cannot tell; but some will say 
She hanged her baby on the tree ; 
Some say she drowned it in the pond, 
Which is a little step beyond: 
But all and each agree, 
The little Babe was buried there, 
Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 

XX 

" I 've heard, the moss is spotted red 210 

With drops of that poor infant's blood ; 

But kill a new-born infant thus, 

I do not think she could ! 

Some say, if to the pond you go, 

And fix on it a steady view, 

The shadow of a babe you trace, 

A baby and a baby's face, 

And that it looks at you; 



Whene'er you look on it, 't is plain 
The baby looks at you again. 



" And some had sworn an oath that she 

Should be to public justice brought; 

And for the little infant's bones 

With spades they would have sought. 

But instantly the hill of moss 

Before their eyes began to stir ! 

And, for full fifty yards around, 

The grass — it shook upon the ground ! 

Yet all do still aver 

The little Babe lies buried there, 23c 

Beneath that hill of moss so fair. 

XXII 

" I cannot tell how this may be, 

But plain it is the Thorn is bound 

With heavy tufts of moss that strive 

To drag it to the ground; 

And this I know, full many a time, 

When she was on the mountain high, 

By day, and in the silent night, 

When all the stars shone clear and bright, 

That I have heard her cry, 240 

' Oh misery ! oh misery ! 

Oh woe is me ! oh misery ! ' " 



GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL 

A TRUE STORY 

1798. I798 

Written at Alfoxden. The incident from 
Dr. Darwin's Zoonomia. 

Oh ! what's the matter? what 's the matter? 
What is 't that ails young Harry Gill ? 
That evermore his teeth they chatter, 
Chatter, chatter, chatter still ! 
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine; 
He has a blanket on his back, 
And coats enough to smother nine. 

In March, December, and hi July, 
'T is all the same with Harry Gill ; 10 

The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, 
His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
At night, at morning, and at noon, 
'T is all the same with Harry Gill ; 
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 
His teeth they chatter, chatter still ! 



73 



GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL 



Young Harry was a lusty drover, 

And who so stont of limb as he ? 

His cheeks were red as ruddy clover; 

His voice was like the voice of three. 20 

Old Goody Blake was old and poor; 

111 fed she was, and thinly clad; 

And any man who passed her door 

Might see how poor a hut she had. 

All day she spun in her poor dwelling: 
And then her three hours' work at night, 
Alas ! 't was hardly worth the telling, 
It would not pay for candle-light. 
Remote from sheltered village-green, 
On a bill's northern side she dwelt, 30 

Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns 

lean, 
And hoary dews are slow to melt. 

By the same fire to boil their pottage, 
Two poor old Dames, as I have known, 
Will often live in one small cottage; 
But she, poor Woman ! housed alone. 
'T was well enough when summer came, 
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, 
Then at her door the canty Dame 
Would sit, as any linnet, gay. 40 

But when the ice our streams did fet- 
ter, 
Oh then how her old bones would shake ! 
You would have said, if you had met her, 
'T was a hard time for Goody Blake. 
Her evenings then were dull and dead: 
Sad case it was, as you may think, 
For very cold to go to bed, 
And then for cold not sleep a wink. 

O joy for her ! whene'er in winter 

The winds at night had made a rotit; 50 

And scattered many a lusty splinter 

And many a rotten bough about. 

Yet never had she, well or sick, 

As every man who knew her says, 

A pile beforehand, turf or stick, 

Enough to warm her for three days. 

Now, when the frost was past enduring, 
And made her poor old bones to ache, 
Could any thing be more alluring 
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake ? 60 
And, now and then, it must be said, 
When her old bones were cold and chill, 
She left her fire, or left her bed, 
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 



Now Harry he had long suspected 

This trespass of old Goody Blake; 

And vowed that she should be detected — 

That he on her would vengeance take. 

And oft from his warm fire he 'd go, 

And to the fields his road would take; 70 

And there, at night, in frost and snow, 

He watched to seize old Goody Blake. 

And once, behind a rick of barley, 
Thus looking out did Harry stand: 
The moon was full and shining clearly, 
And crisp with frost the stubble land. 
— He hears a noise — he 's all awake — 
Again ? — on tip-toe down the hill 
He softly creeps — 't is Goody Blake; 
She 's at the hedge of Harry Gill ! 80 

Right glad was he when he beheld her: 
Stick after stick did Goody pull: 
He stood behind a bush of elder, 
Till she had filled her apron full. 
When with her load she turned about, 
The by-way back again to take; 
He started forward, with a shout, 
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. 

And fiercely by the arm he took her, 
And by the arm he held her fast, 90 

And fiercely by the arm he shook her, 
And cried, " I 've caught you then at 

last ! " — 
Then Goody, who had nothing said, 
Her bundle from her lap let fall ; 
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 
To God that is the judge of all. 

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, 
While Harry held her by the arm — 
" God ! who art never out of hearing, 
O may he never more be warm ! " 100 

The cold, cold moon above her head, 
Thus on her knees did Goody pray ; 
Young Harry heard what she had said: 
And icy cold he turned away. 

He went complaining all the morrow 
That he was cold and very chill: 
His face was gloom, his heart was sor- 
row, 
Alas ! that day for Harry Gill ! 
That day he wore a riding-coat, 
But not a whit the warmer he: no 

Another was on Thursday brought, 
And ere the Sabbath he had three. 



HER EYES ARE WILD 



79 



'T was all in vain, a useless matter, 
And blankets were about him pinned; 
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter; 
Like a loose casement in the wind. 
And Harry's flesh it fell away; 
And all who see him say, 't is plain, 
That, live as long as live he may, 
He never will be warm again. 120 

No word to any man he ntters, 
A-bed or up, to young or old; 
Rut ever to himself he mutters, 
" Poor Harry Gill is very cold." 
A-bed or up, by night or day ; 
His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, 
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill ! 

HER EYES ARE WILD 

1798. 179S 

Written at Alfoxden. The subject was re- 
ported to me by a lady of Bristol, who had 
seen the poor creature. 



Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, 

The sun has burnt her coal-black hair; 

Her eyebrows have a rusty stain, 

And she came far from over the main. 

She has a baby on her arm, 

Or else she were alone: 

And underneath the hay-stack warm, 

And on the greenwood stone, 

She talked and sung the woods among, 

And it was in the English tongue. 



" Sweet babe ! they say that I am mad, 

But nay, my heart is far too glad; 

And I am happy when I sing 

Full many a sad and doleful thing: 

Then, lovely baby, do not fear ! 

I pray thee have no fear of me; 

But safe as in a cradle, here, 

My lovely baby ! thou shalt be: 

To thee I know too much I owe; 

I cannot work thee any woe. 



" A fire was once within my brain ; 
And in my head a dull, dull pain; 
And fiendish faces, one, two, three, 
Hung at my breast, and pulled at me; 



But then there came a sight of joy; 
It came at once to do me good; 
I waked, and saw my little boy, 
My little boy of flesh and blood; 
Oh joy for me that sight to see ! 
For he was here, and only he. 



" Suck, little babe, oh suck again ! 
It cools my blood; it cools my brain; 
Thy lips I feel them, baby ! they 
Draw from my heart the pain away. 
Oh ! press me with thy little hand; 
It loosens something at my chest ; 
About that tight and deadly band 
I feel thy little fingers prest. 
The breeze I see is in the tree: 
It comes to cool my babe and me. 



" Oh ! love me, love me, little boy ! 

Thou art thy mother's only joy; 

And do not dread the waves below, 

When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go; 

The high crag cannot work me harm, 

Nor leaping torrents when they howl; 

The babe I carry on my arm, 

He saves for me my precious soul; 

Then happy lie; for blest am I; 

Without me my sweet babe would die. 50 



" Then do not fear, my boy ! for thee 

Bold as a lion will I be; 

And I will always be thy guide, 

Through hollow snows and rivers wide. 

I '11 build an Indian bower ; I know 

The leaves that make the softest bed: 

And, if from me thou wilt not go, 

But still be true till I am dead, 

My pretty thing ! then thou shalt sing 

As merry as the birds in spring. 60 

VII 

" Thy father cares not for my breast, 

'T is thine, sweet baby, there to rest ; 

'T is all thine own ! — and, if its hue 

Be changed, that was so fair to view, 

'T is fair enough for thee, my dove ! 

My beauty, little child, is flown, 

But thou wilt live with me in love, 

And what if my poor cheek be brown ? 

'T is well for me, thou canst not see 

How pale and wan it else would be. 70 



8o 



SIMON LEE 



" Dread not their taunts, my little Life ; 
I am thy father's wedded wife; 
And underneath the spreading tree 
We two will live in honesty. 
If his sweet boy he could forsake, 
With me he never would have stayed: 
From him no harm my babe can take; 
But he, poor man ! is wretched made; 
And every day we two will pray 
For him that 's gone and far away. 



" I '11 teach my boy the sweetest things: 

I '11 teach him how the owlet sings. 

My little babe ! thy lips are still, 

And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. 

— Where art thou gone, my own dear 

child ? 
What wicked looks are those I see ? 
Alas ! alas ! that look so wild, 
It never, never came from me: 
If thou art mad, my pretty lad, 
Then I must be for ever sad. 90 



" Oh ! smile on me, my little lamb ! 

For I thy own dear mother am: 

My love for thee has well been tried: 

I 've sought thy father far and wide. 

I know the poisons of the shade; 

I know the earth-nuts fit for food : 

Then, pretty dear, be not afraid: 

We '11 find thy father in the wood. 

Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away ! 

And there, my babe, we '11 live for aye." 100 

SIMON LEE 

THE OLD HUNTSMAN; 

WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS 

CONCERNED 

I798. I798 

This old man had been huntsman to the 
squires of Alfoxden, which, at the time we oc- 
cupied it, belonged to a minor. The old man's 
cottage stood upon the common, a little way 
from the entrance to Alfoxden Park. But it 
had disappeared. Many other changes had 
taken place in the adjoining village, which I 
could not but notice with a regret more natural 
than well-considered. Improvements but rarely 
appear such to those who, after long intervals of 
time, revisit places they have had much pleasure 



in. It is unnecessary to add, the fact was as 
mentioned in the poem ; and I have, after an 
interval of forty-five years, the image of the 
old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had 
seen him yesterday. The expression when the 
hounds were out, "I dearly love their voice," 
was word for word from his own lips. 

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 
An old Man dwells, a little man, — 
'T is said he once was tall. 
Full five-and-thirty years he lived 
A running huntsman merry; 
And still the centre of his cheek 
Is red as a ripe cherry. 

No man like him the horn could sound, 

And hill and valley rang with glee 10 

When Echo bandied, round and round, 

The halloo of Simon Lee. 

In those proud days, he little cared 

For husbandry or tillage; 

To blither tasks did Simon rouse 

The sleepers of the village. 

He all the country could outrun, 

Could leave both man and horse behind; 

And often, ere the chase was done, 

He reeled, and was stone-blind. 20 

And still there 's something in the world 

At which his heart rejoices; 

For when the chiming hounds are out, 

He dearly loves their voices ! 

But, oh the heavy change ! — bereft 

Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, 

see ! 
Old Simon to the world is left 
In liveried poverty. 
His Master 's dead, — and no one now 
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 30 

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; 
He is the sole survivor. 

And he is lean and he is sick; 

His body, dwindled and awry, 

Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 

His legs are thin and dry. 

One prop he has, and only one, 

His wife, an aged woman, 

Lives with him, near the waterfall, 

Upon the village Common. 40 

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 
Not twenty paces from the door, 



LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 



A scrap of land they have, but they 
Are poorest of the poor. 
This scrap of land he from the heath 
Enclosed when he was stronger; 
But what to them avails the land 
Which he can till no longer ? 

Oft, working by her Husband's side, 
Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 
For she, with scanty cause for pride, 
Is stouter of the two. 
And, though you with your utmost skill 
From labour could not wean them, 
'T is little, very little — all 
That they can do between them. 

Few months of life has he in store 

As he to you will tell, 

For still, the more he works, the more 

Do his weak ankles swell. 

My gentle Reader, I perceive 

How patiently you 've waited, 

And now I fear that you expect 

Some tale will be related. 

O Reader ! had you in your mind 
Such stores as silent thought can bring, 

gentle Reader ! you would find 
A tale in every thing. 

What more I have to say is short, 
And you must kindly take it: 
It is no tale; but, should you think, 
Perhaps a tale you '11 make it. 

One summer-day I chanced to see 
This old Man doing all he could 
To unearth the root of an old tree, 
A stump of rotten wood. 
The mattock tottered in his hand; 
So vain was his endeavour, 
That at the root of the old tree 
He might have worked for ever. 

*' You 're overtasked, good Simon Lee, 
Give me your tool," to him I said; 
And at the word right gladly he 
Received my proffered aid. 

1 struck, and with a single blow 
The tangled root I severed, 

At which the poor old Man so long 
And vainly had endeavoured. 

The tears into his eyes were brought, 
And thanks and praises seemed to run 



go 



So fast out of his heart, I thought 

They never would have done. 

— I 've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 

With coldness still returning; 

Alas ! the gratitude of men 

Hath oftener left me mourning. 



LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY 
SPRING 

179S. 179S 

Actually composed while I was sitting by the 
side of the brook that runs down from the 
Comb, in which stands the village of Alford, 
through the grounds of Alfoxden. It was a 
chosen resort of mine. The brook fell down a 
sloping rock so as to make a waterfall consid- 
erable for that country, and across the pool be- 
low had fallen a tree, an ash if I rightly remem- 
ber, from which rose perpendicularly, boughs in 
search of the light intercepted by the deep 
shade above. The boughs bore leaves of green 
that for want of sunshine had faded into almost 
lily-white ; and from the underside of this 
natural sylvan bridge depended long and beau- 
tiful tresses of ivy which waved gently in the 
breeze that might poetically speaking be called 
the breath of the waterfall. This motion varied 
of course in proportion to the power of water in 
the brook. When, with dear friends, I revisited 
this spot, after an interval of more than forty 
years, this interesting feature of the scene was 
gone. To the owner of the place I could not 
but regret that the beauty of this retired part 
of the grounds had not tempted him to make it 
more accessible by a path, not broad or obtru- 
sive, but sufficient for persons who love such 
scenes to creep along without difficulty. 

I heard a thousand blended notes, 
While in a grove I sate reclined, 
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind, 

To her fair works did Nature link 
The human soul that through me ran; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that green 

bower, 
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 
And 't is my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds aroimd me hopped and played^ 
Their thoughts I cannot measure: — 



82 



TO MY SISTER 



But the least motion which they made 
It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The hudding twigs spread out their fan, 
To catch the breezy air; 
And I must think, do all I can, 
That there was pleasure there. 

If this belief from heaven be sent, 
If such be Nature's holy plan, 
Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man ? 



TO MY SISTER 
1798. 1798 

Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My 
little boy-messenger on this occasion was the 
son of Basil Montagu. The larch mentioned 
in the first stanza was standing when I revisited 
the place in May, 18-41, more than forty years 
after. I was disappointed that it had not im- 
proved in appearance as to size, nor had it ac- 
quired anything of the majesty of age, which, 
even though less perhaps than any other tree, 
the larch sometimes does. A few score yards 
from this tree, grew, when we inhabited Alfox- 
den, one of the most remarkable beech-trees 
ever seen. The ground sloped both towards 
and from it. It was of immense size, and threw 
out arms that struck into the soil, like those of 
the banyan-tree, .and rose again from it. Two 
of the branches thus inserted themselves twice, 
which gave to each the appearance of a serpent 
moving along by gathering itself up in folds. 
One of the large boughs of this tree had been 
torn off by the wind before we left Alfoxden, 
but five remained. In 1841 we could barely 
find the spot where the tree had stood. So re- 
markable a production of nature could not have 
been wilfully destroyed. 

It is the first mild day of March: 
Each minute sweeter than before 
The redbreast sings from the tall larch 
That stands beside our door. 

There is a blessing in the air, 
Which seems a sense of joy to yield 
To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 
And grass in the green field. 

My sister ! ('tis a wish of mine) 
Now that our morning meal is done, 10 

Make haste, your morning task resign ; 
Come forth and feel the sun. 



Edward will come with you; — and, pray, 
Put on with speed your woodland dress? 
And bring no book: for this one day 
We '11 give to idleness. 

No joyless forms shall regulate 

Our living calendar: 

We from to-day, my Friend, will date 

The opening of the year. 2 

Love, now a universal birth, 
From heart to heart is stealing, 
From earth to man, from man to earth: 
— It is the hour of feeling. 

One moment now may give us more 
Than years of toiling reason: 
Our minds shall drink at every pore 
The spirit of the season. 

Some silent laws our hearts will make, 
Which they shall long obey: 3 

We for the year to come may take 
Our temper from to-day. 

And from the blessed power that rolls 
About, below, above, 
We '11 frame the measure of our souls : 
They shall be tmied to love. 

Then come, my Sister ! come, I pray, 
With speed put on your woodland dress; 
And bring no book: for this one day 
We '11 give to idleness. 4 



"A WHIRL-BLAST FROM BE- 
HIND THE HILL" 

1798. 1800 

Observed in the holly-grove at Alfoxden, 
where these verses were written in the spring of 
1799. I had the pleasure of again seeing, with 
dear friends, this grove in unimpaired beauty 
forty-one years after. 

A whirl-blast from behind the hill 

Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound; 

Then — all at once the air was still, 

And showers of hailstones pattered round. 

Where leafless oaks towered high above, 

I sat within an undergrove 

Of tallest hollies, tall and green; 

A fairer bower was never seen. 

From year to year the spacious floor 

With withered leaves is covered o'er, 



THE TABLES TURNED 



83 



And all the year the hower is green. 
But see ! where'er the hailstones drop 
The withered leaves all skip and hop; 
There 's not a breeze — no breath of air ■ 
Yet here, and there, and everywhere 
Along the floor, beneath the shade 
By those embowering hollies made, 
The leaves in myriads jump and spring, 
As if with pipes and music rare 
Some Robin Good-fellow were there, 
And all those leaves, in festive glee, 
Were dancing to the minstrelsy. 



EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY 
1798. 1798 

This poem is a favourite among 1 the Quakers, 
as I have learnt on many occasions. It was 
composed in front of the house at Alfoxden, in 
the spring of 171)8. 

" Why, William, on that old grey stone, 
Thus for the length of half a day, 
Why, William, sit you thus alone, 
And dream your time away ? 

" Where are your books ? — that light be- 
queathed 
To Beings else forlorn and blind ! 
Up ! \ip ! and drink the spirit breathed 
From dead men to their kind. 

" You look round on your Mother Earth, 
As if she for no purpose bore you; 10 

As if you were her first-born birth, 
And none had lived before you ! " 

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, 
When life was sweet, I knew not why, 
To me my good friend Matthew spake, 
And thus I made reply: 

" The eye — it cannot choose but see ; 
We cannot bid the ear be still; 
Our bodies feel, where'er they be, 
Against or with our will. 20 

" Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
Which of themselves our minds impress; 
That we can feed this mind of ours 
In a wise passiveness. 

" Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
Of things for ever speaking, 



That nothing of itself will come, 
But we must still be seeking ? 

" — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 
Conversing as I may, ; 

I sit upon this old grey stone, 
And dream my time away." 



THE TABLES TURNED 

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME 
SUBJECT 

I798. 1798 

Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; 
Or surely you '11 grow double: 
Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks; 
Why all this toil and trouble ? 

The sun, above the mountain's head, 

A freshening lustre mellow 

Through all the long green fields has 

spread, 
His first sweet evening yellow. 

Books ! 't is a dull and endless strife : 
Come, hear the woodland linnet, 10 

How sweet his music ! on my life, 
There 's more of wisdom hi it. 

And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 
He, too, is no mean preacher: 
Come forth into the light of things, 
Let Nature be your teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth, 
Our minds and hearts to bless — 
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 20 

One impulse from a vernal wood 
May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good, 
Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 
Our meddling intellect 
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things : — 
We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art; 
Close up those barren leaves; 30 

Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
That watches and receives. 



8 4 



THE COMPLAINT 



THE COMPLAINT 

OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN 

1798. 1798 

Written at Alfoxden, where I read Hearne's 
Journey with deep interest. It was composed 
for the volume of Lyrical Ballads. 

When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is 
unable to continue his journey with his com- 
panions, he is left behind, covered over with 
deer -skins, and is supplied with water, food, and 
fuel, if the situation of the place will afford it. 
He is informed of the track which his compan- 
ions intend to pursue, and if he be unable to 
follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in 
the desert ; unless he should have the good for- 
tune to fall in with some other tribes of In- 
dians. The females are equally, or still more, 
exposed to the same fate. See that very inter- 
esting work Hearne's Journey from Hudson's 
Bay to the Northern Ocean. In the high north- 
ern latitudes, as the same writer informs us, 
when the northern lights vary their position in 
the air, they make a rustling and a crackling 
noise, as alluded to in the following poem. 



Before I see another clay, 

Oh let my body die away ! 

In sleep I heard the northern gleams; 

The stars, they were among my dreams; 

In rustling conflict through the skies, 

I heard, I saw the flashes drive, 

And yet they are upon my eyes, 

And yet I am alive; 

Before I see another day, 

Oh let my body die away ! 



My fire is dead: it knew no pain; 

Yet is it dead, and I remain: 

All stiff with ice the ashes lie; 

And they are dead, and I will die. 

When I was well, I wished to live, 

For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire; 

But they to me no joy can give, 

No pleasure now, and no desire. 

Then here contented will I lie ! 

Alone, I cannot fear to die. 20 



Alas ! ye might have dragged me on 
Another day, a single one ! 
Too soon I yielded to despair; 
Why did ye listen to my prayer ? 



When ye were gone my limbs were stronger; 

And oh, how grievously I rue, 

That, afterwards, a little longer, 

My friends, I did not follow you ! 

For strong and without pain I lay, 

Dear friends, when ye were gone away. 30 

IV 

My Child ! they gave thee to another, 
A woman who was not thy mother. 
When from my arms my Babe they took, 
On me how strangely did he look ! 
Through his whole body something ran, 
A most strange working did I see; 
— As if he strove to be a man, 
That he might pull the sledge for me : 
And then he stretched his arms, how wild ! 
Oh mercy ! like a helpless child. 4 o 



My little joy ! my little pride ! 
In two days more I must have died. 
Then do not weep and grieve for me; 
I feel I must have died with thee. 

wind, that o'er my head art flying 

The way my friends their course did 
bend, 

1 should not feel the pain of dying, 
Could I with thee a message send; 
Too soon, my friends, ye went away; 

For I had many things to say. so 



I '11 follow you across the snow; 

Ye travel heavily and slow; 

In spite of all my weary pain 

I '11 look upon your tents again. 

— My fire is dead, and snowy white 

The water which beside it stood: 

The wolf has come to me to-night, 

And he has stolen away my food. 

For ever left alone am I; 

Then wherefore should I fear to die ? 60 



Young as I am, my course is run, 

I shall not see another sun; 

I cannot lift my limbs to know 

If they have any life or no. 

My poor forsaken Child, if I 

For onoe could have thee close to me, 

With happy heart I then would die, 

And my last thought would happy be; 

But thou, dear Babe, art far away, 

Nor shall I see another day. jo 



THE LAST OF THE FLOCK 



85 



THE LAST OF THE FLOCK 
1798. 1798 

Produced at the same time and for the same 
purpose. The incident occurred in the village 
of Holford, close by Alfoxden. 



In distant countries have I been, 
And yet I have not often seen 
A healthy man, a man full grown, 
Weep hi the public roads, alone. 
But such a one, on English ground, 
And in the broad highway, I met; 
Along the broad highway he came, 
His cheeks with tears were wet: 
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad; 
And in his arms a Lamb he had. 



He saw me, and he turned aside, 

As if he wished himself to hide: 

And with his coat did then essay 

To wipe those briny tears away. 

I followed him, and said, " My friend, 

What ails you ? wherefore weep you so ? 

— " Shame on me, Sir ! this lusty Lamb, 

He makes my tears to flow. 

To-day I fetched him from the rock; 

He is the last of all my flock. 2 



" When I was young, a single man, 
And after youthful follies ran, 
Though little given to care and thought, 
Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought; 
And other sheep from her I raised, 
As healthy sheep as you might see; 
And then I married, and was rich 
As I could wish to be; 
Of sheep I numbered a full score, 
And every year increased my store. 



" Year after year my stock it grew; 

And from this one, this single ewe, 

Full fifty comely sheep I raised, 

As fine a flock as ever grazed ! 

Upon the Quantock hills they fed; 

They throve, and we at home did thrive: 

— This lusty Lamb of all my store 

Is all that is alive; 

And now I care not if we die, 

And perish all of poverty. 



" Six Children, Sir ! had I to feed; 

Hard labour hi a time of need ! 

My pride was tamed, and hi our grief 

I of the Parish asked relief. 

They said, I was a wealthy man; 

My sheep upon the uplands fed, 

And it was fit that thence I took 

Whereof to buy us bread. 

' Do this : how can we give to you,' 

They cried, ' what to the poor is due ? ' 50 



" I sold a sheep, as they had said, 

And bought my little children bread, 

And they were healthy with their food, 

For me — it never did me good. 

A woeful time it was for me, 

To see the end of all my gains, 

The pretty flock which I had reared 

With all my care and pains, 

To see it melt like snow away — 

For me it was a woeful day. 00 

VII 

" Another still ! and still another ! 

A little lamb, and then its mother ! 

It was a vein that never stopped — 

Like blood - drops from my heart they 

dropped. 
Till thirty were not left alive 
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one, 
And I may say, that many a time 
I wished they all were gone — 
Reckless of what might come at last 
Were but the bitter struggle past. 70 



" To wicked deeds I was inclined, 

And wicked fancies crossed my mind; 

And every man I chanced to see, 

I thought he knew some ill of me: 

No peace, no comfort could I find, 

No ease, within doors or without; 

And, crazily and wearily 

I went my work about; 

And oft was moved to flee from home, 7c, 

And hide my head where wild beasts roam 



" Sir ! 't was a precious flock to me 
As dear as my own children be; 
For daily with my growing store 
I loved my children more and more. 
Alas ! it was an evil time ; 



86 



THE IDIOT BOY 



God cursed me in my sore distress; 
I prayed, yet every day I thought 
I loved my children less; 
And every week, and every day, 
My flock it seemed to melt away. 



" They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see ! 
From ten to five, from five to three, 
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe ; — 
And then at last from three to two; 
And, of my fifty, yesterday 
I had but only one: 
And here it lies upon my arm, 
Alas ! and I have none ; — 
To-day I fetched it from the rock; 
It is the last of all my flock." 



THE IDIOT BOY 
1798. 1798 

The last stanza — " The Cocks did crow to- 
■whoo, to-whoo, And the sun did shine so cold " 
■ — was the foundation of the whole. The words 
were reported to me hy my dear friend, Thomas 
Poole ; but I have since heard the same repeated 
of other Idiots. Let me add that this long- poem 
was composed in the groves of Alf oxden, almost 
extempore ; not a word, I believe, heing cor- 
rected, though one stanza was omitted. I men- 
tion this in gratitude to those happy moments, 
for, in truth, I never wrote anything with so 
much glee. 

'T is eight o'clock, — a clear March night, 
The moon is up, — the sky is blue, 
The owlet, in the moonlight air, 
Shouts from nobody knows where; 
He lengthens out his lonely shout, 
Halloo ! halloo ! a long halloo ! 

— Why bustle thus about your door, 
What means this bustle, Betty Foy ? 
Why are you in this mighty fret ? 
And why on horseback have you set 10 

Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy ? 

Scarcely a soid is out of bed; 
Good Betty, put him down again; 
His lips with joy they burr at you; 
But, Betty ! what has he to do 
With stirrup, saddle, or with rein ? 

But Betty 's bent on her intent; 
For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, 



Old Susan, she who dwells alone, 

Is sick, and makes a piteous moan 20- 

As if her very life would fail. 

There 's not a house within a mile, 
No hand to help them in distress; 
Old Susan lies a-bed in pain, 
And sorely puzzled are the twain, 
For what she ails they cannot guess. 

And Betty's husband 's at the wood, 

Where by the week he doth abide, 

A woodman in the distant vale ; 

There 's none to help poor Susan Gale ; 30 

What must be done ? what will betide ? 

And Betty from the lane has fetched 
Her Pony, that is mild and good; 
Whether he be in joy or pain, 
Feeding at will along the lane, 
Or bringing faggots from the wood. 

And he is all in travelling trim, — 

And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy 

Has on the well-girt saddle set 

(The like was never heard of yet) 40 

Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 

And he must post without delay 
Across the bridge and through the dale, 
And by the church, and o'er the down, 
To bring a Doctor from the town, 
Or she will die, old Susan Gale. 

There is no need of boot or spur, 

There is no need of whip or wand; 

For Johnny has his holly-bough, 

And with a hurly-burly now 50 

He shakes the green bough in his hand. 

And Betty o'er and o'er has told 
The Boy, who is her best delight, 
Both what to follow, what to shun, 
What do, and what to leave undone, 
How turn to left, and how to right. 

And Betty's most especial charge, 
Was, " Johnny ! Johnny ! mind that you 
Come home again, nor stop at all, — 
Come home again, whate'er befall, 60 

My Johnny, do, I pray you do." 

To this did Johnny answer make, 
Both with his head and with his hand, 



THE IDIOT BOY 



87 



And proudly shook the bridle too; 
And then ! his words were not a few, 
Which Betty well could understand. 

And now that Jolinny is just going, 

Though Betty 's in a mighty flurry, 

She gently pats the Pony's side, 

On which her Idiot Boy must ride, 70 

And seems no longer in a hurry. 

But when the Pony moved his legs, 
Oh ! then for the poor Idiot Boy ! 
For joy he cannot hold the bridle, 
For joy his head and heels are idle, 
He 's idle all for very joy. 

And while the Pony moves his legs, 
In Johnny's left hand you may see 
The green bough motionless and dead: 
The Moon that shines above his head 80 
Is not more still and mute than he. 

His heart it was so full of glee, 
That till full fifty yards were gone, 
He quite forgot his holly whip, 
And all his skill in horsemanship: 
Oh ! happy, happy, happy John. 

And while the Mother, at the door, 
Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erfiows, 
Proud of herself, and proud of him, 
She sees him in his travelling trim, 90 

How quietly her Johnny goes. 

The silence of her Idiot Boy, 
What hopes it sends to Betty's heart ! 
He 's at the guide-post — he turns right ; 
She watches till he 's out of sight, 
And Betty will not then depart. 

Burr, burr — now Johnny's lips they burr, 

As loud as any mill, or near it; 

Meek as a lamb the Pony moves, 

And Johnny makes the noise he loves, 100 

And Betty listens, glad to hear it. 

Away she hies to Susan Gale: 
Her Messenger 's in merry tune ; 
The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, 
And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr. 
As on he goes beneath the moon. 

His steed and he right well agree ; 
For of this Pony there 's a rumour, 



That, should he lose his eyes and ears, 
And should he live a thousand years, no 
He never will be out of humour. 

But then he is a horse that thinks ! 
And when he thinks, his pace is slack; 
Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, 
Yet, for his life, he cannot tell 
What he has got upon his back. 

So through the moonlight lanes they go, 
And far into the moonlight dale, 
And by the church, and o'er the down, 
To bring a Doctor from the town, 120 

To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 

And Betty, now at Susan's side, 
Is in the middle of her story, 
What speedy help her Boy will bring, 
With many a most diverting thing, 
Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory. 

And Betty, still at Susan's side, 

By this time is not quite so flurried: 

Demnre with porringer and plate 

She sits, as if in Susan's fate 130 

Her life and soul were buried. 

But Betty, poor good woman ! she, 
You plainly in her face may read it, 
Could lend out of that moment's store 
Five years of happiness or more 
To any that might need it. 

But yet I guess that now and then 
With Betty all was not so well; 
And to the road she turns her ears, 
And thence fidl many a sound she hears, 140 
Which she to Susan will not tell. 

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; 
" As sure as there 's a moon in heaven," 
Cries Betty, " he '11 be back again; 
They '11 both be here — 't is almost ten — 
Both will be here before eleven." 

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; 
The clock gives warning for eleven; 
'T is on the stroke — " He nrast be near," 
Quoth Betty, " and will soon be here, 150 
As sure as there 's a moon in heaven." 

The clock is on the stroke of twelve, 
And Johnny is not yet in sight: 



88 



THE IDIOT BOY 



— The Moon 's in heaven, as Betty sees, 
But Betty is not quite at ease; 

And Susan has a dreadful night. 

And Betty, half an hour ago, 
On Johnny vile reflections cast: 
" A little idle sauntering Thing ! " 
With other names, an endless string; i 
But now that time is gone and past. 

And Betty 's drooping at the heart, 
That happy time all past and gone, 
" How can it he he is so late ? 
The Doctor, he has made him wait; 
Susan ! they '11 both be here anon." 

And Susan 's growing worse and worse, 

And Betty 's in a sad quandary; 

And then there 's nobody to say 

If she must go, or she must stay ! i 

— She 's in a sad quandary. 

The clock is on the stroke of one; 
But neither Doctor nor his Guide 
Appears along the moonlight road; . 
There 's neither horse nor man abroad, 
And Betty 's still at Susan's side. 

And Susan now begins to fear 

Of sad mischances not a few: 

That Johnny may perhaps be drowned, 

Or lost, perhaps, and never found ; j 

Which they must both for ever rue. 

She prefaced half a hint of this 
With, " God forbid it should be true ! " 
At the first word that Susan said 
Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 
" Susan, I 'd gladly stay with you. 

" I must be gone, I must away: 
Consider, Johnny's but half -wise; 
Susan, we must take care of him, 
If he is hurt in life or limb " — 1 

" Oh God forbid ! " poor Susan cries. 

" What can I do ? " says Betty, going, 
" What can I do to ease your pain ? 
Good Susan tell me, and I '11 stay; 
I fear you 're in a dreadful way, 
But I shall soon be back again." 

" Nay, Betty, go ! good Betty, go ! 
There 's nothing that can ease my pain." 



Then off she hies ; but with a prayer 

That God poor Susan's life would spare, 200 

Till she comes back again. 

So, through the moonlight lane she goes, 
And far into the moonlight dale; 
And how she ran, and how she walked, 
And all that to herself she talked, 
Would surely be a tedious tale. 

In high and low, above, below, 

In great and small, hi roimd and square, 

In tree and tower was Johnny seen, 

In bush and brake, in black and green; 210 

'T was Johnny, Johnny, every where. 

And while she crossed the bridge, there 

came 
A thought with which her heart is sore — 
Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, 
To hunt the moon within the brook, 
And never will be heard of more. 

Now is she high upon the down, 

Alone amid a prospect wide; 

There 's neither Johnny nor his Horse 

Among the fern or hi the gorse; 220 

There 's neither Doctor nor his Guide. 

" O saints ! what is become of him ? 
Perhaps he 's climbed into an oak, 
Where he will stay till he is dead; 
Or, sadly he has been misled, 
And joined the wandering gipsy-folk. 

" Or him that wicked Pony 's carried 

To the dark cave, the goblin's hall; 

Or in the castle he 's pursuing 

Among the ghosts his own undoing; 230 

Or playing with the waterfall." 

At poor old Susan then she railed, 
While to the town she posts away; 
" If Susan had not been so ill, 
Alas ! I should have had him still, 
My Johnny, till my dying day." 

Poor Betty, hi this sad distemper, 
The Doctor's self could hardly spare: 
Unworthy things she talked, and wild; 
Even he, of cattle the most mild, 240 

The Pony had his share. 

But now she 's fairly in the town, 
And to the Doctor's door she hies; 



THE IDIOT BOY 



89 



'T is silence all on every side ; 

The town so long, the town so wide, 

Is silent as the skies. 

And now she 's at the Doctor's door, 
She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap; 
The Doctor at th.3 casement shows 
His glimmering eyes that peep and doze ! 
And one hand rubs his old night-cap. 251 



my 



" O Doctor ! Doctor ! where 's 

Johnny ? " 

" I 'm here, what is 't you want with me ? " 
" O Sir ! you know I 'm Betty Foy, 
And I have lost my poor dear Boy, 
You know him — him you often see ; 

" He 's not so wise as some folks be: " 
" The devil take his wisdom ! " said 
The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, 
" What, Woman ! should I know of him ? " 
And, grumbling, he went back to bed ! 261 

" O woe is me ! O woe is me ! 
Here will I die; here will I die; 
I thought to find my lost one here, 
But he is neither far nor near, 
Oh ! what a wretched Mother I! " 

She stops, she stands, she looks about; 
Which way to turn she cannot tell. 
Poor Betty ! it would ease her pain 
Ji she had heart to knock again; 270 

— The clock strikes three — a dismal knell ! 

Then up along the town she hies, 

No wonder if her senses fail; 

This piteous news so much it shocked her, 

She quite forgot to send the Doctor, 

To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 

And now she 's high upon the down, 
And she can see a mile of road: 
" O cruel ! I 'm almost threescore; 
Such night as this was ne'er before, 2S0 

There 's not a single soul abroad." 

She listens, but she cannot hear 
The foot of horse, the voice of man; 
The streams with softest sound are flowing, 
The grass you almost hear it growing, 
You hear it now, if e'er you can. 

The owlets through the long blue night 
Are shouting to each other still: 



Fond lovers ! yet not quite hob nob, 

They lengthen out the tremulous sob, 290 

That echoes far from hill to hill. 

Poor Betty now has lost all hope, 
Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin, 
A green-grown pond she just has past, 
And from the brink she hurries fast, 
Lest she should drown herself therein. 

And now she sits her down and weeps; 

Such tears she never shed before; 

" Oh dear, dear Pony ! my sweet joy ! 

Oh carry back my Idiot Boy ! 300 

And we will ne'er o'erload thee more." 

A thought is come into her head: 
The Pony he is mild and good, 
And we have always used him well; 
Perhaps he 's gone along the dell, 
And carried Johnny to the wood. 

Then up she springs as if on wings; 

She thinks no more of deadly sin; 

If Betty fifty ponds should see, 

The last of all her thoughts would be 3 10 

To drown herself therein. 

O Beader ! now that I might tell 
What Johnny and his Horse are doing, 
What they 've been doing all this time, 
Oh could I put it into rhyme, 
A most delightful tale pursuing ! 

Perhaps, and no unlikely thought ! 

He with his Pony now doth roam 

The cliffs and peaks so high that are, 

To lay his hands upon a star, 320 

And in his pocket bring it home. 

Perhaps he 's turned himself about, 
His face unto his horse's tail, 
And, still and mute, in wonder lost, 
All silent as a horseman-ghost, 
He travels slowly down the vale. 

And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep, 

A fierce and dreadful hunter he; 

Yon valley, now so trim and green, 

In five months' time, should he be seen, 33, 

A desert wilderness will be ! 

Perhaps, with head and heels on fire, 
And like the very soul of evil, 



9° 



THE IDIOT BOY 



He 's galloping away, away, 

And so will gallop on for aye, 

The bane of all that dread the devil ! 

I to the Muses have been bound 

These fourteen years, by strong indentures. 

O gentle Muses ! let me tell 

But half of what to him befell; 340 

He surely met with strange adventures. 

O gentle Muses ! is this kind ? 
Why will ye thus my suit repel ? 
Why of your further aid bereave me ? 
And can ye thus unfriended leave me, 
Ye Muses ! whom I love so well ? 

Who 's yon, that, near the waterfall, 
Which thunders down with headlong force, 
Beneath the moon, yet shining fair, 
As careless as if nothing were, 350 

Sits upright on a feeding horse ? 

Unto his horse — there feeding free, 
He seems, I think, the rein to give; 
Of moon or stars he takes no heed; 
Of such we in romances read: 
— 'T is Johnny ! Johnny ! as I live. 

And that 's the very Pony, too ! 

Where is she, where is Betty Foy ? 

She hardly can sustain her fears; 

The roaring waterfall she hears, 360 

And cannot find her Idiot Boy. 

Your Pony 's worth his weight in gold : 
Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy ! 
She 's coming from among the trees, 
And now all full in view she sees 
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 

And Betty sees the Pony too: 

Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy ? 

It is no goblin, 't is no ghost, 

'T is he whom you so long have lost 370 

He whom you love, your Idiot Boy. 

She looks again — her arms are up — 
She screams — she cannot move for joy; 
She darts, as with a torrent's force, 
She almost has o'erturned the Horse, 
And fast she holds her Idiot Boy. 

And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud; 
Whether in cunning or in joy 



I cannot tell; but while he laughs, 

Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs 3 So 

To hear again her Idiot Boy. 

And now she 's at the Pony's tail, 
And now is at the Pony's head, — 
On that side now, and now on this ; 
And, almost stifled with her bliss, 
A few sad tears does Betty shed. 

She kisses o'er and o'er again 

Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy; 

She 's happy here, is happy there, 

She is uneasy every where ; 390 

Her limbs are all alive with joy. 

She pats the Pony, where or when 
She knows not, happy Betty Foy I 
The little Pony glad may be, 
But he is milder far than she, 
You hardly can perceive his joy. 

" Oh ! Johnny, never mind the Doctor; 
You 've done your best, and that is all: " 
She took the reins, when this was said, 
And gently turned the Pony's head 400 

From the loud waterfall. 

By this the stars were almost gone, 
The moon was setting on the hill, 
So pale you scarcely looked at her: 
The little birds began to stir, 
Though yet their tongues were still. 

The Pony, Betty, and her Boy, 

Wind slowly through the woody dale; 

And who is she, betimes abroad, 

That hobbles up the steep rough road ? 410 

Who is it, but old Susan Gale ? 

Long time lay Susan lost in thought; 
And many dreadful fears beset her, 
Both for her Messenger and Nurse; 
And, as her mind grew worse and worse, 
Her body — it grew better. 

She turned, she tossed herself in bed, 
On all sides doubts and terrors met her; 
Point after point did she discuss; 
And, while her mind was fighting thus, 420 
Her body still grew better. 

" Alas ! what is become of them ? 
i These fears can never be endured; 



LINES 



9i 



I '11 to the wood." — The word scarce said, 
Did Susan rise up from her bed, 
As if by magic cured. 

Away she goes up hill and down, 
And to the wood at length is come; 
She spies her Friends, she shouts a greet- 
ing; 
Oh me ! it is a merry meeting 430 

As ever was in Christendom. 

The owls have hardly sung their last, 
While our four travellers homeward wend; 
The owls have hooted all night long, 
And with the owls began my song, 
And with the owls must end. 

For while they all were travelling home, 
Cried Betty, " Tell us, Johnny, do, 
Where all this long night you have been, 
What you have heard, what you have 
seen: 440 

And, Johnny, mind you tell us true." 

Now Johnny all night long had heard 
The owls in tuneful concert strive; 
No doubt too he the moon had seen; 
For in the moonlight he had been 
From eight o'clock till five. 

And thus, to Betty's question, he 

Made answer, like a traveller bold, 

(His very words I give to you,) 

" The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, 450 

And the sun did shine so cold ! " 

— Thus answered Johnny in his glory, 

And that was all his travel's story. 



LINES 

COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN 
ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF 
THE WYE DURING A TOUR. JULY 13, 
1798 

1798. 1798 

No poem of mine was composed under cir- 
cumstances more pleasant for me to remember 
than this. I began it upon leaving- Tintern, 
after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just 
as I was entering Bristol in the evening, after 
j& ramble of four or five days, with my Sister. 
Not a line of it was altered, and not any part 
of it written down till I reached Bristol. It 
was published almost immediately after in the 



little volume of which so much has been said 
in these Notes. — (The Lyrical Ballads, as first 
published at Bristol by Cottle.) 

Five years have past; five summers, with 

the length 
Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
These waters, rolling from their mountain- 
springs 
With a soft inland murmur. — Once again 
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
That on a wild secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and con- 
nect 
The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
The day is come when I again repose 
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10 
These plots of cottage-ground, these 

orchard-tufts, 
Which at this season, with their unripe 

fruits, 
Are clad in one green hue, and lose them- 
selves 
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little 

lines 
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral 

farms, 
Green to the very door; and wreaths of 

smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless 
woods, 20 

Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 
The Hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms, 
Through a long absence, have not been to 

me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
Felt hi the blood, and felt along the heart; 
And passing even into my purer mind, 
With tranquil restoration: — feelings too 30 
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life, 
His little, nameless, unremembered, acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
To them I may have owed another gift, 
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed 

mood, 
In which the burthen of the mystery, 



9 2 



LINES 



+ 



In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world, 40 

Is lightened: — that serene and blessed 

mood, 
In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
And even the motion of our human blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul: 
While with an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — 50 
In darkness and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
How oft, hi spirit, have I turned to thee, 

sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer thro' the 

woods, 
How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 
And now, with gleams of half-extin- 
guished thought, 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60 

The picture of the mind revives again: 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing 

thoughts 
That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope, 
Though changed, no doubt, from what I 
was when first 

1 came among these hills ; when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the 

sides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
Wherever nature led: more like a man 70 
Flying from something that he dreads, 

than one 
Who sought the thing he loved. For na- 
ture then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
And their glad annual movements all gone 

by) 

To me was all in all. — I cannot paint' 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy 

wood, 
Their colours and their forms, were then 

to me 
An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 80 

That had no need of a remoter charm, 



By thought supplied, nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is 

past, 
And all its aching joys are now no more, 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other 

gifts 
Have followed; for such loss, I would be- 
lieve, 
Abundant recompense. For I have 

learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing often- 
times 9° 
The still, sad music of humanity, 
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample 

power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
And the round ocean and the living air, 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 100 

All thinking things, all objects of all 

thought, 
And rolls through all things. Therefore 

am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods, 
And mountains; and of all that we behold 
From this green earth; of all the mighty 

world 
Of eye, and ear, — both what they half 

create, 
And what perceive; well pleased to recog- 
nise 
In nature and the language of the sense, 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the 

nurse, 
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and 

SOVll 110 

Of all my moral being. 

Nor perchance, 
If I were not thus taught, should I the 

more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay: 
For thou art with me here upon the banks 
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, 
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I 

catch 
The language of my former heart, and 

read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 



THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR 



93 



May I behold in thee what I was once, 120 
My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I 

make, 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her ; 't is her privi- 
lege, 
Through all the years of this our life, to 

lead 
From joy to joy: for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil 

tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish 

men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life, 131 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we be- 
hold 
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; 
And let the misty mountain-winds be free 
To blow against thee: and, in after years, 
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind 
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140 
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh ! 

then, 
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
Should be thy portion, with what healing 

thoughts 
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 
And these my exhortations ! Nor, per- 
chance — 
If I should be where I no more can hear 
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes 

these gleams 
Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 
That on the banks of this delightful stream 
We stood together; and that I, so long 151 
A worshipper of Nature, hither came 
Unwearied in that service: rather say 
With warmer love — oh ! with far deeper 

zeal 
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then for- 

' get, 
That after many wanderings, many years 
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty 

cliffs, 
And this green pastoral landscape, were to 

me 
More dear, both for themselves and for thy 
sake ! 



THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR 

1798. 1S00 

Observed, and with great benefit to my 
own heart, when I was a child : written at 
Racedown and Alfoxden in my twenty-third 
year. The political economists were about that 
time beginning their war upon mendicity in all 
its forms, and by implication, it' not directly, 
on alms-giving also. This heartless process lias 
been carried as far as it can go by the AMENDED 
poor-law bill, though the inhumanity that pre- 
vails in this measure is somewhat disguised by 
the profession that one of its objects is to throw 
the poor upon the voluntary donations of their 
neighbours ; that is, if rightly interpreted, to 
force them into a condition between relief in 
the Union poorhouse, and alms robbed of their 
Christian grace and spirit, as being forced ra- 
ther from the benevolent than given by them ; 
while the avaricious and selfish, and all in fact 
but. the humane and charitable, are at liberty 
to keep all they possess from their distressed 
brethren. 

The class of Beggars, to which the Old Man 
here described belongs, will probably soon be 
extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old 
and infirm persons, who confined themselves to 
a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had 
certain fixed days, on which, at different houses, 
they regularly received alms, sometimes in 
money, but mostly in provisions. 

I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk; 
And he was seated, by the highway side, 
On a low structure of rude masonry 
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they 
Who lead their horses down the steep rough 

road 
May thence remount at ease. The aged 

Man 
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth 

stone 
That overlays the pile; and, from a hag 
All white with flour, the dole of village 

dames, 
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by 

one ; 10 

And scanned them with a fixed and serious 

look 
Of idle computation. In the sun, 
Upon the second step of that small pile, 
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, 
He sat, and ate his food in solitude: 
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, 
That, still attempting to prevent the waste, 
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers 



94 



THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR 



Fell on the ground ; and the small mountain 

birds, 
Not venturing yet to peck their destined 

meal, 20 

Approached within the length of half his 

staff. 
Him from my childhood have I known; 

and then 
He was so old, he seems not older now; 
He travels on, a solitary Man, 
So helpless in appearance, that for him 
The sauntering Horseman throws not with 

a slack 
And careless hand his alms upon the ground, 
But stops, — that he may safely lodge the 

coin 
Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so, 
But still, when he has given his horse the 

rein, 30 

Watches the aged Beggar with a look 
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends 
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door 
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees 
The aged beggar coming, quits her work, 
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. 
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'er- 

take 
The aged Beggar in the woody lane, 
Shouts to him from behind; and if, thus 

warned, 
The old man does not change his course, 

the boy 40 

Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside, 
And passes gently by, without a curse 
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. 

He travels on, a solitary Man; 
His age has no companion. On the ground 
His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along 
They move along the ground; and, ever- 
more, 
Instead of common and habitual sight 48 
Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, 
And the blue sky, one little span of earth 
Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, 
Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, 
He plies his weary journey ; seeing still, 
And seldom knowing that he sees, some 

straw, 
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one 

track, 
The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left 
Impressed on the white road, — in the same 

line, 
At distance still the same. Poor Traveller ! 
His staff trails with him ; scarcely do his feet 



Disturb the summer dust; he is so still 60 
In look and motion, that the cottage curs, 
Ere he has passed the door, will turn away s 
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, 
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, 
And urchins newlv breeched — all pass him 

by: 
Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves 
behind. 
But deem not this Man useless. — States- 
men ! ye 
Who are so restless hi your wisdom, ye 
Who have a broom still ready hi your hands 
To rid the world of nuisances ; ye proud, 70 
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye con- 
template 
Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him 

not 
A burthen cf the earth ! 'T is Nature's law 
That none, the meanest of created things, 
Or forms created the most vile and brute, 
The dullest or most noxious, should exist 
Divorced from good — a spirit and pulse of 

good, 
A life and soul, to every mode of being 
Inseparably linked. Then be assured 
That least of all can aught — that ever 
owned 80 

The heaven-regarding eye and front sub- 
lime 
Which man is born to — sink, howe'er de- 
pressed,' 
So low as to be scorned without a sin; 
Without offence to God cast out of view; 
Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower 
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement 
Worn out and worthless. While from door 

to door, 
This old Man creeps, the villagers in him 
Behold a record which together binds 
Past deeds and offices of charity, 90 

Else unremembered, and so keeps alive 
The kindly mood hi hearts which lapse of 

years, 
And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, 
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign 
To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 
Among the farms and solitary huts, 
Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, 
Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, 
The mild necessity of use compels 
To acts of love; and habit does the work 
Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy 101 
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, 
By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, 



THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR 



95 



Doth find herself insensibly disposed 
To virtue and true goodness. 

Some there are, 
By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
And meditative, authors of delight 
And happiness, which to the end of time 
Will live, and spread, and kindle : even such 

minds 
In childhood, from this solitary Being, no 
Or from like wanderer, haply have received 
(A thing more precious far than all that 

books 
Or the solicitudes of love can do !) 
That first mild touch of sympathy and 

thought, 
In which they found their kindred with a 

world 
Where want and sorrow were. The easy 

man 
Who sits at his own door, — and, like the 

pear 
That overhangs his head from the green 

wall, 
Feeds in the sunshine ; the robust and young, 
The prosperous and unthinking, they who 

live 120 

Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove 
Of their own kindred; — all behold in him 
A silent monitor, which on their minds 
Must needs impress a transitory thought 
Of self-congratulation, to the heart 
Of each recalling his peculiar boons, 
His charters and exemptions; and, per- 
chance, 
Though he to no one give the fortitude 
And circumspection needful to preserve 
His present blessings, and to husband up 
The respite of the season, he, at least, 131 
And 't is no vulgar service, makes them felt. 
Yet further. Many, I believe, there 

are 
Who live a life of virtuous decency, 
Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel 
No self-reproach; who of the moral law 
Established hi the land where they abide 
Are strict observers; and not negligent 
In acts of love to those with whom they 

dwell, 
Their kindred, and the children of their 

blood. 140 

Praise be to such, and to their slumbers 



peace 



— But of the poor man ask, the abject poor; 
Go, and demand of him, if there be here 
In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 



And these inevitable charities, 
Wherewith to satisfy the human soul? 
No — man is dear to man ; the poorest poor 
Long for some moments in a weary life 
When they can know and feel that they 

have been, 
Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out 
Of some small blessings; have been kind to 

such 151 

As needed kindness, for this single cause, 
That we have all of us one human heart. 

— Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, 
My neighbour, when with punctual care, 

each week 
Duly as Friday comes, though pressed her- 
self 
By her own wants, she from her store of 

meal 
Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip 
Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door 
Returning with exhilarated heart, 160 

Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in 
heaven. 
Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
And while in that vast solitude to which 
The tide of things has borne him, he ap- 
pears 
To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about 
The good which the benignant law of 

Heaven 
Has hung around him : and, while life is his, 
Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers 
To tender offices and pensive thoughts. 170 

— Then let him pass, a blessing on his 

head ! 
And, long as he can wander, let him breathe 
The freshness of the valleys; let his blood 
Struggle with frosty air and whiter snows; 
And let the chartered wind that sweeps the 

heath 
Beat his grey locks against his withered 

face. 
Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness 
Gives the last human interest to his heart. 
May never House, misnamed of Industry, 
Make him a captive ! — for that pent-up 

din, 180 

Those life-consuming sounds that clog the 

air, 
Be his the natural silence of old age ! 
Let him be free of mountain solitudes; 
And have around him, whether heard or not, 
The pleasant melody of woodland birds. 
Few are his pleasures : if his eyes have now 



9 6 



ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY 



Been doomed so long to settle upon earth 
That not without some effort they behold 
The countenance of the horizontal sun, 
Rising or setting, let the light at least 190 
Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. 
And let him, where and when he will, sit 

down 
Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank 
Of highway side, and with the little birds 
Share his chance-gathered meal; and, 

finally, 
As in the eye of Nature he has lived, 
So in the eye of Nature let him die ! 



ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND 
DECAY 

1798. 179S 

The little hedgerow birds, 
That peck along the roads, regard him not. 
He travels on, and in his face, his step, 
His gait, is one expression: every limb, 
His look and bending figure, all bespeak 
A man who does not move with pain, but 

moves 
With thought. — He is insensibly subdued 
To settled quiet: he is one by whom 
All effort seems forgotten; one to whom 
Long patience hath such mild composure 

given, 
That patience now doth seem a thing of 

which 
He hath no need. He is by nature led 
To peace so perfect that the young behold 
With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels. 



PETER BELL 

A TALE 
What 's in a Name t 

Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Caesar ! 

I798. I819 

Written at Alfoxden. Founded upon an an- 
ecdote, which I read in a newspaper, of an ass 
being- found hanging his head over a canal in a 
wretched posture. Upon examination a dead 
body was found in the water and proved to be 
the body of its master. The countenance, gait, 
and figure of Peter, were taken from a wild 



rover with whom I walked from Builth, on the 
river Wye, downwards nearly as far as the town 
of Hay. He told me strange stories. It has 
always been a pleasure to me through life to 
catch at every opportunity that has occurred 
in my rambles of becoming acquainted with 
this class of people. The number of Peter's 
wives was taken from the trespasses in this way 
of a lawless creature who lived in the county 
of Durham, and used to be attended by many 
women, sometimes not less than half a dozen, 
as disorderly as bimself. Benoni, or the child 
of sorrow, I knew when I was a school-boy. 
His mother bad been deserted by a gentleman 
in the neighbourhood, she herself being a gen- 
tlewoman by birth. The circumstances of her 
story were told me by my dear old Dame, 
Anne Tyson, who was her confidante. The 
Lady died broken-hearted. — In the woods of 
Alfoxden I used to take great delight in no- 
ticing the habits, tricks, and physiognomy of 
asses ; and I have no doubt that I was thus put 
upon writing the poem out of liking for the 
creature that is so often dreadfully abused. — 
The crescent-moon, which makes such a figure 
in the prologue, assumed this character one 
evening while I was watching its beauty in 
front of Alfoxden House. I intended this 
poem for the volume before spoken of, but it- 
was not published for more than twenty years 
afterwards. — The worship of the Methodists 
or Ranters is often heard during the stillness of 
the summer evening in the country with affect- 
ing accompaniments of rural beauty. In both 
the psalmody and the voice of the preacher 
there is, not unfrequently, much solemnity 
likely to impress the feelings of the rudest 
characters under favourable circumstances. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., P.L., 

ETC. ETC. 

My dear Friend, 

The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now intro- 
duce to your notice, and to that of the Pub- 
lic, has, in its Manuscript state, nearly survived 
its minority : — for it first saw the light in the 
summer of 179S. During this long interval, 
pains have been taken at different times to 
make the production less unworthy of a favour- 
able reception ; or, rather, to fit it for filling 
permanently a station, however humble, in the 
Literature of our Country. This has. indeed, 
been the aim of all my endeavours in Poetry, 
which, you know, have been sufficiently labo- 
rious to prove that I deem the Art not lightly 
to be approached ; and that the attainment of 
excellence in it may laudably be made the prin- 
cipal object of intellectual pursuit by any man, 



PETER BELL 



97 



who, with reasonable consideration of circum- 
stances, has faith in his own impulses. 

The Poem of Peter Bell, as the Prologue 
will show, was composed under a belief that 
the Imagination not only does not require for 
its exercise the intervention of supernatural 
agency, but that, though such agency be ex- 
cluded, the faculty may be called forth as im- 
periously and for kindred results of pleasure, 
by incidents, within the compass of poetic prob- 
ability, in the humblest departments of daily 
life. Since that Prologue was written, you have 
exhibited most splendid effects of judicious 
daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let 
this acknowledgment make my peace with the 
lovers of the supernatural ; and I am persuaded 
it will be admitted, that to you, as a Master in 
that province of the Art, the following Tale, 
whether from contrast or congruity, is not an 
unappropriate offering. Accept it, then, as a 
public testimony of affectionate admiration 
from one with whose name yours has been 
often coupled (to use your own words) for evil 
and for good ; and believe me to be, with ear- 
nest wishes that life and health may be granted 
you to complete the many important works in 
which you are engaged, and with high respect, 
Most faithfully yours, 

William Wordsworth. 
Rydal Mount, April 7, 1S19. 



PROLOGUE 

There 's something in a flying horse, 
There 's something in a huge balloon; 
But through the clouds I '11 never float 
Until I have a little Boat, 
Shaped like the crescent-moon. 

And now I have a little Boat, 

In shape a very crescent-moon: 

Fast through the clouds my boat can sail; 

But if perchance your faith should fail, 

Look up — and you shall see me soon ! io 

The woods, my Friends, are round you 

roaring, 
Rocking and roaring like a sea; 
The noise of danger 's in your ears, 
And ye have all a thousand fears 
Both for my little Boat and me ! 

Meanwhile untroubled I admire 

The pointed horns of my canoe; 

And, did not pity touch my breast, 

To see how ye are all distrest, 

Till my ribs ached, I 'd laugh at you ! 20 



Away we go, my Boat and I — 
Frail man ne'er sate in such another; 
Whether among the whids we strive, 
Or deep into the clouds we dive, 
Each is contented with the other. 

Away we go — and what care we 

For treasons, tumults, and for wars ? 

We are as calm in our delight 

As is the crescent-moon so bright 

Among the scattered stars. 30 

Up goes my Boat among the stars 
Through many a breathless field of light, 
Through many a long blue field of ether, 
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her: 
Up goes my little Boat so bright ! 

The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull — 
We pry among them all; have shot 
High o'er the red-haired race of Mars, 
Covered from top to toe with scars; 
Such company I like it not ! 40 

The towns in Saturn are decayed, 

And melancholy Spectres throng them; — 

The Pleiads, that appear to kiss 

Each other in the vast abyss, 

With joy I sail among them. 

Swift Mercury resounds with mirth, 
Great Jove is full of stately bowers; 
But these, and all that they contain, 
What are they to that tiny grain, 
That little Earth of ours ? 50 

Then back to Earth, the dear greeu 

Earth : — 
Whole ages if I here should roam, 
The world for my remarks and me 
Would not a whit the better be; 
I 've left my heart at home. 

See ! there she is, the matchless Earth ! 
There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean ! 
Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear 
Through the grey clouds; the Alps are 

here, 
Like waters in commotion ! 60 

Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands ; 
That silver thread the river Dnieper ! 
And look, where clothed in brightest green 
Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen; 
Ye fairies, from all evil keep her ! 



9 s 



PETER BELL 



And see the town where I was born ! 

Around those happy fields we span 

In boyish gambols; — I was lost 

Where I have been, but on this coast 

I feel I am a man. 70 

Never did fifty things at once 
Appear so lovely, never, never; — 
How tunefully the forests ring ! 
To hear the earth's soft murmuring 
Thus could I hang for ever ! 

" Shame on you ! " cried my little Boat, 

" Was ever such a homesick Loon, 

Within a living Boat to sit, 

And make no better use of it; 

A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon ! So 

" Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet 
Fluttered so f aint a heart before ; — 
Was it the music of the spheres 
That overpowered your mortal ears ? 
— Such din shall trouble them no more. 

" These nether precincts do not lack 
Charms of their own; — then come with 

me; 
I want a comrade, and for you 
There 's nothing that I would not do ; 
Nought is there that you shall not see. 90 

" Haste ! and above Siberian snows 
We '11 sport amid the boreal morning; 
Will mingle with her lustres gliding 
Among the stars, the stars now hiding, 
And now the stars adorning. 

" I know the secrets of a land 

Where human foot did never stray; 

Fair is that land as evening skies, 

And cool, though in the depth it lies 

Of burning Africa. 100 

" Or we '11 into the realm of Faery, 
Among the lovely shades of things; 
The shadowy forms of mountains bare, 
And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair, 
The shades of palaces and kings ! 

" Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal 
Less qniet regions to explore, 
Prompt voyage shall to you reveal 
How earth and heaven are taught to feel 
The might of magic lore ! " no 



" My little vagrant Form of light, 

My gay and beautiful Canoe, 

Well have you played your friendly part; 

As kindly take what from my heart 

Experience forces — then adieu ! 

" Temptation lurks among your words ; 
But, while these pleasures you 're pur- 
suing 
Without impediment or let, 
No wonder if you quite forget 
What on the earth is doing. 120 

" There was a time when all mankind 
Did listen with a faith sincere 
To tuneful tongues in mystery versed; 
Then Poets fearlessly rehearsed 
The wonders of a wild career. 

" Go — (but the world 's a sleepy world, 
And 'tis, I fear, an age too late) 
Take with you some ambitious Youth ! 
For, restless Wanderer ! I, in truth, 
Am all unfit to be your mate. 130 

" Long have I loved what I behold, 
The night that calms, the day that cheers; 
The common growth of mother-earth 
Suffices me — her tears, her mirth, 
Her humblest mirth and tears. 

" The dragon's wing, the magic ring, 

I shall not covet for my dower, 

If I along that lowly way 

W ith sympathetic heart may stray, 

And with a soul of power. i 4C 

" These given, what more need I desire 
To stir, to soothe, or elevate ? 
What nobler marvels than the mind 
May in life's daily prospect find, 
May find or there create ? 

" A potent wand doth Sorrow wield ; 
What spell so strong as guilty Fear ! 
Repentance is a tender Sprite; 
If aught on earth have heavenly might, 
'T is lodged within her silent tear. 150 

" But grant my wishes, — let us now 
Descend from this ethereal height; 
Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff, 
More daring far than Hippogriff, 
And be thy own delight ! 



PETER BELL 



99 



" To the stone-table in my garden, 
Loved haunt of many a summer hour, 
Tha Squire is come: his daughter Bess 
Beside him hi the cool recess 
Sits blooming like a flower. 160 

" With these are many more convened; 
They know not I have been so far; — 
I see them there, in number nine, 
Beneath the spreading Weymouth-pine ! 
I see them — there they are ! 

" There sits the Vicar and his Dame ; 

And there my good friend, Stephen Otter; 

And, ere the light of evening fail, 

To them I must relate the Tale 

Of Peter Bell the Potter." 170 

Off flew the Boat — away she flees, 
Spurning her freight with indignation ! 
And I, as well as I was able, 
On two poor legs, toward my stone-table 
Limped on with sore vexation. 

" O, here he is ! " cried little Bess — 
She saw me at the garden-door; 
" We 've waited anxiously and long," 
They cried, and all around me throng, 
Full nine of them or more ! 180 

" Reproach me not — your fears be still — 
Be thankful we again have met; — 
Resume, my Friends ! within the shade 
Your seats, and quickly shall be paid 
The well-remembered del}t." 

I spake with faltering voice, like one 
Not wholly rescued from the pale 
Of a wild dream, or worse illusion; 
But, straight, to cover my confusion, 
Began the promised Tale. 190 

PART FIRST 

All by the moonlight river side 
Groaned the poor Beast — alas ! in vain ; 
The staff was raised to loftier height, 
And the blows fell with heavier weight 
As Peter struck — and struck again. 

" Hold ! " cried the Squire, " against the 

rules 
Of common sense you 're surely sinning; 
This leap is for us all too bold; 
Who Peter was, let that be told, 
And start from the beginning." :o 



" A Potter, Sir, he was by trade," 

Said I, becoming quite collected; 
" And wheresoever he appeared, 
Full twenty times was Peter feared 
For once that Peter was respected. 

" He, two-and-thirty years or more, 
Had been a wild and woodland rover; 
Had heard the Atlantic surges roar 
On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore, 
And trod the cliffs of Dover. 20 

" And he had seen Caernarvon's towers, 
And well he knew the spire of Sarum; 
And he had been where Lincoln bell 
Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell — 
A far-renowned alarum ! 

" At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds, 

And merry Carlisle had he been; 

And all along the Lowlands fair, 

All through the bonnie shire of Ayr 

And far as Aberdeen. 30 

" And he had been at Inverness ; 

And Peter, by the mountain-rills, 

Had danced his round with Highland 

lasses ; 
And he had lain beside his asses 
On lofty Cheviot Hills: 

" And he had trudged through Yorkshire 

dales, 
Among the rocks and winding scars ; 
Where deep and low the hamlets lie 
Beneath their little patch of sky 
And little lot of stars: 40 

" And all along the indented coast, 
Bespattered with the salt-sea foam; 
Where'er a knot of houses lay 
On headland, or in hollow bay; — 
Sure never man like him did roam ! 

" As well might Peter, in the Fleet, 

Have been fast bound, a begging debtor; — 

He travelled here, he travelled there; — 

But not the value of a hair 

Was heart or head the better. 50 

" He roved among the vales and streams, 
In the green wood and hollow dell; 
They were his dwellings night and day, — 
But nature ne'er could find the way 
Into the heart of Peter Bell. 



IOO 



PETER BELL 



" In vain, throngh every changeful year, 

Did Nature lead him as before; 

A primrose by a river's brim 

A yellow primrose was to him, 

And it was nothing more. 60 

" Small change it made on Peter 's heart 
To see his gentle panniered train 
With more than vernal pleasm-e feeding, 
Where'er the tender grass was leading 
Its earliest green along the lane. 

" In vain, through water, earth, and air, 
The soul of happy sound was spread, 
When Peter on some April morn, 
Beneath the broom or budding thorn, 
Made the warm earth his lazy bed. 7 o 

" At noon, when, by the forest's edge 
He lay beneath the branches high, 
The soft blue sky did never melt 
Into his heart; he never felt 
The witchery of the soft blue sky ! 

" On a fair prospect some have looked 

And felt, as I have heard them say, 

As if the moving time had been 

A thing as steadfast as the scene 

On which they gazed themselves away. 80 

" Within the breast of Peter Bell 
These silent raptures found no place; 
He was a Carl as wild and rude 
As ever hue-and-cry pursued, 
As ever ran a felon's race. 

" Of all that lead a lawless life, 

Of all that love their lawless lives, 

In city or in village small, 

He was the wildest far of all ; — 

He had a dozen wedded wives. go 

" Nay, start not ! — wedded wives — and 

twelve ! 
But how one wife could e'er come near 

him, 
In simple truth I cannot tell; 
For, be it said of Peter Bell, 
To see him was to fear him. 

" Though Nature could not touch his heart 
By lovely forms, and silent weather, 
And tender sounds, yet you might see 
At once, that Peter Bell and she 
Had often been together. ioo 



" A savage wildness round him hung 

As of a dweller out of doors; 

In his whole figure and his mien 

A savage character was seen 

Of mountains and of dreary moors. 

" To all the unshaped half-human thoughts 

Which solitary Nature feeds 

'Mid summer storms or winter's ice, 

Had Peter joined whatever vice 

The cruel city breeds. JIO 

" His face was keen as is the wind 
That cuts along the hawthorn-fence; — 
Of courage you saw little there, 
But, in its stead, a medley air 
Of cunning and of impudence. 

" He had a dark and sidelong walk, 

And long and slouching was his gait; 

Beneath his looks so bare and bold, 

You might perceive, his spirit cold 

Was playing with some hi ward bait. 120 

" His forehead wrinkled was and furred; 
A work, one half of which was done 
By thinking of his ' whens ' and ' hows ; ' 
And half, by knitting of his brows 
Beneath the glaring sun. 

" There was a hardness in his cheek, 

There was a hardness in his eye, 

As if the man had fixed his face, 

In many a solitary place, 

Against the wind and open sky ! " , 30 



One night, (and now my little Bess ! 
We 've reached at last the promised Tale:) 
One beautiful November night, 
When the full moon was shining bright 
Upon the rapid river Swale, 

Along the river's winding banks 

Peter was travelling all aloi:e; — 

Whether to buy or sell, or led 

By pleasure running in his head, 

To me was never known. I40 

He trudged along through copse and brake, 
He trudged along o'er hill and dale ; 
Nor for the moon cared he a tittle, 
And for the stars he cared as little, 
And for the murmuring river Swale. 



PETER BELL 



101 



But, chancing to espy a path 

That promised to cut short the way, 

As many a wiser man hath done, 

He left a trusty guide for one 

That might his steps betray. 150 

To a thick wood he soon is brought 
Where cheerily his course he weaves, 
And whistling loud may yet be heard, 
Though often buried, like a bird 
Darkling, among the boughs and leaves. 

But quickly Peter's mood is changed, 
And on he drives with cheeks that burn 
In downright fury and in wrath ; — 
There 's little sign the treacherous path 
Will to the road return ! 160 

The path grows dim, and dimmer still; 
Now up, now down, the Rover wends, 
With all the sail that he can carry, 
Till brought to a deserted quarry — 
And there the pathway ends. 

He paused — for shadows of strange shape, 
Massy and black, before him lay; 
But through the dark, and through the cold, 
And through the yawning fissures old, 
Did Peter boldly press his way 170 

Right through the quarry; — and behold 
A scene of soft and lovely hue ! 
Where blue and grey, and tender green, 
Together make as sweet a scene 
As ever human eye did view. 

Beneath the clear blue sky he saw 

A little field of meadow ground; 

But field or meadow name it not; 

Call it of earth a small green plot, 

With rocks encompassed round. 180 

The Swale flowed under the grey rocks, 
But he flowed quiet and, unseen; — 
You need a strong and stormy gale 
To bring the noises of the Swale 
To that green spot, so calm and green ! 

And is there no one dwelling here, 

No hermit with his beads and glass ? 

And does no little cottage look 

Upon this soft and fertile nook ? 

Does no one live near this green grass ? 190 



Across the deep and quiet spot 
Is Peter driving through the grass — 
And now has reached the skirting trees; 
When, turning round his head, he sees 
A solitary Ass. 

" A Prize ! " cries Peter — but he first 
Must spy about him far and near: 
There 's not a single house in sight, 
No woodman's hut, no cottage light — 
Peter, you need not fear ! 200 

There 's nothing to be seen but woods, 
And rocks that spread a hoary gleam, 
And this one Beast, that from the bed 
Of the green meadow hangs his head 
Over the silent stream. 

His head is with a halter bound; 

The halter seizing, Peter leapt 

Upon the Creature's back, and plied 

With ready heels his shaggy side; 

But still the Ass his station kept. 210 

Then Peter gave a sudden jerk, 
A jerk that from a dungeon-floor 
Would have pulled up an iron ring; 
But still the heavy-headed Thing 
Stood just as he had stood before ! 

Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat, 

" There is some plot against me laid; " 

Once more the little meadow-ground 

And all the hoary cliffs around 

He cautiously surveyed. 220 

All, all is silent — rocks and woods, 
All still and silent — far and near ! 
Only the Ass, with motion dull, 
Upon the pivot of his skull 
Turns round his long left ear. 

Thought Peter, What can mean all this ? 

Some ugly witchcraft must be here ! 

— Once more the Ass, with motion dull, 

Upon the pivot of his skull 

Turned round his long left ear. 230 

Suspicion ripened into dread; 
Yet with deliberate action slow, 
His staff high-raising, in the pride 
Of skill, upon the sounding hide, 
He dealt a sturdy blow. 



PETER BELL 



The poor Ass staggered with the shock; 
And then, as if to take his ease, 
In quiet uncomplaining mood, 
Upon the spot where he had stood, . 
Dropped gently down upon his knees: 240 

As gently on his side he fell; 
And by the river's brink did lie ; 
And, while he lay like one that mourned, 
The patient Beast on Peter turned 
His shining hazel eye. 

'T was but one mild, reproachful look, 
A look more tender than severe; 
And straight in sorrow, not in dread, 
He turned the eye-ball in his head 249 

Towards the smooth river deep and clear. 

Upon the Beast the sapling rings ; 

His lank sides heaved, his limbs they 

stirred ; 
He gave a groan, and then another, 
Of that which went before the brother, 
And then he gave a third. 

All by the moonlight river side 
He gave three miserable groans; 
And not till now hath Peter seen 
How gaunt the Creature is, — how lean 
And sharp his staring bones ! 260 

With legs stretched out and stiff he lay : — 
No word of kind commiseration 
Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue; 
With hard contempt his heart was wrung, 
With hatred and vexation. 

The meagre beast lay still as death; 
And Peter's lips with fury quiver; 
Quoth he, " You little mulish dog, 
I '11 fling your carcase like a log 
Head-foremost down the river ! " 270 

An impious oath confirmed the threat — 
Whereat from the earth on which he lay 
To all the echoes, south and north, 
And east and west, the Ass sent forth 
A long and clamorous bray ! 

This outcry, on the heart of Peter, 

Seems like a note of joy to strike, — 

Joy at the heart of Peter knocks; 

But in the echo of the rocks 

Was something Peter did not like. 280 



Whether to cheer his coward breast, 
Or that he coidd not break the chain, 
In this serene and solemn hour, 
Twined round him by demoniac power, 
To the blind work he turned again. 

Among the rocks and winding crags; 
Among the mountains far away ; 
Once more the Ass did lengthen out 
More ruefully a deep-drawn shout, 289 

The hard dry see-saw of his horrible bray ! 

What is there now in Peter's heart ? 
Or whence the might of this strange sound ? 
The moon uneasy looked and dimmer, 
The broad blue heavens appeared to glim- 
mer, 
And the rocks staggered all around — 

From Peter's hand the sapling dropped ! 

Threat has he none to execute; 

" If any one should come and see 

That I am here, they '11 think," quoth he, 

" I 'm helping this poor dying brute." 300 

He scans the Ass from limb to limb, 
And ventures now to uplift his eyes; 
More steady looks the moon, and clear, 
More like themselves the rocks appear 
And touch more quiet skies. 

His scorn returns — his hate revives ; 

He stoops the Ass's neck to seize 

With malice — that again takes flight; 

For in the pool a startling sight 

Meets him, among the. inverted trees. 310 

Is it the moon's distorted face ? 
The ghost-like image of a cloud ? 
Is it a gallows there portrayed? 
Is Peter of himself afraid ? 
Is it a coffin, — or a shroud ? 

A grisly idol hewn in stone ? 

Or imp from witch's lap let fall ? 

Perhaps a ring of shining fairies ? 

Such as pursue their feared vagaries 

In sylvan bower, or haimted hall ? 320 

Is it a fiend that to a stake 

Of fire his desperate self is tethering ? 

Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell 

In solitary ward or cell, 

Ten thousand miles from all his brethren ? 



PETER BELL 



103 



Never did pulse so quickly throb, 

And never heart so loudly panted; 

He looks, he cannot choose but look; 

Like some one reading hi a book — 

A book that is enchanted. 330 

Ah, well-a-clay for Peter Bell ! 
He will be turned to iron soon, 
Meet Statue for the court of Fear I 
His hat is up — and every hah' 
Bristles, and whitens in the moon ! 

He looks, he ponders, looks again; 
He sees a motion — hears a groan; 
His eyes will burst — his heart will break — 
He gives a loud and frightful shriek, 
And back he falls, as if his life were 
flown ! 340 

PART SECOND 

We left our Hero hi a trance, 
Beneath the alders, near the river; 
The Ass is by the river-side, 
And, where the feeble breezes glide, 
Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver. 

A happy respite ! but at length 
He feels the glimmering of the moon; 
Wakes with glazed eye, and feebly sigh- 
ing— 
To sink, perhaps, where he is lying, 
Into a second swoon ! 10 

He lifts his head, he sees his staff; 

He touches — 't is to him a treasure ! 

Faint recollection seems to tell 

That he is yet where mortals dwell — 

A thought received with languid pleasure ! 

His head upon his elbow propped, 
Becoming less and less perplexed, 
Sky-ward he looks — to rock and wood — 
And then — upon the glassy flood 
His wandermg eye is fixed. 20 

Thought he, that is the face of one 
In his last sleep securely bound ! 
So toward the stream his head he bent, 
And downward thrust his staff, intent 
The river's depth to sound. 

Now — like a tempest-shattered bark, 
That overwhelmed and prostrate lies, 
And in a moment to the verge 



Is lifted of a f oaming surge — 

Full suddenly the Ass doth rise ! 30 

His staring bones all shake with joy, 
And close by Peter's side he stands: 
While Peter o'er the river bends, 
The little Ass his neck extends, 
And fondly licks his hands. 

Such life is in the Ass's eyes, 

Such life is in his limbs and ears; 

That Peter Bell, if he had been 

The veriest coward ever seen, 

Must now have tin-own aside his fears. 40 

The Ass looks on — and to his work 
Is Peter quietty resigned; 
He touches here — he touches there — 
And now among the dead man's hair 
His sapling Peter has entwined. 

He pulls — and looks — and pulls again ; 
And he whom the poor Ass had lost, 
The man who had been four days dead, 
Head-foremost from the river's bed 
Uprises like a ghost ! 50 

And Peter draws him to dry land; 
And through the brain of Peter pass 
Some poignant twitches, fast and faster; 
" No doubt," quoth he, " he is the Master 
Of this poor miserable Ass ! " 

The meagre Shadow that looks on — 
What would he now ? what is he doing ? 
His sudden fit of joy is flown, — 
He on his knees hath laid him down, 
As if he were his grief renewing; 60 

But no — that Peter on his back 
Must mount, he shows well as he can: 
Thought Peter then, come weal or woe, 
I '11 do what he would have me do, 
In pity to this poor drowned man. 

With that resolve he boldly mounts 
Upon the pleased and thankful Ass; 
And then, without a moment's stay, 
That earnest Creature turned away 
Leaving the body on the grass. 70 

Intent upon his faithful watch, 
The Beast four days and nights had past; 
A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen, 
And there the Ass four days had been, 
Nor ever once did break his fast: 



104 



PETER BELL 



Yet firm his step, and stout his heart; 
The mead is crossed — the quarry's mouth 
Is reached; but there the trusty guide 
Into a thicket turns aside, 
And deftly ambles towards the south. 80 

When hark a burst of doleful sound ! 
And Peter honestly might say, 
The like came never to his ears, 
Though he has been, full thirty years, 
A rover — night and day ! 

'T is not a plover of the moors, 

'T is not a bittern of the fen; 

Nor can it be a barking fox, 

Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks, 

Nor wild-cat in a woody glen ! 90 

The Ass is startled — and stops short 
Right hi the middle of the thicket; 
And Peter, wont to whistle loud 
Whether alone or in a crowd, 
Is silent as a silent cricket. 

What ails you now, my little Bess ? 
Well may you tremble and look grave ! 
This cry — that rings along the wood, 
This cry — that floats adown the flood, 
Comes from the entrance of a cave: 100 

I see a blooming Wood-boy there, 
And if I had the power to say 
How sorrowful the wanderer is, 
Your, heart would be as sad as his 
Till you had kissed his tears away ! 

Grasping a hawthorn branch in hand, 
All bright with berries ripe and red, 
Into the cavern's mouth he peeps; 
Thence back into the moonlight creeps; 
Whom seeks he — whom ? — the silent 
dead: no 

His father ! — Him doth he require — 
Him hath he sought with fruitless pains, 
Among the rocks, behind the trees; 
Now creeping on his hands and knees, 
Now running o'er the open plains. 

And hither is he come at last, 

When he through such a day has gone, 

By this dark cave to be distrest 

Like a poor bird — her plundered nest 

Hovering around with dolorous moan ! 120 



Of that intense and piercing cry 
The listening Ass conjectures well; 
Wild as it is, he there son. read 
Some intermingled notes that plead 
With touches irresistible. 

But Peter — when he saw the Ass 

Not only stop but turn, and change 

The cherished tenor of his pace 

That lamentable cry to chase — 

It wrought in him conviction strange; 130 

A faith that, for the dead man's sake 
And this poor slave who loved him well, 
Vengeance upon his head will fall, 
Some visitation worse than all 
Which ever till this night befell. 

Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home, 
Is striving stoutly as he may; 
But, while he climbs the woody hill, 
The cry grows weak — and weaker still; 
And now at last it dies away. 140 

So with his freight the Creature turns 
Into a gloomy grove of beech, 
Along the shade with footsteps true 
Descending slowly, till the two 
The open moonlight reach. 

And there, along the narrow dell, 
A fair smooth pathway you discern, 
A length of green and open road — 
As if it from a fountain flowed — 
Winding away between the fern. 150 

The rocks that tower on either side 
Build up a wild fantastic scene ; 
Temples like those among the Hindoos, 
And mosques, and spires, and abbey win- 
dows, 
And castles all with ivy green ! 

And, while the Ass pursues his way, 

Along this solitary dell, 

As pensively his steps advance, 

The mosques and spires change countenance 

And look at Peter Bell ! 160 

That imintelligible cry 
Hath left him high in preparation, — 
Convinced that he, or soon or late, 
This very night will meet his fate — 
And so lie sits in expectation ! 



PETER BELL 



io 5 



The strenuous Animal hath clomb 
With the green path; and now he wends 
Where, shining like the smoothest sea, 
In undisturbed immensity 
A level plain extends. 170 

But whence this faintly-rustling sound 
By which the journeying pair are chased ? 
— A withered leaf is close behind, 
Light plaything for the sportive wind 
Upon that solitary waste. 

When Peter spiad the moving thing, 

It only doubled his distress; 

" Where there is not a bush or tree, 

The very leaves they follow me — 

So huge hath been my wickedness ! " 1S0 

To a close lane they now are come, 
Where, as before, the enduring Ass 
Moves on without a moment's stop, 
Nor once turns round his head to crop 
A bramble-leaf or blade of grass. 

Between the hedges as they go, 

The white dust sleeps upon the lane; 

And Peter, ever and anon 

Back-looking, sees, upon a stone, 

Or in the dust, a crimson stain. 190 

A stain — as of a drop of blood 

By moonlight made more faint and wan; 

Ha ! why these sinkings of despair ? 

He knows not how the blood comes there — 

And Peter is a wicked man. 

At length he spies a bleeding wound, 
Where he had struck the Ass's head; 
He sees the blood, knows what it is, — 
A glimpse of sudden joy was his, 
But then it quickly fled; 200 

Of him whom sudden death had seized 
He thought, — of thee, faithful Ass ! 
And once again those ghastly pains, 
Shoot to and fro through heart and reins, 
And through his brain like lightning pass. 

PART THIRD 

I 've heard of one, a gentle Soul, 
Though given to sadness and to gloom, 
And for the fact will vouch, — one night 
It chanced that by a taper's light 
This man was reading in his room; 



Bending, as you or I might bend 
At night o'er any pious book, 
When sudden blackness overspread 
The snow-white page on which he read, 
And made the good man round him look. 10 

The chamber walls were dark all round, — 
And to his book he turned again; 

— The light had left the lonely taper, 
And formed itself upon the paper 
Into large letters — bright and plain ! 

The godly book was in his hand — 
And, on the page, more black than coal, 
Appeared, set forth hi strange array, 
A word — which to his dying day 
Perplexed the good man's gentle soul. 20 

The ghostly word, thus plainly seen, 
Did never from his lips depart; 
But he hath said, poor gentle wight ! 
It brought full many a sin to light 
Out of the bottom of his heart. 

Dread Spirits ! to confound the meek 
Why wander from your course so far, 
Disordering colour, form, and stature ! 

— Let good men feel the soul of nature, 
And see things as they are. 30 

Yet, potent Spirits ! well I know, 
How ye, that play with soul and sense, 
Are not unused to trouble friends 
Of goodness, for most gracious ends — 
And this I speak in reverence ! 

But might I give advice to you, 
Whom in my fear I love so well; 
From men of pensive virtue go, 
Dread Beings ! and your empire show 
On hearts like that of Peter Bell. 40 

Your presence often have I felt 

In darkness and the stormy night; 

And, with like force, if need there be, 

Ye can put forth your agency 

When earth is calm, and heaven is bright. 

Then, coming from the wayward world, 
That powerful world in which ye dwell, 
Come, Spirits of the Mind ! and try 
To-night, beneath the moonlight sky, 
What may be done with Peter Bell ! 50 

— O, would that some more skilful voice 
My further labour might prevent ! 



io6 



PETER BELL 



Kind Listeners, that around me sit, 
I feel that I am all unfit 
For such high argument. 

I 've played, I 've danced, with my narra- 
tion ; 
I loitered long ere I began: 
Ye waited then on my good pleasure; 
Pom* out indulgence still, in measure 
As liberal as ye can ! 60 

Our Travellers, ye remember well, 
Are thridding a sequestered lane ; 
And Peter many tricks is trying, 
And many anodynes applying, 
To ease his conscience of its pain. 

By this his heart is lighter far; 

And, finding that he can account 

So snugly for that crimson stain, 

His evil spirit up again 

Does like an empty bucket mount. 70 

And Peter is a deep logician 

Who hath no lack of wit mercurial ; 

" Blood drops — leaves rustle — yet," quoth 

he, 
" This poor man never, hut for me, 
Could have had Christian burial. 

" And, say the best you can, "t is plain, 
That here has been some wicked dealing; 
No doubt the devil in me wrought ; 
I 'm not the man who could have thought 
An Ass like this was worth the steal- 



So from his pocket Peter takes 
His shining horn tobacco-box; 
And, in a light and careless way, 
As men who with then' purpose play, 
Upon the lid he knocks. 

Let them whose voice can stop the clouds, 
Whose cunning eye can see the wind, 
Tell to a curious world the cause 
Why, making here a sudden pause, 
The Ass turned round his head, and 
grinned. 90 

Appalling process ! I have marked 
The like on heath, in lonely wood; 
And, verily, have seldom met 
A spectacle more hideous — yet 
It suited Peter's present mood. 



And, grinning in his turn, his teeth 

He in jocose defiance showed — 

When, to upset his spiteful mirth, 

A murmur, pent within the earth, 

In the dead earth beneath the road 100 

Rolled audibly ! it swept along, 
A muffled noise — a rumbling soimd ! — 
'T was by a troop of miners made, 
Plying with gunpowder their trade, 
Some twenty fathoms under ground. 

Small cause of dire effect ! for, surely, 
If ever mortal, King or Cotter, 
Believed that earth was charged to quake 
And yawn for his unworthy sake, 
'T was Peter Bell the Potter. no 

But, as an oak hi breathless air 

Will stand though to the centre hewn; 

Or as the weakest things, if frost 

Have stiffened them, maintain their post; 

So he, beneath the gazing moon ! — 

The Beast bestriding thus, he reached 

A spot where, hi a sheltering cove, 

A little chapel stands alone, 

With greenest ivy overgrown, 

And tufted with an ivy grove; 120 

Dying insensibly away 

From human thoughts and purposes, 

It seemed — wall, window, roof and tower 

To bow to some transforming power, 

And blend with the surrounding trees. 

As ruinous a place it was, 

Thought Peter, hi the shire of Fife 

That served my turn, when following still 

From land to land a reckless will 

I married my sixth wife ! 130 

The unheeding Ass moves slowly on, 
And now is passing by an inn 
Brim-full of a carousing crew, 
That make, with curses not a few, 
An uproar and a drunken din. 

I cannot well express the thoughts 
Which Peter in those noises found ; — 
A stifling power compressed his frame, 
While-as a swimming darkness came 
Over that dull and dreary sound. 140 

For well did Peter know the sound; 
The language of those drunken joys 



PETER BELL 



107 



To him, a jovial soul, I ween, 
But a few hours ago, had been 
A gladsome and a welcome noise. 

Now, turned adrift into the past, 

He finds no solace in his course; 

Like planet-stricken men of yore, 

He trembles, smitten to the core 

By strong compunction and remorse. 150 

But, more than all, his heart is stung 
To think of one, almost a child; 
A sweet and playful Highland girl, 
As light and beauteous as a squirrel, 
As beauteous and as wild ! 

Her dwelling was a lonely house, 

A cottage in a heathy dell; 

And she put on her gown of green, 

And left her mother at sixteen, 

And followed Peter Bell. 160 

But many good and pious thoughts 
Had she; and, in the kirk to pray, 
Two long Scotch miles, through rain or 

snow 
To kirk she had been used to go, 
Twice every Sabbath-day. 

And, when she followed Peter Bell, 

It was to lead an honest life; 

For he, with tongue not used to falter, 

Had pledged his troth before the altar 

To love her as his wedded wife. 170 

A mother's hope is hers; — but soon 
She drooped and pined like one forlorn, 
From Scripture she a name did borrow; 
Benoni, or the child of sorrow, 
She called her babe unborn. 

For she had learned how Peter lived, 

And took it in most grievous part; 

She to the very bone was worn, 

And, ere that little child was born, 

Died of a broken heart. 180 

And now the Spirits of the Mind 
Are busy with poor Peter Bell; 
Upon the rights of visual sense 
Usurping, with a prevalence 
More terrible than magic spell. 

Close by a brake of flowering furze 
(Above it shivering aspens play) 



He sees an unsubstantial creature, 
His very self in form and feature, 
Not four yards from the broad high- 
way : 190 

And stretched beneath the furze he sees 
The Highland girl — it is no other; 
And hears her crying as she cried, 
The very moment that she died, 
" My mother ! oh my mother ! " 

The sweat pours down from Peter's face, 
So grievous is his heart's contrition; 
With agony his eye-balls ache 
While he beholds by the f urze-brake 
This miserable vision ! 200 

Calm is the well-deserving brute, 
His peace hath no offence betrayed; 
But now, while down that slope he wends, 
A voice to Peter's ear ascends, 
Resounding from the woody glade: 

The voice, though clamorous as a horn 

Re-echoed by a naked rock, 

Comes from that tabernacle — List ! 

Within, a fervent Methodist 

Is preaching to no heedless flock ! 210 

" Repent ! repent ! " he cries aloud, 
" While yet ye may find mercy ; — strive 
To love the Lord with all your might; 
Turn to him, seek him day and night, 
And save your souls alive ! 

" Repent ! repent ! though ye have gone, 
Through paths of wickedness and woe, 
After the Babylonian harlot; 
And, though your sins be red as scarlet, 
They shall be white as snow ! " 220 

Even as he passed the door, these words 
Did plainly come to Peter's ears; 
And they such joyful tidings were, 
The joy was more than he could bear ! — 
He melted into tears. 

Sweet tears of hope and tenderness ! 
And fast they fell, a plenteous shower 1 
His nerves, his sinews seemed to melt; 
ThroTigh all his iron frame was felt 
A gentle, a relaxing, power ! j 30 

Each fibre of his frame was weak; 
Weak all the animal within; 



io8 



PETER BELL 



But, in its helplessness, grew mild 
And gentle as an infant child, 
An infant that has known no sin. 

'T is said, meek Beast ! that, through 

Heaven's grace, 
He not unmoved did notice now 
The cross upon thy shoulder scored, 
For lasting impress, by the Lord 
To whom all human-kind shall bow; 240 

Memorial of his touch — that day 
When Jesus humbly deigned to ride, 
Entering the proud Jerusalem, 
By an immeasurable stream 
Of shouting people deified ! 

Meanwhile the persevering Ass 

Turned towards a gate that hung in view 

Across a shady lane; his chest 

Against the yielding gate he pressed 

And quietly passed through. 250 

And up the stony lane he goes; 
No ghost more softly ever trod; 
Among the stones and pebbles, he 
Sets down his hoofs inaudibly, 
As if with felt his hoofs were shod. 

Along the lane the trusty Ass 

Went twice two hundred yards or more, 

And no one could have guessed his aim, — 

Till to a lonely house he came, 

And stopped beside the door. 260 

Thought Peter, 't is the poor man's home ! 
He listens — not a sound is heard 
Save from the trickling household rill; 
But, stepping o'er the cottage-sill, 
Forthwith a little Girl appeared. 

She to the Meeting-house was bound 
In hopes some tidings there to gather: 
No glimpse it is, no doubtful gleam; 
She saw — and uttered with a scream, 
" My father ! here 's my father ! " 270 

The very word was plainly heard, 
Heard plainly by the wretched Mother — 
Her joy was like a deep affright: 
And forth she rushed hito the light, 
And saw it was another ! 

And, instantly, upon the earth, 
Beneath the full moon shining bright, 



Close to the Ass's feet she fell; 
At the same moment Peter Bell 
Dismounts in most unhappy plight. 280 

As he beheld the Woman lie 
Breathless and motionless, the mind 
Of Peter sadly was confused; 
But, though to such demands unused, 
And helpless almost as the blind, 

He raised her up; and, while he held 

Her body propped against his knee, 

The Woman waked — and when she spied 

The poor Ass standing by her side, 

She moaned most bitterly. 290 

" Oh ! God be praised — my heart 's at 

ease — 
For he is dead — I know it well ! " 
— At this she wept a bitter flood ; 
And, in the best way that he could, 
His tale did Peter tell. 

He trembles — he is pale as death; 

His voice is weak with perturbation; 

He turns aside his head, he pauses; 

Poor Peter, from a thousand causes, 

Is crippled sore in his narration. 300 

At length she learned how he espied 
The Ass hi that small meadow-ground; 
And that her Husband now lay dead, 
Beside that luckless river's bed 
In which he had been drowned. 

A piercing look the Widow cast 
Upon the Beast that near her stands ; 
She sees 'tis he, that 'tis the same; 
She calls the poor Ass by his name, 
And wrings, and wrings her hands. 310 

" O wretched loss — untimely stroke ! 
If he had died upon his bed ! 
He knew not one forewarning pain; 
He never will come home again — 
Is dead, for ever dead ! " 

Beside the woman Peter stands; 

His heart is opening more and more; 

A holy sense pervades his mind; 

He feels what he for human kind 

Had never felt before. 320 

At length, by Peter's arm sustained, 
The Woman rises from the ground — 



THE SIMPLON PASS 



109 



" Oh, mercy ! something must be done, 
My little Rachel, you must run, — 
Some willing neighbour must be found. 

" Make haste — my little Rachel — do, 
The first you meet with — bid him come, 
Ask him to lend his horse to-night, 
And this good Man, whom Heaven re- 
quite, 
Will help to bring the body home." 330 

Away goes Rachel weeping loud; — - 
An Infant, waked by her distress, 
Makes in the house a piteous cry; 
And Peter hears the Mother sigh, 
" Seven are they, and all fatherless ! " 

And now is Peter taught to feel 
That man's heart is a holy thing; 
And Nature, through a world of death, 
Breathes mto him a second breath, 339 

More searching than the breath of spring. 

Upon a stone the Woman sits 

In agony of silent grief — 

From his own thoughts did Peter start; 

He longs to press her to his heart, 

From love that cannot find relief. 

But roused, as if through every limb 
Had past a sudden shock of dread, 
The Mother o'er the threshold flies, 
And up the cottage stairs she hies, 349 

And on the pillow lays her burning head. 

And Peter turns his steps aside 
Into a shade of darksome trees, 
Where he sits down, he knows not how, 
With his hands pressed against his brow, 
His elbows on his tremulous knees. 

There, self-involved, does Peter sit 
Until no sign of life he makes, 
As if his mind were sinking deep 
Through years that have been long asleep 
The trance is passed away — he wakes ; 360 

He lifts his head — and sees the Ass 
Yet standing in the clear moonshine; 
" When shall I be as good as thou ? 
Oh ! would, poor beast, that I had now 
A heart but half as good as thine ! " 

But He — who deviously hath sought 
His Father through the lonesome woods, 



Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear 

Of night his grief and sorrowful fear — 369 

He comes, escaped from fields and floods ; — 

With weary pace is drawing nigh ; 
He sees the Ass — and nothing living 
Had ever such a fit of joy 
As hath this little orphan Boy, 
For he has no misgiving ! 

Forth to the gentle Ass he springs, 

And up about his neck he climbs; 

In loving words he talks to him, 

He kisses, kisses face and limb, — 

He kisses him a thousand times ! 380 

This Peter sees, while hi the shade 
He stood beside the cottage-door; 
And Peter Bell, the ruffian wild, 
Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child, 
" O God ! I can endure no more ! " 

— Here ends my Tale : for in a trice 
Arrived a neighbour with his horse; 
Peter went forth with him straightway; 
And, with due care, ere break of day, 
Together they brought back the Corse. 390 

And many years did this poor Ass, 
Whom once it was my luck to see 
Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane, 
Help by his labour to maintain 
The Widow and her family. 

And Peter Bell, who, till that night, 
Had been the wildest of his clan, 
Forsook his crimes, renounced his folly, 
And, after ten months' melancholy, 
Became a good and honest man. 400 



THE SIMPLON PASS 

1799. 1845 

Brook and road 

Were fellow-travellers hi this gloomy Pass, 
And with them did we journey several hours 
At a slow step. The immeasurable height 
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, 
The stationary blasts of waterfalls, 
And in the narrow rent, at every turn, 
Winds thwarting winds bewildered and for- 
lorn, 
The torrents shooting from the clear blue 

sky, 



INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS 



The rocks that muttered close upon our 

ears, 
Black drizzling crags that spake by the way- 
side 
As if a voice were in them, the sick sight 
And giddy prospect of the raving stream, 
The unfettered clouds and region of the 

heavens, 
Tumult and peace, the darkness and the 

light — 
Were all like workings of one mind, the 

features 
Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, 
Characters of the great Apocalypse, 
The types and symbols of Eternity, 
Of first, and last, and midst, and without 
end. 



INFLUENCE OF NATURAL 
OBJECTS 

IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING 
THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND 
EARLY YOUTH 

I799. 1809 

Written in Germany. This Extract is re- 
printed from The Friend. 

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought ! 
And giv'st to forms and images a breath 
And everlasting motion ! not in vain, 
By day or star-light, thus from my first 

dawn 
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
The passions that build up our human soul ; 
Not with the mean and vulgar works of 

Man; 
But with high objects, with enduring things, 
With life and nature; purifying thus 10 
The elements of feeling and of thought, 
And sanctifying by such discipline 
Both pain and fear, — until we recognise 
A grandeur in the heatings of the heart. 
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to 

me 
With stinted kindness. In November days, 
When vapours rolling down the valleys 

made 
A lonely scene more lonesome; among 

woods 
At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer 

nights, 19 

When, by the margin of the trembling lake, 



Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went 
In solitude, such intercourse was mine: 
Mine was it hi the iields both day and 

night, 
And by the waters, all the summer long. 
And in the frosty season, when the sun 
Was set, and, visible for many a mile, 
The cottage-windows through the twilight 

blazed, 
I heeded not the summons: happy time 
It was indeed for all of us; for me 
It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
The village-clock tolled six — I wheeled 

about, 31 

Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
That cares not for his home. — All shod 

with steel 
We hissed along the polished ice, in games 
Confederate, imitative of the chase 
And woodland pleasures, — the resounding 

horn, 
The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted 

hare. 
So through the darkness and the cold we 

flew, 
And not a voice was idle: with the din 
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; 4 o 

The leafless trees and every icy crag 
Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills 
Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the 

stars, 
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and hi the 

west 
The orange sky of evening died away. 

Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
Into a silent bay, or sportively 
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous 

throng, 
To cut across the reflex of a star; 50 

Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed 
Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes, 
When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
And all the shadowy banks on either side 
Came sAveeping through the darkness, spin- 
ning still 
The rapid line of motion, then at once 
Have I, reclining back upon my heels, 
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs 
Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had 

rolled 
With visible motion her diurnal round ! 60 
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 



NUTTING 



THERE WAS A BOY 

1799. 1S00 

Written in Germany. This is an extract from 
the poem on my own poetical education. This 
practice of making an instrument of their own 
ringers is known to most hoys, though some are 
more skilful at it than others. William Rain- 
cock of Rayrigg, a fine spirited lad, took the 
lead of all my schoolfellows in this art. 

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye 

cliffs 
And islands of Winander ! — many a time, 
At evening, when the earliest stars began 
To move along the edges of the hills, 
Rising or setting, would he stand alone, 
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering 

lake; 
And there, with fingers interwoven, both 

hands 
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his 

mouth 
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, 10 
That they might answer him. — And they 

would shout 
Across the watery vale, and shout again, 
Responsive to his call, — with quivering 

peals, 
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes 

loud 
Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild 
Of jocund din ! And, when there came a 

pause 
Of silence such as baffled his best skill: 
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he 

hung 
Listening, a gentle shock of mild sur- 
prise 
Has carried far into his heart the voice 20 
Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene 
Would enter unawares into his mind 
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven re- 
ceived 
Into the bosom of the steady lake. 

This boy was taken from his mates, and 
died 
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years 

old. 
Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale 
Where he was born and bred: the church- 
yard hangs 
Upon a slope above the village-school; 30 



And, through that church-yard when my 

way has led 
On summer-evenings, I believe, that there 
A long half-hour together I have stood 
Mute — looking at the grave in which he 

lies ! 

NUTTING 

1799. 1S00 

Written in Germany ; intended as part of 
a poem on my own life, hut struck out as not 
being wanted there. Like most of my school- 
fellows I was an impassioned nutter. For this 
pleasure, the vale of Esthwaite, abounding in 
coppice-wood, furnished a very wide range. 
These verses arose out of the remembrance of 
feelings I had often had when a boy, and 
particularly in the extensive woods that still 
stretch from the side of Esthwaite Lake to- 
wards Graythwaite, the seat of the ancient 
family of bandys. 

It seems a day 

(I speak of one from many singled out) 
One of those heavenly days that cannot 

die; 
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth 
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, 
A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my 

steps 
Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure 

quaint, 
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off 

weeds 
Which for that service had been husbanded, 
By exhortation of my frugal Dame — u 
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and, 

in truth, 
More ragged than need was ! O'er pathless 

rocks, 
Through beds of matted fern, and tangled 

thickets, 
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook 
Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungra- 
cious sign 
Of devastation; but the hazels rose 19 

Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, 
A virgin scene ! — A little while I stood, 
Breatbingwith such suppression of the heart 
As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint 
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
The banquet ; — or beneath the trees I sate 



"STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN" 



Among the flowers, and with the flowers I 

played; 
A temper known to those, who, after long 
And weary expectation, have been blest 
With sudden happiness beyond all hope. 
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves 
The violets of five seasons re-appear 31 

And fade, unseen by any human eye; 
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam, 
And — with my cheek on one of those green 

stones 
That, fleeced with moss, under the shady 

trees, 
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of 

sheep — 
I heard the murmur and the murmuring 

sound, 
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to 

pay 
Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, 40 
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, 
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, 
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, 
And dragged to earth both branch and 

bough, with crash 
And merciless ravage : and the shady nook 
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, 
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 
Their quiet being: and, unless I now 
Confound my present feelings with the past; 
Ere from the mutilated bower I turned 50 
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky — 
Then, dearest Maiden, move along these 

shades 
In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand 
Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods. 



"STRANGE FITS OF PASSION 
HAVE I KNOWN" 

1799. 1800 

Written in Germany. 

Strange fits of passion have I known: 
And I will dare to tell, 
But in the Lover's ear alone, 
What once to me befell. 

When she I loved looked every day 
Fresh as a rose in June, 
I to her cottage bent my way, 
Beneath an evening-moon. 



Upon the moon I fixed my eye, 

All over the wide lea; 

With quickening pace my horse drew nigh 

Those paths so dear to me. 

And now we reached the orchard-plot; 
And, as we climbed the hill, 
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot 
Came near, and nearer still. 

In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 
Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
And all the while my eyes I kept 
On the descending moon. 

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof 
He raised, ami never stopped: 
When down behind the cottage roof, 
At once, the bright moon dropped. 

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 

Into a Lover's head ! 

" O mercy ! " to myself I cried, 

" If Lucy shoidd be dead ! " 

"SHE DWELT AMONG THE UN- 
TRODDEN WAYS" 

1799. 1800 

Written in Germany. 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A Maid whom there were none to praise 

And very few to love: 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived imknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh, 

The difference to me ! 



"I TRAVELLED AMONG UN- 
KNOWN MEN " 

1799. 1807 

Written in Germany. 

I travelled among unknown men, 

In lands beyond the sea; 
Nor, England ! did I know till then 

What love I bore to thee. 



A POET'S EPITAPH 



"3 



T is past, that melancholy dream ! 

Nor will I quit thy shore 
A second time; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Among thy mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire; 
And she I cherished turned her wheel 

Beside an English fire. 

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed 
The bowers where Lucy played; 

And thine too is the last green field 
That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 

"THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN 
SUN AND SHOWER" 

1799. 1800 

Composed in the Hartz Forest. 

Three years she grew in sun and shower, 

Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown; 

This Child I to myself will take; 

She shall be mine, and I will make 

A Lady of my own. 

" Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse: and with me 

The Girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 10 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

". She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn, 
Or up the mountain springs; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 
Of mute insensate things. 

" The floating clouds their state shall lend 

To her; for her the willow bend; 20 

Nor shall she fail to see 

Even hi the motions of the Storm 

Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

" The stars of midnight shall be dear 

To her; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 30 



" And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell; 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 

While she and I together live 

Here hi this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 

How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; 40 

The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 



'A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT 
SEAL" 

1799. 1800 

Written in Germany. 

A slumber did my spirit seal; 

I had no human fears: 
She seemed a thing that could not feel 

The touch of earthly years. 

No motion has she now, no force ; 

She neither hears nor sees; 
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, 

With rocks, and stones, and trees. 



A POET'S EPITAPH 

1799. 1800 

Art thou a Statist in the van 
Of public conflicts framed and bred ? 
— First learn to love one living man; 
Then may'st thou think upon the dead. 

A Lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh ! 
Go, carry to some fitter place 
The keenness of that practised eye, 
The hardness of that sallow face. 

Art thou a Man of purple cheer ? 
A rosy Man, right plump to see ? : 

Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near, 
This grave no cushion is for thee. 

Or art thou one of gallant pride, 
A Soldier and no man of chaff ? 
Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside, 
And lean upon a peasant's staff. 



H4 



TO THE SCHOLARS OF A VILLAGE SCHOOL 



Physician art thou ? one, all eyes, 
Philosopher ! a fingering slave, 
One that would peep and botanise 
Upon his mother's grave ? 20 

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
O turn aside, — and take, I pray, 
That he below may rest in peace, 
Thy ever-dwindling soul, away ! 

A Moralist perchance appears; 
Led, Heaven knows how ! to this poor sod: 
And he has neither eyes nor ears; 
Himself his world, and his own God; 

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can 

cling 
Nor form, nor feeling, great or small; 3c 
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, 
An intellectual All-in-all ! 

Shut close the door; press down the latch; 
Sleep in thy intellectual crust; 
Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch 
Near this unprofitable dust. 

But who is He, with modest looks, 

And clad hi homely russet brown ? 

He murmurs near the running brooks 

A music sweeter than their own. 40 

He is retired as noontide dew, 
Or fountain in a noon-day grove ; 
And you must love him, ere to you 
He will seem worthy of your love. 

The outward shows of sky and earth, 
Of hill and valley, he has viewed; 
And impulses of deeper birth 
Have come to him in solitude. 

In common things that round us lie 

Some random truths lie can impart, — 50 

The harvest of a quiet eye 

That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 

But he is weak; both Man and Boy, 
Hath been an idler in the land; 
Contented if he might enjoy 
The things which others understand. 

— Come hither in thy hour of strength! 
Come, weak as is a breaking wave ! 
Here stretch thy body at full length; 
Or build thy house upon this grave. 60 



ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF 
THE VILLAGE SCHOOL OF 

1799. 1845 

Composed at Goslar, in Germany. 

I come, ye little noisy Crew, 

Not long your pastime to prevent; 

I heard the blessing which to you 

Our common Friend and Father sent. 

I kissed his cheek before he died; 

And when his breath was fled, 

I raised, while kneeling by his side, 

His hand : — it dropped like lead. 

Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all 

That can be done, will never fall 10 

Like his till they are dead. 

By night or day blow foul or fair, 

Ne'er will the best of all your train 

Play with the locks of his white hair, 

Or stand between his knees again. 

Here did he sit confined for hours; 
But he could see the woods and plains, 
Could hear the wind and mark the showers 
Come streaming down the streaming panes. 
Now stretched beneath his grass - green 
mound 20 

He rests a prisoner of the ground. 
He loved the breathing air, 
He loved the sun, but if it rise 
Or set, to him where now he lies, 
Brings not a moment's care. 
Alas ! what idle words; but take 
The Dirge which for our Master's sake 
And yours, love prompted me to make. 
The rhymes so homely in attire 
With learned ears may ill agree, 30 

But chanted by your Orphaii Quire 
Will make a touching melody. 

DIRGE 

Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old grey stone ; 
Thou Angler, by the silent flood; 
And mourn when thou art all alone, 
Thou Woodman, hi the distant wood ! 

Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy 
Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum ; 
And mourn, thou poor half-witted Boy ! 
Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb. 40 

Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide 
Who checked or turned thy headstrong 
youth, 



THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 



"5 



As he before had sanctified 

Thy infancy with heavenly truth. 

Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay, 
Bold settlers on some foreign shore, 
Give, when your thoughts are turned this way, 
A sigh to him whom we deplore. 

For us who here in funeral strain 

With one accord our voices raise, 50 

Let sorrow overcharged with pain 

Be lost in thankfulness and praise. 

And when our hearts shall feel a sting 
From ill we meet or good we miss, 
May touches of his memory bring 
Fond healing, like a mother's kiss. 

BY THE SIDE OF THE GRAVE SOME YEARS 
AFTER 

Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat, 
But benefits, his gift, we trace — 
Expressed in every eye we meet 
Round this dear Vale, his native place. 60 

To stately Hall and Cottage rude 
Flowed from his life what still they hold, 
Light pleasures, every day, renewed; 
And blessings half a century old. 

Oh true of heart, of spirit gay, 
Thy faults, where not already gone 
From memory, prolong their stay 
For charity's sweet sake alone. 

Such solace find we for our loss; 
And what beyond this thought we crave 70 
Comes hi the promise from the Cross, 
Shining upon thy happy grave. 

MATTHEW 

1799. 1S00 

In the School of is a tablet, on which 

are inscribed, in gilt letters, the Names of the 
several persons who have been Schoolmasters 
there since the foundation of the School, with 
the time at which they entered upon and quitted 
their office. Opposite to one of those names the 
Author wrote the following' lines. 

Such a Tablet as is here spoken of continued 
to be preserved in Hawkshead School, though 
the inscriptions were not brought down to our 
time. This and other poems connected with 
Matthew would not gain by a literal detail of 



facts. Like the Wanderer in " The Excursion," 
this Schoolmaster was made up of several both 
of his class and men of other occupations. 1 do 
not ask pardon for what there is of untruth in 
such verses, considered strictly as matters of 
fact. It is enough if, being true and consistent 
in spirit, they move and teaeli in a manner not 
unworthy of a Poet's calling. 

If Nature, for a favourite child, 
In thee hath tempered so her clay, 
That every hour thy heart runs wild, 
Yet never once doth go astray, 

Read o'er these lines; and then review 
This tablet, that thus humbly rears 
In such diversity of hue 
Its history of two hundred years. 

— When through this little wreck of fame, 
Cipher and syllable ! thine eye 10 
Has travelled down to Matthew's name, 
Pause with no common sympathy. 

And, if a sleeping tear should wake, 
Then be it neither checked nor stayed: 
For Matthew a request I make 
Which for himself he had not made. 

Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, 

Is silent as a standing pool; 

Far from the chimney's merry roar, 

And murmur of the village school. 20 

The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs 
Of one tired out with fim and madness; 
The tears which came to Matthew's eyes 
Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. 

Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup 
Of still and serious thought went rotmd, 
It seemed as if he drank it tip — 
He felt with spirit so profound. 

— Thou soul of God's best earthly mould ! 
Thou happy Soul ! and can it be 30 
That these two words of glittering gold 
Are all that must remain of thee ? 



THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 

1799. 1800 

We walked along, while bright and red 
Uprose the morning sun; 
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, 
" The will of God be done ! " 



n6 



THE FOUNTAIN 



A village schoolmaster was he, 
With hair of glittering grey; 
As blithe a man as you could see 
On a spring holiday. 

And on that morning, through the grass, 
And by the steaming rills, 10 

We travelled merrily, to pass 
A day among the hills. 

" Our work," said I, " was well begun, 
Then, from thy breast what thought, 
Beneath so beautiful a sun, 
So sad a sigh has brought ? 

A second time did Matthew stop; 

And fixing still his eye 

Upon the eastern mountain-top, 

To me he made reply: 20 

" Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
Brings fresh into my mind 
A day like this which I have left 
Full thirty years behind. 

" And just above yon slope of corn 
Such colours, and no other, 
Were in the sky, that April morn, 
Of this the very brother. 

" With rod and line I sued the sport 
Which that sweet season gave, 30 

And, to the church -yard come, stopped 

short 
Beside my daughter's grave. 

" Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
The pride of all the vale ; 
And then she sang; — she would have been 
A very nightingale. 

" Six feet in earth my Emma lay; 

And yet I loved her more, 

For so it seemed, than till that day 

I e'er had loved before. 40 

" And, turning from her grave, I met, 
Beside the church-yard yew, 
A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
With points of morning dew. 

" A basket on her head she bare ; 
Her brow was smooth and white: 
To see a child so very fair, 
It was a pure delight 1 



" No fountain from its rocky cave 

E'er tripped with foot so free; 50 

She seemed as happy as a wave 

That dances on the sea. 

" There came from me a sigh of pain 
Which I coidd ill confine; 
I looked at her, and looked again: 
And did not wish her mine ! " 

Matthew is in his grave, yet now, 

Methinks, I see him stand, 

As at that moment, with a bough 

Of wilding in his hand. 60 



THE FOUNTAIN 

A CONVERSATION 
1799. 1800 

We talked with open heart, and tongue 
Affectionate and true, 
A pair of friends, though I was young, 
And Matthew seventy-two. 

We lay beneath a spreading oak, 
Beside a mossy seat; 
And from the turf a fountain broke, 
And gurgled at our feet. 

" Now, Matthew ! " said I, " let us match 
This water's pleasant tune u 

With some old border-song, or catch 
That suits a summer's noon; 

" Or of the church-clock and the chimes 
Sing here beneath the shade, 
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
Which you last April made ! " 

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 

The spring beneath the tree; 

And thus the dear old Man replied, 

The grey-haired man of glee : 21 

" No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears; 
How merrily it goes ! 
'T will murmur on a thousand years, 
And flow as now it flows. 

" And here, on this delightful day, 
I cannot choose but think 
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
Beside this fountain's brink. 



THE DANISH BOY 



117 



" My eyes are dim with childish tears, 
My heart is idly stirred, 30 

For the same sound is in my ears 
Which in those days I heard. 

" Thus fares it still in our decay: 
And yet the wiser mind 
Mourns less for what age takes away 
Than what it leaves behind. 

" The blackbird amid leafy trees, 

The lark above the kdl, 

Let loose their carols when they please, 

Are quiet when they will. 40 

" With Nature never do they wage 
A foolish strife; they see 
A happy youth, and their old age 
Is beautiful and free: 

" But we are pressed by heavy laws ; 
And often, glad no more, 
We wear a face of joy, because 
We have been glad of yore. 

" If there be one who need bemoan 
His kindred laid in earth, 50 

The household hearts that were his own; 
It is the man of mirth. 

" My days, my Friend, are almost gone, 
My life has been approved, 
And many love me; but by none 
Am I enough beloved." 

" Now both himself and me he wrongs, 

The man who thus complains; 

I live and sing my idle songs 

Upon these happy plains; 60 

" And, Matthew, for thy children dead 
I '11 be a son to thee ! " 
At this he grasped my hand, and said, 
" Alas ! that cannot be." 

We rose up from the fountain-side; 
And down the smooth descent 
Of the green sheep-track did we glide; 
And through the wood we went; 

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, 
He sang those witty rhymes 7 o 

About the crazy old church-clock, 
And the bewildered chimes. 



TO A SEXTON 

1799. 1800 

Written in Germany. 

Let thy wheel-barrow alone — 

Wherefore, Sexton, piling still 

In thy bone-house bone on bone? 

'T is already like a hill 

In a field of battle made, 

Where three thousand skulls are laid; 

These died in peace each with the other, — 

Father, sister, friend, and brother. 

Mark the spot to which I point ! 

From this platform, eight feet square, 10 

Take not even a finger-joint: 

Andrew's whole fire-side is there. 

Here, alone, before thine eyes, 

Simon's sickly daughter lies, 

From weakness now, and pain defended, 

Whom he twenty whiters tended. 

Look but at the gardener's pride — 

How he glories, when he sees 

Roses, lilies, side by side, 

Violets in families ! 20 

By the heart of Man, his tears, 

By his hopes and by his fears, 

Thou, too heedless, art the Warden 

Of a far superior garden. 

Thus then, each to other dear, 

Let them all in qiuet lie, 

Andrew there, and Susan here, 

Neighbours in mortality. 

And, should I live through sun and rain 

Seven widowed years without my Jane, 30 

O Sexton, do not then remove her, 

Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover ! 



THE DANISH BOY 

A FRAGMENT 

1799. 1800 

Written in Germany. It was entirely a fancy ; 
but intended as a prelude to a ballad poem 
never written. 



Between two sister moorland rills 
There is a spot that seems to lie 
Sacred to flowerets of the hills, 
And sacred to the sky. 



n8 



LUCY GRAY 



And in this smooth and open dell 
There is a tempest-stricken tree; 
A corner-stone by lightning cut, 
The last stone of a lonely hut; 
And in this dell you see 
A thing no storm can e'er destroy, 
The shadow of a Danish Boy. 



In clouds above, the lark is heard, 
But drops not here to earth for rest; 
Within this lonesome nook the bird 
Did never build her nest. 
No beast, no bird hath here his home; 
Bees, wafted on the breezy air, 
Pass high above those fragrant bells 
To other flowers : — to other dells 
Their burthens do they bear; 2 

The Danish Boy walks here alone: 
The lovely dell is all his own. 



A Spirit of noon-day is he ; 

Yet seems a form of flesh and blood; 

Nor piping shepherd shall he be, 

Nor herd-boy of the wood. 

A regal vest of fur he wears, 

In colour like a raven's wing; 

It fears not ram, nor wind, nor dew; 

But in the storm 't is fresh and blue 

As budding pines in spring; 

His helmet has a vernal grace, 

Fresh as the bloom upon his face. 



A harp is from his shoulder slung; 
Resting the harp upon his knee, 
To words of a forgotten tongue 
He suits its melody. 
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill 
He is the darling and the joy; 
And often, when no cause appears, 
The mountain-ponies prick their ears, 
— They hear the Danish Boy, 
While in the dell he sings alone 
Beside the tree and corner-stone. 



There sits he; in his face you spy 
No trace of a ferocious air, 
Nor ever was a cloudless sky 
So steady or so fair. 
The lovely Danish Boy is blest 
And happy in his flowery cove: 



From bloody deeds his thoughts are far ; 
And yet he warbles songs of war, 
That seem like songs of love, 
For calm and gentle is his mien; 
Like a dead Boy he is serene. 



LUCY GRAY 

OR, SOLITUDE 

I799. 1800 

Written at Goslar in Germany. It was 
founded on a circumstance told me by my Sis- 
ter, of a little girl who, not far from Halifax 
in Yorkshire, was bewildered in a snow-storm. 
Her footsteps were traced by her parents to the 
middle of the lock of a canal, and no other 
vestige of her, backward or forward, could be 
traced. The body however was found in the 
canal. The way in which the incident was 
treated and the spiritualising of the character 
might furnish hints for contrasting the imagi- 
native influences which I have endeavoured to 
throw over common life with Crabbe's matter 
of fact style of treating subjects of the same 
kind. This is not spoken to his disparagement, 
far from it, but to direct the attention of 
thoughtful readers, into whose hands these 
notes may fall, to a comparison that may both 
enlarge the circle of their sensibilities, and 
tend to produce in them a catholic judgment. 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: 
And, when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 
She dwelt on a wide moor, 
— The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door ! 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green ; 10 

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will never more be seen. 

" To-night will be a stormy night — 
You to the town must go ; 
And take a lantern, Child, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 

" That, Father ! will I gladly do: 

'T is scarcely afternoon — 

The minster-clock has just struck two, 

And yonder is the moon ! " 20 



RUTH 



119 



At this the Father raised his hook, 
And snapped a faggot-band; 
He plied his work; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe: 
With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time: 

She wandered up and down; 30 

And many a hill did Lucy climb: 

But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting far and wide ; 
But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At day-break on a hill they stood 

That overlooked the moor; 

And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 

A furlong from their door. 40 

They wept — and, turning homeward, cried, 
" In heaven we all shall meet ; " 
1 — When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hill's 

edge 
They tracked the footmarks small; 
And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 
And by the long stone- wall; 

And then an open field they crossed: 
The marks were still the same; 50 

They tracked them on, nor ever lost; 
And to the bridge they came. 

They followed from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one, 
Into the middle of the plank; 
And further there were none ! 

— Yet some maintain that to this day 

She is a living child; 

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 

Upon the lonesome wild. 60 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind ; 
And sings a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind 



RUTH 

1799. 1800 

Written in Germany. Suggested by an ac- 
count I had of a wanderer in Somersetshire. 

When Ruth was left half desolate, 
Her Father took another Mate; 
And Ruth, not seven years old, 
A slighted child, at her own will 
Went wandering over dale and hill, 
I11 thoughtless freedom, bold. 

And she had made a pipe of straw, 

And music from that pipe could draw 

Like sounds of winds and floods; 

Had built a bower upon the green, 10 

As if she from her birth had been 

An infant of the woods. 

Beneath her father's roof, alone 

She seemed to live; her thoughts her own; 

Herself her own delight; 

Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay; 

And, passing thus the live-long day, 

She grew to woman's height. 

There came a Youth from Georgia's 

shore — 
A military casque he wore, 20 

With splendid feathers drest; 
He brought them from the Cherokees; 
The feathers nodded hi the breeze, 
And made a gallant crest. 

From Indian blood you deem him sprung: 

But no ! he spake the English tongue, 

And bore a soldier's name; 

And, when America was free 

From battle and from jeopardy, 

He 'cross the ocean came. 30 

With hues of genius on his cheek 

In finest tones the Youth could speak: 

— While he was yet a boy, 

The moon, the glory of the sun, 

And streams that murmur as they run, 

Had been his dearest joy. 

He was a lovely youth ! I guess 

The panther in the wilderness 

Was uot so fair as he ; 

And, when he chose to sport and play, 40 

No dolphin ever was so gay 

Upon the tropic sea. 



RUTH 



Among the Indians he had fought, 
And with him many tales he brought 
Of pleasure and of fear; 
Such tales as told to any maid 
By such a Youth, in the green shade, 
Were perilous to hear. 

He told of girls — a happy rout ! 

Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 

Their pleasant Indian town, 51 

To gather strawberries all day long; 

Returning with a choral song 

When daylight is gone down. 

He spake of plants that hourly change 
Their blossoms, through a boundless range 
Of intermingling hues; 
With budding, fading, faded flowers 
They stand the wonder of the bowers 
From morn to evening dews. 60 

He told of the magnolia, spread 

High as a cloud, high over head ! 

The cypress and her spire; 

— Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 

Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 

To set the hills on fire. 

The Youth of green savannahs spake, 

And many an endless, endless lake, 

With all its fairy crowds 

Of islands, that together lie 70 

As quietly as spots of sky 

Among the evening clouds. 

" How pleasant," then he said, " it were 

A fisher or a hunter there, 

In sunshine or in shade 

To wander with an easy mind; 

And build a household fire, and find 

A home hi every glade ! 

"What days and what bright years ! Ah me ! 

Our life were life indeed, with thee 80 

So passed in quiet bliss, 

And all the while," said he, " to know 

That we were in a world of woe, 

On such an earth as this ! " 

And then he sometimes interwove 

Fond thoughts about a father's love; 

" For there," said he, " are spun 

Around the heart such tender ties, 

That our own children to our eyes 

Are dearer than the sun. 90 



" Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me 

My helpmate in the woods to be, 

Our shed at night to rear; 

Or run, my own adopted bride, 

A sylvan huntress at my side, 

And drive the dying deer ! 

" Beloved Ruth ! " — No more he said, 

The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 

A solitary tear: 

She thought again — and did agree 10 

With him to sail across the sea, 

And drive the flying deer. 

" And now, as fitting is and right, 
We in the church our faith will plight, 
A husband and a wife." 
Even so they did; and I may say 
That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
Was more than human life. 

Through dream and vision did she sink, 
Delighted all the while to think 11 

That on those lonesome floods, 
And green savannahs, she should share 
His board with lawful joy, and bear 
His name in the wild woods. 

But, as you have before been told, 
This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, 
And, with his dancing crest, 
So beautiful, through savage lands 
Had roamed about, with vagrant bands 
Of Indians in the West. 12 

The wind, the tempest roaring high, 

The tumult of a tropic sky, 

Might well be dangerous food 

For him, a Youth to whom was given 

So much of earth — so much of heaven, 

And such impetuous blood. 

Whatever in those climes he found 

Irregular ha sight or sound 

Did to his mind impart 

A kindred impulse, seemed allied 13 

To his own powers, and justified 

The workings of his heart. 

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, 
The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 
Fair trees and gorgeous flowers; 
The breezes their own languor lent; 
The stars had feelings, which they sent 
Into those favoured bowers. 



RUTH 



121 



Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 

That sometimes there did intervene 140 

Pure hopes of high intent: 

For passions linked to form so fair 

And stately, needs must have their share 

Of noble sentiment. 

But ill he lived, much evil saw, 

With men to whom no better law 

Nor better life was known; 

Deliberately, and undeceived, 

Those wild men's vices he received, 

And gave them back his own. 150 

His genius and his moral frame 
Were thus impaired, and he became 
The slave of low desires: 
A Man who without self-control 
Would seek what the degraded soul 
Unworthily admires. 

And yet he with no feigned delight 
Had wooed the Maiden, day and night 
Had loved her, night and morn: 
What could he less than love a Maid 160 
Whose heart with so much nature played? 
So kind and so forlorn ! 

Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, 

" O Ruth ! I have been worse than dead ; 

False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 

Encompassed me on every side 

When I, in confidence and pride, 

Had crossed the Atlantic main. 

" Before me shone a glorious world — 
Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled 170 

To music suddenly: 
I looked upon those hills and plains, 
And seemed as if let loose from chains, 
To live at liberty. 

" No more of this; for now, by thee 

Dear Ruth ! more happily set free 

With nobler zeal I burn; 

My soul from darkness is released, 

Like the whole sky when to the east 

The morning doth return." 180 

Full soon that better mind was gone; 
No hope, no wish remained, not one, — 
They stirred him now no more; 
New objects did new pleasure give, 
And once again he wished to live 
As lawless as before. 



Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 
They for the voyage were prepared, 
And went to the sea-shore, 
But, when they thither came the Youth 190 
Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth 
Could never find him more. 

God help thee, Ruth ! — Such pains she had, 

That she hi half a year was mad, 

And in a prison housed; 

And there, with many a doleful song 

Made of wild words, her cup of wrong 

She fearfully caroused. 

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 
Nor wanted sun, nor ram, nor dew, 200 

Nor pastimes of the May; 
— They all were with her in her cell; 
And a clear brook with cheerful knell 
Did o'er the pebbles play. 

When Ruth tliree seasons thus had lain, 

There came a respite to her pain; 

She from her prison fled ; 

But of the Vagrant none took thought; 

And where it liked her best she sought 

Her shelter and her bread. 210 

Among the fields she breathed again: 
The master-current of her brain 
Ran permanent and free; 
And, coming to the Banks of Tone, 
There did she rest; and dwell alone 
Under the greenwood tree. 

The engines of her pain, the tools 

That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, 

And airs that gently stir 

The vernal leaves — she loved them still ; 

Nor ever taxed them with the ill 221 

Which had been done to her. 

A Barn her lointer bed supplies ; 

But, till the warmth of summer skies 

And summer days is gone, 

(And all do in this tale agree) 

She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 

And other home hath none. 

An innocent life, yet far astray ! 

And Ruth will, long before her day, 230 

Be broken down and old: 

Sore aches she needs must have ! but less 

Of mind, than body's wretchedness, 

From damp, and rain, and cold. 



WRITTEN IN GERMANY 



If she is prest by want of food, 

She from her dwelling in the wood 

Repairs to a road-side ; 

And there she begs at one steep place 

Where up and down with easy pace 

The horsemen-travellers ride. 240 

That oaten pipe of hers is mute, 
Or thrown away ; but with a flute 
Her loneliness she cheers: 
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, 
At evening hi his homeward walk 
The Quantock woodman hears. 

I, too, have passed her on the hills 

Setting her little water-mills 

By spouts and fountains wild — 

Such small machinery as she turned 250 

Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned, 

A young and happy Child ! 

Farewell ! and when thy days are told, 

Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould 

Thy corpse shall buried be, 

For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 

And all the congregation sing 

A Christian psalm for thee. 



WRITTEN IN GERMANY 

ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE 
CENTURY 

1799. 1800 

A bitter winter it was when these verses 
were composed by the side of my Sister, in our 
lodgings at a draper's house in the romantic 
imperial town of Goslar, on the edge of the 
Hartz Forest. In this town the German em- 
perors of the Franconian line were accustomed 
to keep their court, and it retains vestiges of 
ancient splendour. So severe was the cold of 
this winter, that when we passed out of the 
parlour warmed by the stove, our cheeks were 
struck by the air as by cold iron. I slept in a 
room over a passage which was not ceiled. 
The people of the house used to say, rather 
unfeelingly, that they expected I should be 
frozen to death some night ; but, with the pro- 
tection of a pelisse lined with fur, and a dog's- 
f<jdn bonnet, such as was worn by the peasants, 
I walked daily on the ramparts, or in a sort of 
public ground or garden, in which was a pond. 
Here, I had no companion but a kingfisher, a 
beautiful creature, that used to glance by me. 
I consequently became much attached to it. 



During these walks I composed the poem that 
follows. 

The Reader must be apprised, that the Stoves 
in North-Germany generally have the impres- 
sion of a galloping horse upon them, this 
being part of the Brunswick Arms. 

A PLAGUE on your languages, German and 

Norse ! 
Let me have the song of the kettle ; 
And the tongs and the poker, instead of 

that horse 
That gallops away with such fury and 

force 
On this dreary dull plate of black metal. 

See that Fly, — a disconsolate creature ! 

perhaps 
A child of the field or the grove ; 
And, sorrow for him ! the dull treacherous 

heat 
Has seduced the poor fool from his whiter 

retreat, 
And he creeps to the edge of my stove. 10 

Alas ! how he fumbles about the domains 

Which this comfortless oven environ ! 

He cannot find out hi what track he must 

crawl, 
Now back to the tiles, then in search of the 

wall, 
And now on the brink of the iron. 

Stock-still there he stands like a traveller 

bemazed : 
The best of his skill he has tried; 
His feelers, methinks, I can see him put 

forth 
To the east and the west, to the south and 

the north; 
But he finds neither guide-post nor guide. 20 

His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and 

thigh ! 
His eyesight and hearing are lost; 
Between life and death his blood freezes 

and thaws; 
And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky 

gauze 
Are glued to his sides by the frost. 

No brother, no mate has he near him — 

while I 
Can draw warmth from the cheek of my 

Love ; 



"ON NATURE'S INVITATION DO I COME" 



123 



As blfest and as glad, in this desolate gloom, 
As if green summer grass were the floor of 

my room, 
And woodbines were hanging above. 30 

Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless 

Thing ! 
Thy life I would gladly sustain 
Till summer come up from the south, and 

with crowds 
Of thy brethren a march thou should'st 

sound through the clouds, 
And back to the forests again ! 



"BLEAK SEASON WAS IT, 
TURBULENT AND WILD" 

1800 (?). 1851 

Bleak season was it, turbulent and wild, 
When hither ward we journeyed, side by 

side, 
Through bursts of sunshine and through 

flying showers, 
Paced the long vales, — how long they were, 

and yet 
How fast that length of way was left be- 
hind ! — 
Wensley's rich dale, and Sedberge's naked 

heights. 
The frosty wind, as if to make amends 
For its keen breath, was aiding to our 

steps, 
And drove us onward as two ships at sea; 
Or like two birds, companions in mid-air, 
Parted and reunited by the blast. 
Stern was the face of Nature; we rejoiced 
In that stern countenance; for our souls 

thence drew 
A feeling of their strength. 

The naked trees, 
The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared 
To question us, " Whence come ye, to what 

end ? " 



"ON NATURE'S INVITATION DO 
I COME" 

1800 (?). 1851 

On Nature's invitation do I come, 
By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice mis- 
lead, 



That made the calmest, fairest spot on 

earth, 
With all its unappropriated good, 
My own; and not mine only, for with me 
Entrenched — say rather peacefully em- 
bowered — 
Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot, 
A younger orphan of a name extinct, 
The only daughter of my parents, dwells: 
Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to 

stir; 10 

Pause upon that, and let the breathing 

frame 
No longer breathe, but all be satisfied. 
Oh, if such silence be not thanks to God 
For what hath been bestowed, then where, 

where then 
Shall gratitude find rest ? Mine eyes did 

ne'er 
Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind 
Take pleasure in the midst of happy 

thought, 
But either she, whom now I have, who now 
Divides with me that loved abode, was 

there, 
Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps 

turned, 20 

Her voice was like a hidden bird that sang; 
The thought of her was like a flash of light, 
Or an unseen companionship; a breath 
Or fragrance independent of the wind. 
In all my goings, in the new and old 
Of all my meditations, and in this 
Favourite of all, hi this the most of all. . . . 
Embrace me then, ye hills, and close me in. 
Now in the clear and open day I feel 29 
Your guardianship: I take it to my heart; 
'T is like the solemn shelter of the night. 
But I would call thee beautiful; for mild 
And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art, 
Dear valley, having in thy face a smile, 
Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou 

art pleased, 
Pleased with thy crags, and woody steeps, 

thy lake, 
Its one green island, and its winding shores, 
The multitude of little rocky hills, 
Thy church, and cottages of mountain stone 
Clustered like stars some few, but single 

most, 40 

And lurking dimly in their shy retreats, 
Or glancing at each other cheerful looks 
Like separated stars with clouds between. 



124 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK I 



THE PRELUDE; OR, GROWTH OF A POET'S MIND 

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEM 
i 799-1 805. 1850 

ADVERTISEMENT 

The following Poem was commenced in the beginning of the year 1799, and completed in the 
summer of 1805. 

The design and occasion of the work are described by the Author in his Preface to the " Excur- 
sion," first published in 1814, where he thus speaks: — 

" Several years ago, when the Author retired to his native mountains with the hope of being 
enabled to construct a literary work that might live, it was a reasonable thing that he should 
take a review of his own mind, and examine how far Nature and Education had qualified hiru 
for such an employment. 

""As subsidiary to this preparation, he undertook to record, in verse, the origin and progress of 
his own powers, as far as he was acquainted with them. 

" That work, addressed to a dear friend, most distinguished for his knowledge and genius, and 
to whom the Author's intellect is deeply indebted, has been long finished ; and the result of the 
investigation which gave rise to it, was a determination to compose a philosophical Poem, con- 
taining views of Man, Nature, and Society, and to be entitled the ' Recluse ; ' as having for its 
principal subject the sensations and opinions of a poet living in retirement. 

" The preparatory poem is biographical, and conducts the history of the Author's mind to the 
point when he was emboldened to hope that his faculties were sufficiently matured for entering 
upon the arduous labour which he had proposed to himself ; and the two works have the same 
kind of relation to each other, if he may so express himself, as the Ante-chapel has to the body 
of a Gothic church. Continuing this allusion, he may be permitted to add, that his minor pieces, 
which have been long before the public, when they shall be properly arranged, will be found 
by the attentive reader to have such connection with the main work as may give them claim 
to be likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses, ordinarily included in those 
edifices." 

Such was the Author's language in the year 1S14. 

It will thence be seen, that the present Poem was intended to be introductory to the " Recluse," 
and that the " Recluse," if completed, would have consisted of Three Parts. Of these, the Second 
Part alone : viz. the " Excursion," was finished, and given to the world by the Author. 

The First Book of the First Part of the " Recluse " still remains in manuscript ; but the Third 
Part was only planned. The materials of which it would have been formed have, however, been 
incorporated, for the most part, in the Author's other Publications, written subsequently to the 
" Excursion." 

The Friend, to whom the present Poem is addressed, was the late Samuel Taylor Cole- 
ridge, who was resident in Malta, for the restoration of his health, when the greater part of it 
was composed. 

Mr. Coleridge read a considerable portion of the Poem while he was abroad ; and his feelings, 
on hearing it recited by the Author (after his return to his own country), are recorded in his 
Verses, addressed to Mr. Wordsworth, which will be found in the Sibylline Leaves, p. 197, ed. 
1817, or Poetical Works, by S. T. Coleridge, vol. i. p. 206. 

Rtdal Mount, July 13ih, 1S50. 



BOOK FIRST 

INTRODUCTION — CHILDHOOD AND 
SCHOOL-TIME 

Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze, 
A visitant that while it fans my cheek 
Doth seem half -conscious of the joy it brings 
From the green fields, and from yon azure 
sky. 



Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can 

come 
To none more grateful than to me; escaped 
From the vast city, where I long had pined 
A discontented sojourfier: now free, 
Free as a bird to settle where I will. 
What dwelling shall receive me ? in what 

vale 10 

Shall be my harbour ? underneath what grove 



BOOK I 



THE PRELUDE 



I2 5 



Shall I take up my home ? and what clear 

stream 
Shall with its murmur lull me into rest ? 
The earth is all before me. With a heart 
Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, 
I look about; and should the chosen guide 
Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, 
I cannot miss my way. I breathe again ! 
Trances of thought and mountings of the 

mind 
Come fast upon me: it is shaken off, 20 
That burthen of my own unnatural self, 
The heavy weight of many a weary day 
Not mine, and such as were not made for me. 
Long months of peace (if such bold word 

accord 
With any promises of human life), 
Long months of ease and undisturbed de- 
light 
Are mine hi prospect; whither shall I turn, 
By road or pathway, or through trackless 

field, 
Up hill or down, or shall some floating thing 
Upon the river point me out my course ? 30 

Dear Liberty ! Yet what would it avail 
But for a gift that consecrates the joy ? 
For I, methought, while the sweet breath 

of heaven 
Was blowing on my body, felt within 
A correspondent breeze, that gently moved 
With quickening virtue, but is now become 
A tempest, a redundant energy, 
Vexing its own creation. Thanks to both, 
And their congenial powers, that, while they 

join 
In breaking up a long-continued fro>t, 40 
Bring with them vernal promises, the hope 
Of active days urged on by flying hours, — 
Days of sweet leisure, taxed with patient 

thought 
Abstruse, nor wanting' punctual service high, 
Matins and vespers of harmonious verse ! 

Thus far, Friend ! did I, not used to 
make 
\ present joy the matter of a song, 
Pour forth that day my soul in measured 

strains 
That would not be forgotten, and are here 
Recorded: to the open fields I told 50 

A prophecy: poetic numbers came 
Spontaneously to clothe in priestly robe 
A renovated spirit singled out, 
Such hope was mine, for holy services. 



My own voice cheered me, and, far more, 

the mind's 
Internal echo of the imperfect sound; 
To both I listened, drawing from them both 
A cheerful confidence in things to come. 

Content and not unwilling now to give 
A respite to this passion, I paced on 60 

With brisk and eager steps; and came, at 

length, 
To a green shady place, where down I sate 
Beneath a tree, slackening my thoughts by 

choice 
And settling into gentler happiness. 
'T was autumn, and a clear and placid day, 
With warmth, as much as needed, from a 

sun 
Two hours declined towards the west; a 

day 
With silver clouds, and sunshine on the 

grass, 
And in the sheltered and the sheltering grove 
A perfect stillness. Many were the thoughts 
Encouraged and dismissed, till choice was 

made 7 1 

Of a known Vale, whither my feet should 

turn, 
Nor rest till they had reached the very door 
Of the one cottage which methought I saw. 
No picture of mere memory ever looked 
So fair; and while upon the fancied scene 
I gazed with growing love, a higher power 
Than Fancy gave assurance of some work 
Of glory there forthwith to be begun, 
Perhaps too there performed. Thus long 1 

mused, 80 

Nor e'er lost sight of what I mused upon, 
Save when, amid the stately grove of oaks, 
Now here, now there, an acorn, from its cup 
Dislodged, through sere leaves rustled, or 

at once 
To the bare earth dropped with a startling 

sound. 
From that soft couch I rose not, till the sun 
Had almost touched the horizon; casting 

then 
A backward glance upon the curling cloud 
Of city smoke, by distance ruralised; 
Keen as a Truant or a Fugitive, 90 

But as a Pilgrim resolute, I took, 
Even with the chance equipment of that 

hour, 
The road that pointed toward the chosen 

Vale. 
It was a splendid evening, and my soul 



[26 



THE PRELUDE 






BOOK I 



Once more made trial of her strength, nor 

lacked 
jEolian visitations; but the harp 
Was soon defrauded, and the banded host 
Of harmony dispersed in straggling sounds, 
And lastly utter silence ! "Be it so; 99 

Why think of anything but present good ? " 
So, like a home-bound labourer, I pursued 
My way beneath the mellowing sun, that 

shed 
Mild influence ; nor left in me one wish 
Again to bend the Sabbath of that time 
To a servile yoke. What need of many 

words ? 
A pleasant loitering journey, through three 

days 
Continued, brought me to my hermitage. 
I spare to tell of what ensued, the life 
In common things — the endless store of 

things, 
Rare, or at least so seeming, every day no 
Found all about me in one neighbourhood — 
The self-congratulation, and, from morn 
To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene. 
But speedily an earnest longing rose 
To brace myself to some determined aim, 
Readhig or thinking; either to lay up 
New stores, or rescue from decay the old 
By timely interference: and therewith 
Came hopes still higher, that with outward 

life 
T might endue some airy phantasies 120 

That had been floating loose about for years, 
And to such beings temperately deal forth 
The many feelings that oppressed my heart. 
That hope hath been discouraged ; welcome 

light 
Dawns from the east, but dawns to disap- 
pear 
And mock me with a sky that ripens not 
Into a steady morning: if my mind, 
Remembering the bold promise of the past, 
Would gladly grapple with some noble 

theme, 
Vain is her wish; where'er she turns she 

finds 130 

Impediments from day to day renewed. 

And now it would content me to yield up 
Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts 
Of humbler industry. But, oh, dear Friend ! 
JThe Poet, gentle creature as he is, 
Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; 
His fits when he is neither sick nor well, 
Though no distress be near him but his own 



Unmanageable thoughts^ j his mind, best 
pleased 139 

While she as duteous as the mother dove 
Sits brooding, lives not always to that end, 
But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on 
That drive her as in trouble through the 

groves; 
With me is now such passion, to be blamed 
No otherwise than as it lasts too long. 

When, as becomes a man who would pre- 
pare 
For such an arduous work, I through myself 
Make rigorous inquisition, the report 
Is often cheering; for I neither seem 
To lack that first great gift, the vital soul, 
Nor general Truths, which are themselves 
a sort 151 

Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers, 
Subordinate helpers of the living mind: 
Nor am I naked of external things, 
Forms, images, nor numerous other aids 
Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil 
And needful to build up a Poet's praise. 
Time, place, and manners do I seek, and 

these 
Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere 
such 1 59 

As may be singled out with steady choice ; 
No little band of yet remembered names 
Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope 
To summon back from lonesome banish- 
ment, 
And make them dwellers in the hearts of 

men 
Now living, or to live in future years. 
Sometimes the ambitious Power of choice, 

mistaking 
Proud spring-tide swellings for a regular 

sea, 
Will settle on some British theme, some old 
Romantic tale by Milton left unsung; 
More often turning to some gentle place 
Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe 171 
To shepherd swains, or seated harp in hand, 
Amid reposing knights by a river side 
Or fountain, listen to the grave reports 
Of dire enchantments faced and overcome 
By the strong mind, and tales of warlike 

feats, 
Where spear encountered spear, and sword 

with sword 
Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry 
That the shield bore, so glorious was the 
strife ; 



BOOK I 



THE PRELUDE 



127 



Whence inspiration for a song that winds 
Through ever-changing scenes of votive 

quest 1 Si 

Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid 
To patient courage and unblemished truth, 
To hrm devotion, zeal unquenchable, 
And Christian meekness hallowing faithful 

loves. 
Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would 

relate 
How vanquished Mithridates northward 

passed, 
And, hidden in the cloud of years, became 
Odin, the Father of a race by whom 
Perished the Roman Empire : how the 

friends 190 

And followers of Sertorius, out of Spam 
Flying, foimd shelter hi the Fortunate Isles, 
And left their usages, their arts and laws, 
To disappear by a slow gradual death, 
To dwindle and to perish one by one, 
Starved hi those narrow bounds : but not the 

soul 
Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years 
Survived, and, when the European came 
With skill and power that might not be 

withstood, 
Did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold 200 
And wasted down by glorious death that 

race 
Of natural heroes: or I would record 
How, in tyrannic times, some high-souled 

man, 
Unnamed among the chronicles of kings, 
Suffered in silence for Truth's sake : or tell, 
How that one Frenchman, through contin- 
ued force 
Of meditation on the inhuman deeds 
Of those who conquered first the Indian 

Isles, 
Went single in his ministry across 
The Ocean; not to comfort the oppressed, 
But, like a thirsty wind, to roam about 211 
Withering the Oppressor: how Gustavus 

sought 
Help at his need in Dalecarlia's mines: 
How Wallace fought for Scotland; left the 

name 
Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, 
All over his dear Country; left the deeds 
Of Wallace, like a family of Ghosts, 
To people the steep rocks and river banks, 
Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul 
Of independence and stern liberty. 220 

Sometimes it suits me better to invent 



A tale from my own heart, more near 

akin 
To my own passions and habitual thoughts ; 
Some variegated story, in the main 
Lofty, but the unsubstantial structure melts 
Before the very sun that brightens it, 
Mist into air dissolving ! Then a wish, 
My last and favourite aspiration, mounts 
With yearning toward some philosophic 

song 
Of Truth that cherishes our daily life; 230 
With meditations passionate from deep 
Recesses hi man's heart, immortal verse 
Thoughtfully fitted to the Orphean lyre; 
But from this awful burthen I full soon 
Take refuge and beguile myself with trust 
That mellower years will bring a riper 

mind 
And clearer insight. Thus my days are past 
In contradiction; with no skill to part 
Vague longing, haply bred by want of 

power, 
From paramount impulse not to be with- 
stood, 240 
A timorous capacity, from prudence, 
From circumspection, infinite delay. 
Humility and modest awe, themselves 
Betray me, serving often for a cloak 
To a more subtle selfishness ; that now 
Locks every f miction up in blank reserve, 
Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye 
That with intrusive restlessness beats off 
Simplicity and self-presented truth. 
Ah ! better far than this, to stray about 
Voluptuously through fields and rural 

walks, 251 

And ask no record of the hours, resigned 
To vacant musing, unreproved neglect 
Of all things, and deliberate holiday. 
Far better never to have heard the name 
Of zeal and just ambition, than to live 
Baffled and plagued by a mind that every 

hour 
Turns recreant to her task; takes heart 

again, 
Then feels immediately some hollow 

thought 
Hang like an interdict upon her hopes. 260 
This is my lot; for either still I find 
Some imperfection in the chosen theme, 
Or see of absolute accomplishment 
Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, 
That I recoil and droop, and seek repose 
In listlessness from vain perplexity, 
Unprofitably travelling toward the grave, 



123 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK I 



Like a false steward who hath much re- 
ceived 
And renders nothing back. 

Was it for this 
That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved 270 
To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song, 
And, from his alder shades and rocky falls, 
And from his fords and shallows, sent a 

voice 
That flowed along my dreams ? For this, 

didst thou, 
O Derwent ! winding among grassy holms 
Where I was looking on, a babe in arms, 
Make ceaseless music that composed my 

thoughts 
To more than infant softness, giving me 
Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind 
A foretaste, a dun earnest, of the calm 280 
That Nature breathes among the hills and 
groves. 

When he had left the mountains and re- 
ceived 
On his smooth breast the shadow of those 

towers 
That yet survive, a shattered monument 
Of feudal sway, the bright blue river passed 
Along the margin of our terrace walk; 
A tempting playmate whom we dearly 

loved. 
Oh, many a time have I, a five years' child, 
In a small mill-pace severed from his 

stream, 
Made one long bathing of a summer's 

day ; 290 

Basked in the sun, and plunged and basked 

again 
Alternate, all a summer's day, or scoured 
The sandy fields, leaping through flowery 

groves 
Of yellow ragwort; or, when rock and hill, 
The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty 

height, 
Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood 

alone 
Beneath the sky, as if I had been born 
On Indian plains, and from my mother's hut 
Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport 
A naked savage, in the thunder shower. 300 

jFair seed-time had my soul, and I grew 

U P 
Fostered alike by beauty and by fear: 
Much favoured in my birth-place, and no 

less 



In that beloved Vale to which erelong 
We were transplanted; — there were we 

let loose 
For sports of wider range. Ere I had told 
Ten birth-days, when among the mountain 

slopes 
Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had 

snapped 
The last autumnal crocus, 't was my joy 
With store of springes o'er my shoulder 

hung 310 

To range the open heights where wood- 
cocks rim 
Along the smooth green turf. Through 

. half the night, 
Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied 
That anxious visitation ; — moon and stars 
Were shining o'er my head. I was alone, 
And seemed to be a trouble to the peace 
That dwelt among them. Sometimes it 

befell 
In these night wanderings, that a strong 

desire 
O'erpowered my better reason, and the bird 
Which was the captive of another's toil 320 
Became my prey; and when the deed was 

done 
I heard among the solitary hills 
Low breathings coming after me, and 

sounds 
Of undistinguishable motion, steps 
Almost as silent as the turf they trod. 

Nor less, when spring had warmed the 

cultured Vale, 
Moved we as plunderers where the mother- 
bird 
Had in high places built her lodge; though 

mean 
Our object and inglorious, yet the end 
Was not ignoble. Oh ! when I have 

hung 330 

Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass 
And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock 
But ill sustained, and almost (so it seemed) 
Suspended by the blast that blew amain, 
Shouldering the naked crag, oh, at that 

time 
While on the perilous ridge I hung alone, 
With what strange utterance did the loud 

dry wind 
Blow through my ear ! the sky seemed not 

a sky 
Of earth — and with what motion moved 

the clouds ! 



BOOK I 



THE PRELUDE 



129 



Dust as we are, the immortal spirit 
grows 340 

Like harmony in music; there is a dark 
Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles 
Discordant elements, makes them cling to- 
gether 
In one society. How strange, that all 
The terrors, pains, and early miseries, 
Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused 
Within my mind, should e'er have borne a 

part, 
And that a needful part, in making up 
The calm existence that is mine when I 
Am worthy of myself ! Praise to the end ! 
Thanks to the means which Nature deigned 
to employ; 351 

Whether her fearless visitings, or those 
That came with soft alarm, like hurtless 

light 
Opening the peaceful clouds; or she would 

use 
Severer interventions, ministry 
More palpable, as best might suit her aim. 

One slimmer evening (led by her) I 

found 
A little boat tied to a willow tree 
Within a rocky cove, its usual home. 
Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping 

in 360 

Pushed from the shore. It was an act of 

stealth 
And troubled pleasure, nor without the 

voice 
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on; 
Leaving behind her still, on either side, 
Small circles glittering idly in the moon, 
Until they melted all into one track 
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who 

rows, 
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point 
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view 
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, 370 
The horizon's utmost boundary; far above 
Was nothing but the stars and the grey 

sky. 
She was an elfin pinnace; lustily 
I dipped my oars into the silent lake, 
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat 
Went heaving through the water like a 

swan; 
When, from behind that craggy steep till 

then 
The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black 

and huge, 



As if with voluntary power instinct, 
Upreared its head. I struck and struck 

agahi, 380 

And growing still in stature the giim shape 
Towered up between me and the stars, and 

still, 
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own 
And measured motion like a living thing, 
Strode after ,me. With trembling oars I 

turned, 
And through the silent water stole my way 
Back to the covert of the willow tree; 
There in her mooring-place I left my 

bark, — 
And through the meadows homeward went, 

in grave 
And serious mood; but after I had seen 390 
That spectacle, for many days, my brain 
Worked with a dim and undetermined 

sense 
Of unknown modes of being; o'er my 

thoughts 
There hung a darkness, call it solitude 
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes 
Remained, no pleasant images of trees, 
Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields; 
But huge and mighty forms, that do not 

live 
Like living men, moved slowly through the 

mind 
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams. 

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 401 
Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought 
That givest to forms and images a breath 
And everlasting motion, not in vain 
By day or star-light thus from my first 

dawn 
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
The passions that build up our human soid ; 
Not with the mean and vulgar works of 

man, 
But with high objects, with enduring 

things — 
With life and nature — purifying thus 410 
The elements of feeling and of thought, 
And sanctifying, by such discipline, 
Both pain and fear, until we recognise 
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 
With stinted kindness. In November days, 
When vapours rolling down the valley 

made 
A lonely scene more lonesome, among 

woods, 



i3° 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK I 



At noon and 'mid the calm of summer 

nights, 
When, by the margin of the trembling 

lake, 420 

Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I 

went 
In solitude, such intercourse was mine; 
Mine was it hi the fields both day and 

night, 
And by the waters, all the summer long. 

And in the frosty season, when the sun 
Was set, and visible for many a mile 
The cottage windows blazed through twi- 
light gloom, 
I heeded not their summons: happy time 
It was indeed for all of us — - for me 
It was a time of rapture ! Clear and 
loud 43° 

The village clock tolled six, — I wheeled 

about, 
Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
That cares not for his home. All shod 

with steel, 
We hissed along the polished ice hi games 
Confederate, imitative of the chase 
And woodland pleasures, — the resounding 

horn, 
The pack loud chiming, and the hunted 

hare. 
So through the darkness and the cold we 

flew, 
And not a voice was idle; with the din 
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; 440 

The leafless trees and every icy crag 
Tinkled like iron ; while far distant hills 
Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars 
Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the 

west 
The orange sky of evening died away. 
Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
Into a silent bay, or sportively 
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous 

throng, 
To cut across the reflex of a star 450 

That fled, and, flying still before me, 

gleamed 
Upon the glassy plain ; and oftentimes, 
When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
And all the shadowy banks on either side 
Came sweeping through the darkness, spin- 
ning still 
The rapid line of motion, then at once 
Have I, reclining back upon my heels, 



Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs 
Wheeled by me — e^en as if the earth had 

rolled 
With visible motion her diurnal round ! 460 
Behind me did they stretch hi solemn tram, 
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and 

watched 
Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. 

Ye Presences of Nature in the sky 
And on the earth ! Ye Visions of the hills ! 
And Souls of lonely places ! can I think 
A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed 
Such ministry, when ye, through many a 

year 
Haunting me thus among my boyish sports, 
On caves and trees, upon the woods and 

hills, 470 

Impressed, upon all forms, the characters 
Of danger or desire; and thus did make 
The surface of the universal earth, 
With triumph and delight, with hope and 

fear, 
Work like a sea ? 

Not uselessly employed, 
Might I pursue this theme through every 

change 
Of exercise and play, to which the year 
Did summon us hi his delightful roimd. 

We were a noisy crew ; the sun in heaven 
Beheld not vales more beautiful than ours; 
Nor saw a band in happiness and joy 481 
Richer, or worthier of the groimd they trod. 
I could record with no reluctant voice 
The woods of autumn, and their hazel 

bowers 
With milk-white clusters hung ; the rod and 

line, 
True symbol of hope's foolishness, whose 

strong 
And unreproved enchantment led us on 
By rocks and pools shut out from every 

star, 
All the green summer, to forlorn cascades 
Among the windings hid of mountain 

brooks. 490 

— Unfading recollections ! at this hour 
The heart is almost mine with which I felt, 
From some hill-top on sunny afternoons, 
The paper kite high among fleecy clouds 
Pull at her rem like an impetuous courser; 
Or, from the meadows sent on gusty days, 
Beheld her breast the wind, then suddenly 
Dashed headlong, and rejected by the storm. 



BOOK I 



THE PRELUDE 



l 3 l 



Ye lowly cottages wherein we dwelt, 
A ministration of your own was yours ; 500 
Can I forget you, being as you were 
So beautiful among the pleasant fields 
In which ye stood ? or can I here forget 
The plain and seemly countenance with 

which 
Ye dealt out your plain comforts ? Yet 

had ye 
Delights and exultations of your own. 
Eager and never weary we pursued 
Our home-amusements by the warm peat- 
fire 
At evening, when with pencil, and smooth 

slate 
In square divisions parcelled out and all 
With crosses and with cyphers scribbled 
o'er, 511 

We schemed and puzzled, head opposed to 

head 
In strife too humble to be named in verse : 
Or round the naked table, snow-white deal, 
Cherry or maple, sate in close array, 
And to the combat, Loo or Whist, led on 
A thick-ribbed army; not, as in the world, 
Neglected and ungratefully thrown by 
Even for the very service they had wrought, 
But husbanded through many a long cam- 
paign. 520 
Uncouth assemblage was it, where no few 
Had changed their functions: some, ple- 
beian cards 
Which Fate, beyond the promise of their 

birth, 
Had dignified, and called to represent 
The persons of departed potentates. 
Oh, with what echoes on the board they fell ! 
Ironic diamonds, — clubs, hearts, diamonds, 

spades, 
A congregation piteously akin ! 
Cheap matter offered they to boyish wit, 
Those sooty knaves, precipitated down 530 
With scoffs and taunts, like Vulcan out of 

heaven: 
The paramount ace, a moon in her eclipse, 
Queens gleaming through their splendour's 

last decay, 
And monarchs surly at the wrongs sus- 
tained 
By royal visages. Meanwhile abroad 
Incessant ram was falling, or the frost 
Raged bitterly, with keen and silent tooth; 
And, interrupting oft that eager game, 
From under Esthwaite's splitting fields of 
ice 



The pent-up air, struggling to free itself, 
Gave out to meadow grounds and hdls a 
loud 54 1 

Protracted yelling, like the noise of wolves 
Howling in troops along the Bothnic Main. 

Nor, sedulous as I have been to trace 
How Nature by extrinsic passion first 
Peopled the mind with forms sublime or 

fair, 
And made me love them, may I here omit 
How other pleasures have been mine, and 

joys 
Of subtler origin; how I have felt, 
Not seldom even in that tempestuous tune, 
Those hallowed and pure motions of the 

sense 551 

Which seem, in their simplicity, to own 
An intellectual charm; that calm delight 
Which, if I err not, surely must belong 
To those first-born affinities that fit 
Our new existence to existing things, 
And, in our dawn of being, constitute 
The bond of union between life and joy. 

Yes, I remember when the changeful 

earth, 
And twice five summers on my mind had 

stamped s Co 

The faces of the moving year, even then 
I held unconscious intercourse with beauty 
Old as creation, drinking in a pure 
Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths 
Of curling mist, or from the level plain 
Of waters coloured by impending clouds. 

The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks 

and bays 
Of Cumbria's rocky limits, they can tell 
How, when the Sea threw off his evening 

shade, 
And to the shepherd's hut on distant 

hills 570 

Sent welcome notice of the rising moon, 
How I have stood, to fancies such as these 
A stranger, linking with the spectacle 
No conscious memory of a kindred sight, 
And bringing with me no peculiar sense 
Of quietness or peace; yet have I stood, 
Even while mine eye hath moved o'er many 

a league 
Of shining water, gathering as it seemed, 
Through every hair-breadth in that field of 

light, 
New pleasure like a bee among the flowers. 



i3 2 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK II 



Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy 581 
Which, through all seasons, on a child's 

pursuits 
Are prompt attendants, 'mid that giddy 

bliss 
Which, like a tempest, works along the 

blood 
And is forgotten; even then I felt 
Gleams like the flashing of a shield; — the 

earth 
And common face of Nature spake to me 
Rememberable things ; sometimes, 't is true, 
By chance collisions and quaint accidents 
( Like those ill-sorted unions, work supposed 
Of evil-minded fairies), yet not vain 591 
Nor profitless, if haply they impressed 
Collateral objects and appearances, 
Albeit lifeless then, and doomed to sleep 
Until maturer seasons called them forth 
To impregnate and to elevate the mind. 
— And if the vulgar joy by its own weight 
Wearied itself out of the memory, 
The scenes which were a witness of that joy 
Remained in their substantial lineaments 
Depicted on the brain, and to the eye 601 
Were visible, a daily sight; and thus 
By the impressive discipline of fear, 
By pleasure and repeated happiness, 
So frequently repeated, and by force 
Of obscure feelings representative 
Of things forgotten, these same scenes so 

bright, 
So beautiful, so majestic in themselves, 
Though yet the day was distant, did be- 
come 
Habitually dear, and all their forms 610 
And changeful colours by invisible links 
Were fastened to the affections. 

I began 
My story early — not misled, I trust, 
By an infirmity of love for days 
Disowned by memory — ere the breath of 

spring 
Planting my snowdrops among winter 

snows: 
Nor will it seem to thee, O Friend ! so 

prompt 
In sympathy, that I have lengthened out 
With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale. 
Meanwhile, my hope has been, that I might 

fetch 620 

Invigorating thoughts from former years ; 
Might fix the wavering balance of my mind, 
And haply meet reproaches too, whose 

power 



May spur me on, in manhood now mature 
To honourable toil. Yet should these hopes 
Prove vain, and thus should neither I be 

taught 
To understand myself, nor thou to know 
With better knowledge how the heart was 

framed 
Of him thou lovest; need I dread from thee 
Harsh judgments, if the song be loth to quit 
Those recollected hours that have the charm 
Of visionary things, those lovely forms 632 
And sweet sensations that throw back our 

life, 
And almost make remotest infancy 
A visible scene, on which the sun is shining ? 

One end at least hath been attained; my 

mind 
Hath been revived, and if this genial mood 
Desert me not, forthwith shall be brought 

down 
Through later years the story of my life. 
The road lies plain before me; — 'tis a 

theme 640 

Single and of determined bounds; and 

hence 
I choose it rather at this time, than work 
Of ampler or more varied argument, 
Where I might be discomfited and lost: 
And certain hopes are with me, that to thee 
This labour will be welcome, honoured 

Friend ! 



BOOK SECOND 
school-time {continued) 

Thus far, O Friend ! have we, though 

leaving much 
Unvisited, endeavoured to retrace 
The simple ways in which my childhood 

walked ; 
Those chiefly that first led me to the love 
Of rivers, woods, and fields. The passion yet 
Was in its birth, sustained as might befall 
By notirishment that came unsought; for 

still 
From week to week, from month to month, 

we lived 
A round of tumult. Duly were our games 
Prolonged in summer till tbe daylight failed; 
No chair remained before the doors; the 

bench 1 1 

And threshold steps wei'e empty; fast as'eep 
The labourer, and the old man who had sate 



BOOK II 



THE PRELUDE 



*33 



A later lingerer; yet the revelry 
Continued and the loud uproar: at last, 
When all the ground was dark, and twin- 
kling stars 
Edged the black clouds, home and to bed 

we went, 
Feverish with weary joints and beating 

niinds. 
Ah ! is there one who ever has been young, 
Nor needs a warning voice to tame the 
pride 20 

Of intellect and virtue's self-esteem ? 
One is there, though the wisest and the best 
Of all mankind, who covets not at times 
Union that cannot be; — who would not give 
If so he might, to duty and to truth 
The eagerness of infantine desire ? 
A tranquillising spirit presses now 
On my corporeal frame, so wide appears 
The vacancy between me and those days 
Which yet have such self-presence hi my 
mind, 30 

That, musing on them, often do I seem 
Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself 
And of some other Being. A rude mass 
Of native rock, left midway hi the square 
Of our small market village, was the goal 
Or centre of these sports; and when, re- 
turned 
After long absence, thither I repaired, 
Gone was the old grey stone, and in its place 
A smart Assembly-room usurped the ground 
That had been ours. There let the fiddle 
scream, 40 

And be ye happy ! Yet, my Friends ! I 

know 
That more than one of you will think with 

me 
Of those soft starry nights, and that old 

Dame 
From whom the stone was named, who 

there had sate, 
And watched her table with its huckster's 

wares 
Assiduous, through the length of sixty years. 

We ran a boisterous course; the year 
span round 
With giddy motion. But the time ap- 
proached 
That brought with it a regular desire 
For calmer pleasures, when the winning 
forms 50 

Of Nature were collaterally attached 
To every scheme of holiday delight 



And every boyish sport, less grateful else 
And languidly pursued. 

When summer came, 
Our pastime was, on bright half -holidays, 
To sweep along the plain of Windermere 
With rival oars; and the selected bourne 
Was now an Island musical with birds 
That sang and ceased not; now a Sister Isle 
Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown 
With lilies of the valley like a field; 61 

And now a third small Island, where sur- 
vived 
In solitude the rums of a shrine 
Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served 
Daily with chaunted rites. In such a race 
So ended, disappointment could be none, 
Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy: 
We rested hi the shade, all pleased alike, 
Conquered and conqueror. Thus the pride 

of strength, 
And the vain-glory of superior skill, 70 

Were tempered; thus was gradually pro- 
duced 
A quiet independence of the heart: 
And to my Friend who knows me I may 

add, 
Fearless of blame, that hence forfuture days 
Ensued a diffidence and modesty, 
And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much, 
The self-sufficing power of Solitude. 

Our daily meals were frugal, Sabine fare ! 
More than we wished we knew the blessing 

then 
Of vigorous hunger — hence corporeal 

strength So 

Unsapped by delicate viands; for, exclude 
A little weekly stipend, and we lived 
Through three divisions of the quartered 

year 
In penniless poverty. But now to school 
From the half-yearly holidays returned, 
We came with weightier purses, that suf- 
ficed 
To furnish treats more costly than the 

Dame 
Of the old grey stone, from her scant board, 

supplied. 
Hence rustic dinners on the cool green 

ground, 
Or in the woods, or by a river side 90 

Or shady fountains, while among the leaves 
Soft airs were stirring, and the mid-day sun 
Unfelt shone brightly round us in our joy. 
Nor is my aim neglected if I tell 



134 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK II 



How sometimes, in the length of those half- 
years, 

We from our f uiuls drew largely ; — proud 
to curb, 

And eager to spur on, the galloping steed; 

And with the courteous inn-keeper, whose 
stud 

Supplied our want, we haply might employ 

Sly subterfuge, if the adventure's bound ioo 

Were distant: some famed temple where 
of yore 

The Druids worshipped, or the antique 
walls 

Of that large abbey, where within the Vale 

Of Nightshade, to St. Mary's honour built, 

Stands yet a mouldering pile with fractured 
arch, 

Belfry, and images, and living trees ; 

A holy scene ! — Along the smooth green 
turf 

Our horses grazed. To more than inland 
peace, 

Left by the west wind sweeping overhead 

From a tumultuous ocean, trees and tow- 
ers no 

In that sequestered valley may be seen, 

Both silent and both motionless alike; 

Such the deep shelter that is there, and 
such 

The safeguard for repose and quietness. 

Our steeds remounted and the summons 

given, 
With whip and spur we through the chauu- 

try flew 
In uncouth race, and left the cross-legged 

knight, 
And the stone-abbot, and that single wren 
Which one day sang so sweetly in the nave 
Of the old church, that — though from re- 
cent showers 120 
The earth was comfortless, and, touched 

by faint 
Internal breezes, sobbings of the place 
And respirations, from the roofless walls 
The shuddering ivy dripped large drops — 

yet still 
So sweetly 'mid the gloom the invisible 

bird 
Sang to herself, that there I could have 

made 
My dwelling-place, and lived for ever there 
To hear such music. Through the walls 

we flew 
And down the valley, and, a circuit made 



In wantonness of heart, through rough and 

smooth 130 

We scampered homewards. Oh, ye rocks 

and streams, 
And that still spirit shed from evening air ! 
Even in this joyous tune I sometimes felt 
Your presence, when with slackened step 

we breathed 
Along the sides of the steep hills, or when 
Lighted by gleams of moonlight from the 

sea 
We beat with thundering hoofs the level 

sand. 

Midway on long Winander's eastern 

shore, 
Within the crescent of a pleasant bay, 
A tavern stood; no homely - featured 

house, 140 

Primeval like its neighbouring cottages, 
But 't was a splendid place, the door beset 
With chaises, grooms, and liveries, and 

within 
Decanters, glasses, and the blood-red wine. 
In ancient times, and ere the Hall was 

built 
On the large island, had this dwelling been 
More worthy of a poet's love, a hut, 
Proud of its own bright fire and sycamore 

shade. 
But — though the rhymes were gone that 

once hiscribed 
The threshold, and large golden charac- 
ters, 1 50 
Spread o'er the spangled sign-board, had 

dislodged 
The old Lion and usurped his place, in 

slight 
And mockery of the rustic painter's hand — 
Yet, to this hour, the spot to me is dear 
With all its foolish pomp. The garden lay 
Upon a slope surmounted by a plain 
Of a small bowling-green ; beneath us 

stood 
A grove, with gleams of w r ater through the 

trees 
And over the tree-tops ; nor did we want 
Refreshment, strawberries and mellow 

cream. j6o 

There, while through half an afternoon we 

played 
On the smooth platform, whether skill pre- 
vailed 
Or happy blunder triumphed, bursts of 

glee 



FOOK II 



THE PRELUDE 



i35 



Made all the mountains ring. But, ere 

night-fall, 
When hi our pinnace we returned at lei- 
sure 
Over the shadowy lake, and to the heach 
Of some small island steered our course 

with one, 
The Minstrel of the Troop, and left him 

there, 
And rowed off gently, while he blew his 

flute 
Alone upon the rock — oh, then, the calm 
And dead still water lay upon my mind 171 
Even with a weight of pleasure, and the 

sky, 
Never before so beautiful, sank down 
Into my heart, and held me like a dream ! 
Thus were my sympathies enlarged, and 

thus 
Daily the common range of visible things 
Grew dear to me: already I began 
To love the sun; a boy I loved the sun, 
Not as I since have loved him, as a pledge 
And surety of our earthly life, a light 180 
Which we behold and feel we are alive; 
Nor for his bounty to so many worlds — 
But for this cause, that I had seen him lay 
His beauty on the morning hills, had seen 
The western mountain touch his setting 

orb, 
In many a thoughtless hour, when, from 

excess 
Of happiness, my blood appeared to flow 
For its own pleasure, and I breathed with 

joy- r 

And, from like feelings, humble though in- 
tense, 
To patriotic and domestic love 190 

Analogous, the moon to me was dear; 
For I could dream away my purposes, 
Standing to gaze upon her while she hung 
Midway between the hills as if she knew 
No other region, but belonged to thee, 
Yea, appertained by a peculiar right 
To thee and thy grey huts, thou one dear 
Vale! 

^ Those incidental charms which first at- 
tached 
My heart to rural objects, day by day 
Grew weaker, and I hasten on to tell 200 
How Nature, intervenient till this time 
And secondary, now at length was sought 
For her own sake. But who shall parcel 
out 



His intellect by geometric rules, 
Split like a province into round and square ? 
Who knows the individual hour in which 
His habits were first sown, even as a seed ? 
Who that shall point as with a wand and 

sa . v . , 

" This portion of the river of my mind 

Came from yon fountain?" Thou, my 

Friend ! art one 210 

More deeply read hi thy own thoughts; to 

thee 

Science appears but what in truth she is, 

Not as our glory and our absolute boast, 

But as ajsuccedaneunrj and a prop 

To our infirmity. No officious slave 

Art thou of that false secondary power 

By which we multiply distinctions, then 

Deem that our puny boundaries are things 

That we perceive, and not that we have 

made. 

To thee, unblinded by these formal arts, 220 

The unity of all hath been revealed, 

And thou wilt doubt, with me less aptly 

skilled 

Than many are to range the faculties 

In scale and order, class the cabinet 

Of their sensations, and hi voluble phrase 

Run through the history and birth of each 

As of a single independent thing. 

Hard task, vain hope, to analyse the mind, 

If each most obvious and particular 

thought, 

Not hi a mystical and idle sense, 230 

But hi the words of Reason deeply weighed, 

Hath no beginning. 

• "Blest the infant Babe, 

(For with my best conjecture I would trace 

Our Being's earthly progress,) blest the 

Babe, 

Nursed hi his Mother's arms, who sinks to 

sleep 

Rocked on his Mother's breast; who with 

his soul 

Drinks hi the feelings of his Mother's eye ! 

For him, hi one dear Presence, there exists 

A virtue which irradiates and exalts 

Objects through widest hitercourse of 

sense; 24c 

No outcast he, bewildered and depressed: 

Along his infant vehis are interfused 

The gravitation and the filial bond 

Of nature that connect him with the world. 

Is there a flower, to which he points with 

hand 

Too weak to gather it, already love ^ 



136 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK II 



Drawn from love's purest earthly fount for 

him 
Hath beautified that flower ; already shades 
Of pity east from inward tenderness 
Do fall around him upon aught that 

bears 250 

Unsightly marks of violence or harm. 
Emphatically such a Being lives, 
Frail creature as he is, helpless as frail, 
An inmate of this active universe: 
For, feeling has to him imparted power 
That through the growing faculties of sense 
Doth like an agent of the one great Mind 
Create, creator and receiver both, 
Working but in alliance with the works 
Which it beholds. — Such, verily, is the first 
Poetic spirit of our human life, 261 

By uniform control of after years, 
In most, abated or suppressed; in some, 
Through every change of growth and of 

decay, 
Pre-eminent till death. 

From early days, 
Beginning not long after that first time 
In which, a Babe, by intercourse of touch 
I held mute dialogues with my Mother's 

heart, 
I have endeavoured to display the means 
Whereby this infant sensibility, 270 

"Great birthright of our being, was in me 
Augmented and sustained. Yet is a path 
More difficult before me ; and I fear 
That in its broken windings we shall need 
The chamois' sinews, and the eagle's wing: 
For now a trouble came into my mind 
From unknown causes. I was left alone 
Seeking the visible world, nor knowing why. 
The props of my affections were removed, 
And yet the building stood, as if sustained 
By its own spirit ! All that I beheld 2S1 
Was dear, and hence to finer influxes 
The mind lay open to a more exact 
And close communion. Many are our joj^s 
In youth, but oh ! what happiness to live 
When every hour brings palpable access 
Of knowledge, when all knowledge is de- 
light, 
And sorrow is not there ! The seasons came, 
And every season wheresoe'er I moved 
Unfolded transitory qualities, 290 

Which, but for this most watchful power of 

love, 
Had been neglected ; left a register 
Of permanent relations, else unknown. 
Hence life, and change, and beauty, solitude 



More active ever than " best society " — ■ 
Society made sweet as solitude 
By silent inobtrusive sympathies, 
And gentle agitations of the mind 
From manifold distinctions, difference 
Perceived in things, where, to the unwatch- 

ful eye, 300 

No difference is, and hence, from the same 

source, 
Sublimer joy; for I would walk alone, 
Under the quiet stars, and at that time 
Have felt whate'er there is of power in 

sound 
To breathe an elevated mood, by form 
Or image unprofaned; and I would stand, 
If the night blackened with a coming storm, 
Beneath some rock, listening to notes that 

are 
The ghostly language of the ancient earth, 
Or make their dim abode in distant winds. 
Thence did I drink the visionary power ; 3 u 
And deem not profitless those fleeting moods 
Of shadowy exultation: not for this, 
That they are kindred to our purer mind 
And intellectual life; but that the soul, 
Remembering how she felt, but what she 

felt 
Remembering not, retains an obscure sense 
Of possible sublimity, whereto 
With growing faculties she doth aspire, 319 
With faculties still growing, feeling still 
That whatsoever point they gam, they yet 
Have something to pursue. 

And not alone, 
'Mid gloom and tumult, but no less 'mid fair 
And tranquil scenes, that universal power 
And fitness in the latent qualities 
And essences of things, by which the mind 
Is moved with feelings of delight, to me 
Came strengthened with a superadded soul, 
A virtue not its own. My morning walks 
Were early ; — oft before the hours of 

school 330 

I travelled round our little lake, five miles 
Of pleasant wandering. Happy time ! more 

dear 
For this, that one was by my side, a Friend, 
Then passionately loved; with heart how 

full 
Would he peruse these lines ! For many 

years 
Have since flowed in between us, and, our 

minds 
Both silent to each other, at this time 
We live as if those hours had never been. 



BOOK II 



THE PRELUDE 



i37 



Nor seldom did I lift our cottage latch 339 
Far earlier, ere one smoke-wreath had risen 
From human dwelling, or the vernal thrush 
Was audible; and sate among the woods 
Alone upon some jutting eminence, 
At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the 

Vale, 
Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude. 
How shall I seek the origin ? where find 
Faith hi the marvellous things which then I 

felt? 
Oft in these moments such a holy calm 
Would overspread my soul, that bodily eyes 
Were utterly forgotten, and what I saw 350 
Appeared like something hi myself, a dream, 
A prospect in the mind. 

'T were long to tell 
What spring and autumn, what the whiter 

snows, 
And what the summer shade, what day and 

night, 
Evening and morning, sleep and waking, 

thought 
From sources inexhaustible, poured forth 
To feed the spirit of religious love 
In which I walked with Nature. But let 

this 
Be not forgotten, that I still retained 
My first creative sensibility; 360 

That by the regular action of the world 
My soul was unsubdued^ A plastic power 
Abode with me; a forming hand, at times 
Rebellious, acting hi a devious mood; 
A local spirit of his own, at war 
With general tendency, but, for the most, 
Subservient strictly to external things 
With which it communed. An auxiliar light 
Came from my mind, which on the setting 

sun 
Bestowed new splendour; the melodious 

birds, 370 

The fluttering breezes, fountains that run on 
Murmuring so sweetly hi themselves, 

obeyed 
A like dominion, and the midnight storm 
Grew darker hi the presence of my eye: 
Hence my obeisance, my devotion hence, 
And hence my transport. 

Nor should this, perchance, 
Pass unrecorded, that I still had loved 
The exercise and produce of a toil, 
Than analytic industry to me 
More pleasing, and whose character I deem 
Is more poetic as resembling more 38 1 

Creative agency. The song would speak 



Of that interminable building reared 
By observation of affinities 
I11 objects where no brotherhood exists 
To passive minds. My seventeenth year 

was come 
And, whether from this habit rooted now 
So deeply hi my mind, or from excess 
In the great social principle of life 
Coercing all things hito sympathy, 390 

To unorganic natures were transferred 
My own enjoyments; or the power of truth 
Coming hi revelation, did converse 
With things that really are; I, at this time, 
Saw blessings spread around me like a sea. 
Thus while the days flew by, and years 

passed on, 
From Nature and her overflowing soul, 
I had received so much, that all my 

thoughts 
Were steeped in feeling; I was only then 
Contented, when with bliss ineffable 400 
I felt the sentiment of Behig spread 
O'er all that moves and all that seemeth 

still; 
O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of 

thought 
And human knowledge, to the human eye 
Invisible, yet liveth to the heart; 
O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and 

shigs, 
Or beats the gladsome air; o'er all that 

glides 
Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself, 
And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not 
If high the transport, great the joy I felt, 
Commmiing hi this sort through earth and 

heaven 41 1 

With every form of creature, as it looked 
Towards the Uncreated with a countenance 
Of adoration, with an eye of love. 
One song they sang, and it was audible, 
Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear, 
O'ercome by humblest prelude of that strain, 
Forgot her functions, and slept undisturbed. 

If this be error, and another faith 
Fhid easier access to the pious mind, 420 
Yet were I grossly destitute of all 
Those human sentiments that make this 

earth 
So dear, if I should fail with grateful voice 
To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye lakes 
And soiuiding cataracts, ye mists and winds 
That dwell among the hills where I was 

born. 



138 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK III 



If in my youth I have been pure in heart, 
If, mingling with the world, I am content 
With my own modest pleasures, and have 

lived 
With God and Nature communing, re- 
moved 43° 
From little enmities and low desires — 
The gift is yours; if in these times of fear, 
This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrown, 
If, 'mid indifference and apathy, 
And wicked exultation when good men 
On every side fall off, we know not how, 
To selfishness, disguised in gentle names 
Of peace and quiet and domestic love 
Yet mingled not unwillingly with sneers 
On visionary ininds; if, hi this time 440 
Of dereliction and dismay, I yet 
Despair not of our nature, but retain 
A more than Roman confidence, a faith 
That fails not, in all sorrow my support, 
The blessing of my life — the gift is yours, 
Ye winds and sounding cataracts ! 't is yours, 
Ye mountains ! thine, O Nature ! Thou hast 

fed 
My lofty speculations ; and in thee, 
For this uneasy heart of ours, I find 
A never-failing principle of joy 450 

And purest passion. 

Thou, my Friend ! wert reared 
In the great city, 'mid far other scenes; 
But we, by different roads, at length have 

gamed 
The selfsame bourne. And for this cause 

to thee 
I speak, unapprehensive of contempt, 
The insinuated scoff of coward tongues, 
And all that silent language which so oft 
In conversation between man and man 
Blots from the human countenance all trace 
Of beauty and of love. For thou hast 

sought 460 

The truth in solitude, and, since the days 
That gave thee liberty, full long desired, 
To serve in Nature's temple, thou hast 

been 
The most assiduous of her ministers; 
In many things my brother, chiefly here 
In this our deep devotion. 

Fare thee well ! 
Health and the quiet of a healthful mind 
Attend thee ! seeking oft the haunts of 

men, 
And yet more often living with thyself, 
And for thyself, so haply shall thy days 470 
Be many, and a blessing to mankind. 



BOOK THIRD 

RESIDEN'CE AT CAMBRIDGE 

It was a dreary morning when the wheels 
Rolled over a wide plain o'erhung with 

clouds, 
And nothing cheered our way till first we 

saw 
The long-roofed chapel of King's College 

lift 
Turrets and pinnacles in answering files, 
Extended high above a dusky grove. 

Advancing, we espied upon the road 
A student clothed hi gown and tasselled 

cap, 
Striding along as if o'ertasked by Time, 
Or covetous of exercise and air; 10 

He passed — nor was I master of my eyes 
Till he was left an arrow's flight behind. 
As near and nearer to the spot we drew, 
It seemed to suck us in with an eddy's 

force. 
Onward we drove beneath the Castle ; caught, 
While crossing Magdalene Bridge, a glimpse 

of Cam; 
And at the Hoop alighted, famoxis Inn. 

My spirit was up, my thoughts were full 

of hope; 
Some friends I had, acquaintances who there 
Seemed friends, poor simple schoolboys, now 

hung roxuid 20 

With honour and importance: in a world 
Of welcome faces up and down I roved ; 
Questions, directions, warnings and advice, 
Flowed in upon me, from all sides; fresh 

day 
Of pride and pleasure ! to myself I seemed 
A man of business and expense, aud went 
From shop to shop about my own affairs, 
To Tutor or to Tailor, as befell, 
From street to street with loose and careless 

mind. 

I was the Dreamer, they the Dream; I 
roamed 30 

Delighted through the motley spectacle; 

Gowns grave, or gaudy, doctors, students, 
streets, 

Courts, cloisters, flocks of churches, gate- 
ways, towers: 

Migration strange for a stripling of the 
hills, 

A northern villager. 



BOOK III 



THE PRELUDE 



*39 



As if the change 
Had waited on some Fairy's wand, at once 
Behold me rich in monies, and attired 
In splendid garb, with hose of silk, and 

hair 
Powdered like rimy trees, when frost is 

keen. 
My lordly dressing-gown, I pass it by, 40 
With other signs of manhood that supplied 
The lack of beard. — The weeks went 

roundly on, 
With invitations, suppers, wine and fruit, 
.Smooth housekeeping within, and all with- 
out 
Liberal, and suiting gentleman's array. 

The Evangelist St. John my patron was: 
Three Gothic courts are his, and in the first 
Was my abiding-place, a nook obscure; 
Right underneath, the College kitchens 

made 
A humming sound, less tuneable than 
bees, 50 

But hardly less industrious; with shrill 

notes 
Of sharp command and scolding inter- 
mixed. 
Near me hung Trinity's loquacious clock, 
Who never let the quarters, night or day, 
Slip by him unproclaimed, and told the 

hours 
Twice over with a male and female voice. 
Her pealing organ was my neighbour too; 
And from my pillow, looking forth by light 
Of moon or favouring stars, I could behold 
The antechapel where the statue stood 60 
Of Newton with his prism and silent face, 
The marble index of a mind for ever 
Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, 
alone. 

Of College labours, of the Lecturer's 

room 
All studded round, as thick as chairs could 

stand, 
With loyal students, faithful to their books, 
Half-and-half idlers, hardy recusants, 
And honest dunces — of important days, 
Examinations, when the man was weighed 
As hi a balance ! of excessive hopes, 70 

Tremblings withal and commendable fears, 
Small jealousies, and triumphs good or 

bad — 
Let others that know more speak as they 

know. 



Such glory was but little sought by me, 
And little won. Yet from the first crude 

days 
Of settling time in this untried abode, 
I was disturbed at times by prudent thoughts, 
Wishing to hope without a hope, some fears 
About my future worldly maintenance, 
And, more than all, a strangeness in the 
mind, 80 

A feeling that I was not for that hour, 
Nor for that place. But wherefore be cast 

down ? 
For (not to speak of Reason and her pure 
Reflective acts to fix the moral law 
Deep in the conscience, nor of Christian 

Hope, 
Bowing her head before her sister Faith 
As one far mightier), hither I had come, 
Bear witness Truth, endowed with holy 

powers 
And faculties, whether to work or feel. 
Oft when the dazzling show no longer new 
Had ceased to dazzle, ofttimes did I quit 91 
My comrades, leave the crowd, buildings 

and groves, 
And as I paced alone the level fields 
Far from those lovely sights and sounds 

sublime 
With which I had been conversant, the 

mind 
Drooped not; but there into herself return- 
ing. 
With prompt rebound seemed fresh as here- 
tofore. 
At least I more distinctly recognised 
Her native instincts: let me dare to speak 
A higher language, say that now I felt 100 
What independent solaces were mine, 
To mitigate the injurious sway of place 
Or circumstance, how far soever changed 
In youth, or to be changed in after years. 
As if awakened, summoned, roused, con- 
strained, 
I looked for universal things; perused 
The common countenance of earth and sky: 
Earth, nowhere unembellished by some trace 
Of that first Paradise whence man was 

driven; 
And sky, whose beauty and bounty are ex- 
pressed no 
By the proud name she bears — the name 

of Heaven. 
I called on both to teach me what they 

might ; 
Or, turning the mind in upon herself, 



140 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK III 



Pored, watched, expected, listened, spread 

my thoughts 
And spread them with a wider creeping; 

felt 
Incumbencies more awful, visitings 
Of the Upholder of the tranquil soul, 
That tolerates the indignities of Time, 
And, from the centre of Eternity 
All finite motions overruling, lives 120 

In glory immutable. But peace ! enough 
Here to record that I was mounting now 
To such community with highest truth — 
A track pursuing, not untrod before, 
From strict analogies by thought supplied 
Or consciousnesses not to be subdued. 
To every natural form, rock, fruits, or 

flower, 
Even the loose stones that cover the high- 
way, 
I gave a moral life: I saw them feel, 
Or linked them to some feeling: the great 
mass 130 

Lay imbedded in a quickening soul, and all 
That I beheld respired with inward mean- 
ing. 
Add that whate'er of Terror or of Love 
Or Beauty, Nature's daily face put on 
From transitory passion, mito this 
I was as sensitive as waters are 
To the sky's influence in a kindred mood 
Of passion; was obedient as a lute 
That waits upon the touches of the wind. 
Unknown, unthought of, yet I was most 
rich — 140 

I had a world about me — 't was my own ; 
I made it, for it only lived to me, 
And to the God who sees into the heart. 
Such sympathies, though rarely, were be- 
trayed 
By outward gestures and by visible looks: 
Some called it madness — so indeed it was, 
If child-like fruitfulness in passing joy, 
If steady moods of thoughtfulness matured 
To inspiration, sort with such a name ; 
If prophecy be madness; if things 
viewed 150 

By poets in old time, and higher up 
By the first men, earth's first inhabitants, 
May in these tutored days no more be seen 
With undisordered sight. But leaving 

this, 
It was no madness, for the bodily eye 
Amid my strongest workings evermore 
Was searching out the lines of difference 
As they lie hid in all external forms, 



Near or remote, niinute or vast; an eye 
Which, from a tree, a stone, a withered 

leaf, 1 6a 

To the broad ocean and the azure heavens 
Spangled with kindred multitudes of stars, 
Could find no surface where its power 

might sleep; 
Which spake perpetual logic to my soul, 
And by an imrelenting agency 
Did bind my feelings even as in a chain. 

And here, O Friend ! have I retraced 
my life 
Up to an eminence, and told a tale 
Of matters which not falsely may be called 
The glory of my youth. Of genius, 
power, 170 

Creation and divinity itself 
I have been speaking, for my theme has 

been 
What has passed within me. Not of out- 
ward things 
Done visibly for other minds, words, signs, 
Symbols or actions, but of my own heart 
Have I been speaking, and my youthful 
mind. 

Heavens ! ' how awful is the might of 

souls, 
And what they do within themselves while 

yet 
The yoke of earth is new to them, the 

world 
Nothing but a wild field where they were 

sown. 1S0 

This is, hi truth, heroic argument, 
This genuine prowess, which I wished to 

touch 
With hand however weak, but in the main 
It lies far hidden from the reach of words. 
Points have we all of us within our souls 
Where all stand single; this I feel, and 

make 
Breathings for incommunicable powers; 
But is not each a memory to himself, 
And, therefore, now that we must quit this 

theme, 

1 am not heartless, for there's not a 

man IQ o 

That lives who hath not known his god- 
like hours, 
And feels not what an empire we inherit 
As natural beings in the strength of Nature. 

No more : for now into a populous plain 
We must descend. A Traveller I am, 



BOOK III 



THE PRELUDE 



T4I 



Whose tale is only of himself; even so, 
So be it, if the pure of heart be prompt 
To follow, and if thon, my honoured 

Friend ! 
Who in these thoughts art ever at my side, 
Support, as heretofore, my fainting steps. 

It hath been told, that when the first de- 
light 20 1 
That Hashed upon me from this novel show 
Had failed, the mind returned into her- 
self; 
Yet true it is, that I had made a change 
In climate, and my nature's outward coat 
Changed also slowly and insensibly. 
Full oft the quiet and exalted thoughts 
Of loneliness gave way to empty noise 
And superficial pastimes; now and then 
Forced labour, and more frequently forced 
hopes; 210 
And, worst of all, a treasonable growth 
Of indecisive judgments, that impaired 
And shook the mind's simplicity. — And 

yet 
This was a gladsome time. Could I be- 
hold— 
Who, less insensible than sodden clay 
In a sea-river's bed at ebb of tide, 
Could have beheld — with undelighted 

heart, 
So many happy youths, so wide and fair 
A congregation hi its budding-time 
Of health, and hope, and beauty, all at 
once 220 

So many divers samples from the growth 
Of life's sweet season — could have seen 

unmoved 
That miscellaneous garland of wild flowers 
Decking the matron temples of a place 
So famous through the world ? To me, at 

least, 
It was a goodly prospect: for, in sooth, 
Though I had learnt betimes to stand iin- 

propped, 
And independent musings pleased me so 
That spells seemed on me when I was alone, 
Yet could I only cleave to solitude 230 

In lonely places ; if a throng was near 
That way I leaned by nature ; for my heart 
Was social, and loved idleness and joy. 

Not seeking those who might participate 
My deeper pleasures (nay, I had not once, 
Though not unused to mutter lonesome 



Even with myself divided such delight, 
Or looked that way for aught that might 

be clothed 
In human language), easily I passed 
From the remembrances of better things, 240 
And slipped into the ordinary works 
Of careless youth, unburthened, unalarmed. 
Caverns there were within my mind which 

sun 
Could never penetrate, yet did there not 
Want store of leafy arbours where the light 
Might enter in at will. Companionships, 
Friendships, acquaintances, were welcome 

all. 
We sauntered, played, or rioted ; we talked 
Unprofitable talk at morning hours; 
Drifted about along the streets and 

walks, 250 

Read lazily hi trivial books, went forth 
To gallop through the country hi blind zeal 
Of senseless horsemanship, or on the breast 
Of Cam sailed boisterously, and let the 

stars 
Come forth, perhaps without one quiet 

thought. 

Such was the tenor of the second act 
In this new life. Imagination slept, 
And yet not utterly. I could not print 
Ground where the grass had yielded to the 

steps 
Of generations of illustrious men, 260 

Unmoved. I could not always lightly pass 
Through the same gateways, sleep where 

they had slept, 
Wake where they waked, range that in- 

closure old, 
That garden of great intellects, undisturbed. 
Place also by the side of this dark sense 
Of noble feeling, that those spiritual men, 
Even the great Newton's own ethereal self, 
Seemed humbled in these precincts, thence 

to be 
The more endeared. Their several memo- 
ries here 
(Even like their persons in their portraits 
clothed 270 

With the accustomed garb of daily life) 
Put on a lowly and a touching grace 
Of more distinct humanity, that left 
All genuine admiration unimpaired. 

Beside the pleasant Mill of Trompington 
I laughed with Chaucer in the hawthorn 
shade; 



142 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK III 



Heard him, while birds were warbling, tell 

his tales 
Of amorous passion. And that gentle Bard, 
Chosen by the Muses for their Page of 

State — 
Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded 

heaven 280 

With the moon's beauty and the moon's soft 

pace, 
I called him Brother, Englishman, and 

Friend ! 
Yea, our blind Poet, who in his later day, 
Stood almost single ; uttering odious truth — 
Darkness before, and danger's voice behind, 
Soul awful — if the earth has ever lodged 
An awful soul — I seemed to see him here 
Familiarly, and in his scholar's dress 
Bounding before me, yet a stripling youth — 
A boy, no better, with his rosy cheeks 290 
Angelical, keen eye, courageous look, 
And conscious step of purity and pride. 
Among the band of my compeers was one 
Whom chance had stationed in the very 

room 
Honoured by Milton's name. O temperate 

Bard ! 
Be it confest that, for the first time, seated 
Within thy innocent lodge and oratory, 
One of a festive circle, I poured out 
Libations, to thy memory drank, till pride 
And gratitude grew dizzy in a brain 300 
Never excited by the fumes of wine 
Before that hour, or since. Then, forth I 

ran 
From the assembly; through a length of 

streets, 
Ran, ostrich-like, to reach our chapel door 
In not a desperate or opprobrious time, 
Albeit long after the importunate bell 
Had stopped, with wearisome Cassandra 

voice 
No longer haunting the dark winter night. 
Call back, O Friend ! a moment to thy mind, 
The place itself and fashion of the rites. 3 10 
With careless ostentation shouldering up 
My surplice, through the inferior throng I 

clove 
Of the plain Burghers, who in audience 

stood 
On the last skirts of their permitted ground, 
Under the pealing organ. Empty thoughts ! 
I am ashamed of them : and that great Bard, 
And thou, O Friend ! who hi thy ample 

mind 
Hast placed me high above my best deserts, 



Ye will forgive the weakness of that hour, 
In some of its unworthy vanities, 320 

Brother to many more. 

In this mixed sort 
The months passed on, remissly, not given 

up 
To wilful alienation from the right, 
Or walks of open scandal, but in vague 
And loose indifference, easy likings, aims 
Of a low pitch — duty and zeal dismissed, 
Yet Nature, or a happy course of things 
Not doing in their stead the needful work. 
The memory languidly revolved, the heart 
Reposed in noontide rest, the inner pulse 
Of contemplation almost failed to beat. 331 
Such life might not inaptly be compared 
To a floating island, an amphibious spot 
Unsound, of spongy texture, yet withal 
Not wanting a fair face of water weeds 
And pleasant flowers. The thirst of living 

praise, 
Fit reverence for the glorious Dead, the 

sight 
Of those long vistas, sacred catacombs, 
Where mighty minds lie visibly entombed, 
Have often stirred the heart of youth, and 

bred 340 

A fervent love of rigorous discipline. — 
Alas ! such high emotion touched not me. 
Look was there none within these walls to 

shame 
My easy spirits, and discountenance 
Their light composure, far less to instil 
A calm resolve of mind, firmly addressed 
To puissant efforts. Nor w r as this the blame 
Of others but my own; I should, in truth, 
As far as doth concern my single self, 349 
Misdeem most widely, lodging it elsewhere: 
For I, bred up 'mid Nature's luxuries, 
Was a spoiled child, aud, rambling like the 

wind, 
As I had done in daily intercourse 
With those crystalline rivers, solemn 

heights, 
And mountains, ranging like a fowl of the 

air, 
I was ill-tutored for captivity; 
To quit my pleasure, and, from month to 

month, 
Take up a station calmly on the perch 
Of sedentary peace. Those lovely forms 
Had also left less space within my mind, 
Which, wrought upon instinctively, had 

found 361 

A freshness in those objects of her love, 



BOOK III 



THE PRELUDE 



i43 



A winning power, beyond all other power. 
Not that I slighted books, — that were to 

lack 
All sense, — but other passions in me ruled, 
Passions more fervent, making me less 

prompt 
To in-door study than was wise or well, 
Or suited to those years. Yet I, though 

used 
In magisterial liberty to rove, 
Culling such flowers of learning as might 

tempt 370 

A random choice, could shadow forth a 

place 
(If now I yield not to a flattering dream) 
Whose studious aspect should have bent me 

down 
To instantaneous service ; should at once 
Have made me pay to science and to arts 
And written lore, acknowledged my liege 

lord, 
A homage frankly offered up, like that 
Which I had paid to Nature. Toil and 

pains 
In this recess, by thoughtful Fancy built, 
Should spread from heart to heart; and 

stately groves, 3S0 

Majestic edifices, should not want 
A corresponding dignity within. 
The congregating temper that pervades 
Our unripe years, not wasted, should be 

taught 
To minister to works of high attempt — 
Works which the enthusiast would perforin 

with love. 
Youth should be awed, religiously possessed 
With a conviction of the power that waits 
On knowledge, when sincerely sought and 

prized 389 

For its own sake, on glory and on praise 
If but by labour won, and fit to endure 
The passing day; should learn to put aside 
Her trappings here, should strip them off 

abashed 
Before antiquity and stedfast truth 
And strong book-mindedness; and over all 
A healthy soimd simplicity should reign, 
A seemly plainness, name it what you will, 
Republican or pious. 

If these thoughts 
Are a gratuitous emblazonry 
That mocks the recreant age toe live in, 

then 400 

Be Folly and False-seeming free to affect 
Whatever formal gait of discipline 



Shall raise them highest in their own es- 
teem — 
Let them parade among the Schools at will, 
But spare the House of God. Was ever 

known 
The witless shepherd who persists to drive 
A flock that thirsts not to a pool disliked ? 
A weight must surely hang on days begun 
And ended with such mockery. Be wise, 
Ye Presidents and Deans, and, till the spirit 
Of ancient times revive, and youth be 

trained 4 1 1 

At home in pious service, to your bells 
Give seasonable rest, for 't is a sound 
Hollow as ever vexed the tranquil air; 
And your officious doings bring disgrace 
On the plain steeples of our English Church, 
Whose worship, 'mid remotest village trees, 
Suffers for this. Even Science, too, at hand 
In daily sight of this irreverence, 
Is smitten thence with an unnatural tahit, 
Loses her just authority, falls beneath 421 
Collateral suspicion, else unknown. 
This truth escaped me not, and I confess, 
That having 'mid my native hills given loose 
To a schoolboy's vision, I had raised a pile 
Upon the basis of the coming time, 
That fell in ruins round me. Oh, what joy 
To see a sanctuary for our country's youth 
Informed with siich a spirit as might be 
Its own protection; a primeval grove, 430 
Where, though the shades with cheerfulness 

were filled, 
Nor indigent of songs warbled from crowds 
In under-coverts, yet the coimtenance 
Of the whole place should bear a stamp of 

awe; 
A habitation sober and demure 
For ruminating creatures; a domain 
•For quiet things to wander in; a haunt 
In which the heron should delight to feed 
By the shy rivers, and the pelican 
Upon the cypress spire in lonely thought 44 o 
Might sit and sun himself. — Alas ! Alas ! 
In vain for such solemnity I looked ; 
Mine eyes were crossed by butterflies, ears 

vexed 
By chattering popinjays; the inner heart 
Seemed trivial, and the impresses without 
Of a too gaudy region. 

Different sight 
Those venerable Doctors saw of old, 
When all who dwelt within these famous 

walls 
Led in abstemiousness a studious life; 



144 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK III 



When, in forlorn and naked chambers 

cooped 45° 

And crowded, o'er the ponderous books 

they hung 
Like caterpillars eating out their way 
In silence, or with keen devouring noise 
Not to be tracked or fathered. Princes then 
At matins froze, and couched at curfew- 
time, 
Trained up through piety and zeal to prize 
Spare diet, patient labour, and plain weeds. 
O seat of Arts ! renowned throughout the 

world ! 
Far different service in those homely days 
The Muses' modest nurslings underwent 460 
From their first childhood: in that glorious 

time 
When Learning, like a stranger come from 

far, 
Sounding through Christian lands her 

trumpet, roused 
Peasant and king; when boys and youths, 

the growth 
Of ragged villages and crazy huts, 
Forsook their homes, and, errant in the quest 
Of Patron, famous school or friendly nook, 
Where, pensioned, they hi shelter might sit 

down, 
From town to town and through wide scat- 
tered realms 
Journeyed with ponderous folios in their 
hands ; 470 

And often, starting from some covert place, 
Saluted the chance comer on the road, 
Crying, " An obolus, a penny give 
To a poor scholar ! " — when illustrious 

men, 
Lovers of truth, by penury constrained, 
Bucer, Erasmus, or Melancthon, read 
Before the doors or windows of their cells 
By moonshine through mere lack of taper 
light. 

But peace to vain regrets ! We see but 

darkly 
Even when we look behmd us, and best 

things 480 

Are not so pure by nature that they needs 
Must keep to all, as fondly all believe, 
Their highest promise. If the mariner, 
When at reluctant distance he hath passed 
Some tempting island, could but know the 

ills 
That must have fallen upon him had he 

brought 



His bark to land upon the wished-for shore, 
Good cause would oft be his to thank the 

surf 
Whose white belt scared him thence, or 

wind that blew 
Inexorably adverse: for myself 49 o 

I grieve not ; happy is the gowned youth, 
Who only misses what I missed, who falls 
No lower than I fell. 

I did not love, 
Judging not ill perhaps, the timid course 
Of our scholastic studies; could have wished 
To see the river flow with ampler range 
And freer pace; but more, far more, I 

grieved 
To see displayed among an eager few, 
Who in the field of contest persevered, 
Passions unworthy of youth's generous heart 
And mounting spirit, pitiably repaid, 501 
When so disturbed, whatever palms are 

won. 
From these I turned to travel witli the shoal 
Of more unthinking natures, easy minds 
And pillowy; yet not wanting love that 

makes 
The day pass lightly on, when foresight 

sleeps, 
And wisdom and the pledges interchanged 
With our own inner being are forgot. 

Yet was this deep vacation not given up 
To utter waste. Hitherto I had stood 510 
In my own mind remote from social life, 
(At least from what we commonly so name,) 
Like a lone shepherd on a promontory, 
Who lacking occupation looks far forth 
Into the boundless sea, and rather makes 
Than finds what he beholds. And sure it is, 
That this first transit from the smooth de- 
lights 
And wild outlandish walks of simple youth 
To something that resembles an approach 
Towards human business, to a privileged 
world 520 

Within a world, a midway residence 
With all its intervenient imagery, 
Did better suit my visionary mind, 
Far better, than to have been bolted forth, 
Thrust out abruptly into Fortune's way 
Among the conflicts of substantial life; 
By a more just gradation did lead on 
To higher things; more naturally matured, 
For permanent possession, better fruits, 
Whether of truth or virtue, to ensue. ' 530 
In serious mood, but oftener, I confess, 



BOOK III 



THE PRELUDE 



US 



With playful zest of fancy, did we note 
(How could we less ?) the maimers and the 

ways 
Of those who lived distinguished by the 

badge 
Of good or ill report; or those with whom 
By frame of Academic discipline 
We were perforce connected, men whose 

sway 
And known authority of office served 
To set our minds on edge, and did no more. 
Nor wanted we rich pastime of this kind, 540 
Found everywhere, but chiefly in the ring 
Of the grave Elders, men unscoured, gro- 
tesque 
In character, tricked out like aged trees 
Which through the lapse of their infirmity 
Give ready place to any random seed 
That chooses to be reared upon their trunks. 

Here on my view, confronting vividly 
Those shepherd swains whom I had lately 

left 
Appeared a different aspect of old age; 549 
How different ! yet both distinctly marked, 
Objects embossed to catch the general eye, 
Or portraitures for special use designed, 
As some might seem, so aptly do they serve 
To illustrate Nature's book of rudiments — 
That book upheld as with maternal care 
When she would enter on her tender scheme 
Of teaching comprehension with delight, 
And mingling playful with pathetic thoughts. 

The surfaces of artificial life 
And manners finely wrought, the delicate 

race 560 

Of colours, lurking, gleaming up and down 
Through that state arras woven with silk 

and gold; 
This wily interchange of snaky hues, 
Willingly or unwillingly revealed, 
I neither knew nor cared for; and as such 
Were wanting here, I took what might be 

found 
Of less elaborate fabric. At this day 
I smile, in many a mountain solitude 
Conjuring up scenes as obsolete in freaks 
Of character, in points of wit as broad, 570 
As aught by wooden images performed 
For entertainment of the gaping crowd 
At wake or fair. And oftentimes do flit 
Remembrances before me of old men — 
Old humourists, who have been long in their 

graves, 



And having almost in my mind put off 
Their human names, have into phantoms 

passed 
Of texture midway between life and books. 

I play the loiterer: 't is enough to note 
That here in dwarf proportions were ex- 
pressed 5S0 
The limbs of the great world; its eager 

strifes 
Collaterally pourtrayed, as in mock fight, 
A tournament of blows, some hardly dealt 
Though short of mortal combat; and what- 

e'er 
Might in this pageant be supposed to hit 
An artless rustic's notice, this way less, 
More that way, was not wasted upon me — ■ 
And yet the spectacle may well demand 
A more substantial name, no mimic show, 
Itself a living part of a live whole, 590 

A creek in the vast sea; for, all degrees 
And shapes of spurious fame and short-lived 

praise 
Here sate in state, and fed frith daily alms 
Retainers won away from solid good ; 
And here was Labour, his own bond-slave ; 

Hope, 
That never set the pains against the prize; 
Idleness halting with his weary clog, 
And poor misguided Shame, and witless 

Fear, 
And simple Pleasure foraging for Death; 
Honour misplaced, and Dignity astray; 600 
Feuds, factions, flatteries, enmity, and guile, 
Murmuring submission, and bald govern- 
ment, 
(The idol weak as the idolater), 
And Decency and Custom starving Truth, 
And blind Authority beating with his staff 
The child that might have led him; Empti- 
ness 
Followed as of good omen, and meek Worth 
Left to herself unheard of and unknown. 

Of these and other kindred notices 
I cannot say what portion is in truth 610 
The naked recollection of that time, 
And what may rather have been called to 

life 
By after-meditation. But delight 
That, in an easy temper lulled asleep, 
Is still with Innocence its own reward, 
This was not wanting. Carelessly I roamed 
As through a wide museum from whose 

stores 



146 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK IV 



A casual rarity is singled out 
Aud has its brief perusal, then gives way 
To others, all supplanted hi their turn; 620 
Till 'mid this crowded neighbourhood of 

things 
That are by nature most unneighbourly, 
The head turns round and cannot right 

itself; 
And though an aching and a barren sense 
Of gay confusion still be uppermost, 
With few wise longings and but little love, 
Yet to the memory something cleaves at 

last, 
Whence profit may be drawn in times to 

come. 

Thus in submissive idleness, my Friend ! 
The labouring time of autumn, winter, 

spring, 630 

Eight months ! rolled pleasingly away; the 

ninth 
Came and returned me to my native hills. 



BOOK FOURTH 

SUMMER VACATION 

Bright was the summer's noon when quick- 
ening steps 
Followed each other till a dreary moor 
Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose 

top 
Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, 
I overlooked the bed of Windermere, 
Like a vast river, stretching in the sun. 
With exidtation, at my feet I saw 
Lake, islands, promontories, gleaming bays, 
A universe of Nature's fairest forms 
Proudly revealed with instantaneous burst, 
Magnificent, and beautiful, and gay. n 

I bounded down the hill shouting amain 
For the old Ferryman ; to the shout the 

rocks 
Replied, and when the Charon of the flood 
Had staid his oars, and touched the jutting 

pier, 
I did not step into the well-known boat 
Without a cordial greeting. Thence with 

speed 
Up the familiar hill I took my way 
Towards that sweet Valley where I had been 

reared ; 
'T was but a short hour's walk, ere veering 

roiuid 20 

I saw the snow-white church upon her hill 



Sit like a throned Lady, sending out 
A gracious look all over her domain. 
Yon azure smoke betrays the lurking town ,' 
With eager footsteps I advance and reach 
The cottage threshold where my journey 

closed. 
Glad welcome had I, with some tears, per- 
haps, 
From my old Dame, so kind and motherly, 
While she perused me with a parent's pride. 
The thoughts of gratitude shall fall like 

dew 30 

Upon thy grave, good creature ! While my 

heart 
Can beat never will I forget thy name. 
Heaven's blessing be upon thee where thou 

liest 
After thy innocent and busy stir 
In narrow cares, thy little daily growth 
Of calm enjoyments, after eighty years, 
And more than eighty, of imtroubled life; 
Childless, yet by the strangers to thy blood 
Honoured with little less than filial love. 39 
What joy was mine to see thee once again, 
Thee and thy dwelling, and a crowd of 

things 
About its narrow precincts all beloved, 
And many of them seeming yet my own ! 
Why should I speak of what a thousand 

hearts 
Have felt, and every man alive can guess ? 
The rooms, the court, the garden were -not 

left 
Long unsaluted, nor the sunny seat 
Round the stone table imder the dark pine, 
Friendly to studious or to festive hours; 
Nor that unruly child of mountain birth, 50 
The famous brook, who, soon as he was 

boxed 
Within our garden, found himself at once, 
As if by trick insidious and unkind, 
Stripped of his voice aud left to dimple 

down 
(Without an effort and without a will) 
A channel paved by man's officious care. 
I looked at him and smiled, and smiled 

again, 
And hi the press of twenty thousand 

thoughts, 
" Ha," quoth I, " pretty prisoner, are you 

there ? " 
Well might sarcastic Fancy then have 

whispered, 60 

" An emblem here behold of thy own life ; 
In its late course of even days with all 



BOOK IV 



THE PRELUDE 



147 



Their smooth enthralment; " but the heart 

was full, 
Too full for that reproach. My aged Dame 
Walked proudly at my side: she guided me; 
I willing, nay — nay, wishing to be led. 
— The face of every neighbour whom I met 
Was like a volume to me ; some were hailed 
Upon the road, some busy at their work, 
Unceremonious greetings interchanged 70 
With half the length of a long field between. 
Among my schoolfellows I scattered round 
Like recognitions, but with some constraint 
Attended, doubtless, with a little pride, 
But with more shame, for my habiliments, 
The transformation wrought by gay attire. 
Not less delighted did I take my place 
At our domestic table : and, dear Friend ! 
In this endeavour simply to relate 
A Poet's history, may I leave untold 80 
The thankfulness with which I laid me down 
In my accustomed bed, more welcome now 
Perhaps than if it had been more desired 
Or been more often thought of with regret; 
That lowly bed whence I had heard the wind 
Roar, and the rain beat hard; where I so 

oft 
Had lain awake on summer nights to watch 
The moon in splendour couched among the 

leaves 
Of a tall ash, that near our cottage stood; 
Had watched her with fixed eyes while to 

and fro 90 

In the dark summit of the waving tree 
She rocked with every impulse of the breeze. 

Among the favourites whom it pleased me 

well 
To see again, was one by ancient right 
Our inmate, a rough terrier of the hills; 
By birth and call of nature pre-ordained 
To hunt the badger and unearth the fox 
Among the impervious crags, but having 

been 
From youth our own adopted, he had passed 
Into a gentler service. And when first 100 
The boyish spirit flagged, and day by day 
Along my veins I kindled with the stir, 
The fermentation, and the vernal heat 
Of poesy, affecting private shades 
Like a sick Lover, then this dog was used 
To watch me, an attendant and a friend, 
Obsequious to my steps early and late, 
Though often of such dilatory walk 
Tired, and uneasy at the halts I made. 109 
A hundred times when, roving high and low, 



I have been harassed with the toil of verse, 
Much pains and little progress, and at once 
Some lovely Image in the song rose up 
Full-formed, like Venus rising from the 

sea; 
Then have I darted forwards to let loose 
My hand upon his back with stormy joy, 
Caressing him again and yet again. 
And when at evening on the public way 
I sauntered, like a river murmuring 
And talking to itself when all things else 120 
Are still, the creature trotted on before; 
Such was his custom; but whene'er he met 
A passenger approaching, he would turn 
To give me timely notice, and straightway, 
Grateful for that admonishment, I hushed 
My voice, composed my gait, and, with the 

air 
And mien of one whose thoughts are free, 

advanced 
To give and take a greeting that might save 
My name from piteous rumours, such as wait 
On men suspected to be crazed in brain. 130 

Those walks well worthy to be prized and 

loved — 
Regretted ! — that word, too, was on my 

tongue, 
But they were richly laden with all good, 
And cannot be remembered but with thanks 
And gratitude, and perfect joy of heart — 
Those walks in all their freshness now came 

back 
Like a returning Spring. When first I 

made 
Once more the circuit of our little lake, 
If ever happiness hath lodged with man, 
That day consummate happiness was mine, 
Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contempla- 
tive. 141 
The sun was set, or setting, when I left 
Our cottage door, and evening soon brought 

on 
A sober hour, not winning or serene, 
For cold and raw the air was, and untuned : 
But as a face we love is sweetest then 
When sorrow damps it, or, whatever look 
It chance to wear, is sweetest if the heart 
Have fulness in herself; even so with me 
It fared that evening. Gently did my soul 
Put off her veil, and, self -transmuted, stood 
Naked, as in the presence of her God. 152 
While on I walked, a comfort seemed to 

touch 
A heart that had not been disconsolate: 



148 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK IV 



Strength came where weakness was not 

known to be, 
At least not felt; and restoration came 
Like an intruder knocking at the door 
Of unacknowledged weariness. I took 
The balance, and with firm hand weighed 

myself. 
— Of that external scene which round me 
lay, 160 

Little, hi this abstraction, did I see ; 
Remembered less; but I had inward hopes 
And swellings of the spirit, was rapt and 

soothed, 
Conversed with promises, had glimmering 

views 
How life pervades the undecaying mind; 
How the immortal soul with God-like 

power 
Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest 

sleep 
That time can lay upon her; how on earth, 
Man, if he do but live within the light «6g 
Of high endeavours, daily spreads abroad 
His being armed with strength that cannot 

fad. 
Nor was there want of milder thoughts, of 

love, 
Of innocence, and holiday repose; 
And more than pastoral quiet, 'mid the stir 
Of boldest projects, and a peaceful end 
At last, or glorious, by endurance won. 
Thus musing, in a wood I sate me down 
Alone, continuing there to muse: the slopes 
And heights meanwhile were slowly over- 
spread 179 
With darkness, and before a rippling breeze 
The long lake lengthened out its hoary line, 
And in the sheltered coppice where I sate, 
Around me from among the hazel leaves, 
Now here, now there, moved by the strag- 
gling wind, 
Came ever and anon a breath-like sound, 
Quick as the pantings of the faithful dog, 
The off and on companion of my walk; 
And such, at times, believing them to be, 
I turned my head to look if he were there; 
Then into solemn thought I passed once 
more. 190 

A freshness also found I at this time 
In human Life, the daily life of those 
Whose occupations really I loved; 
The peaceful scene oft filled me with sur- 
prise 
Changed like a garden in the heat of spring 



After an eight-days' absence. For (to omit 
The things which were the same and yet 

appeared 
Far otherwise) amid this rural solitude, 
A narrow Vale where each was known to 

all, 
'T was not indifferent to a youthful mind 
To mark some sheltering bower or sunny 

nook 201 

Where an old man had used to sit alone, 
Now vacant ; pale-faced babes whom I had 

left 
In arms, now rosy prattlers at the feet 
Of a pleased grandame tottering up and 

down ; 
And growing girls whose beauty, filched 

away 
With all its pleasant promises, was gone 
To deck some slighted playmate's homely 

cheek. 

Yes, I had something of a subtler sense, 
And often looking round was moved to 

smiles 210 

Such as a delicate work of humour breeds; 
1 read, without design, the opinions, 

thoughts, 
Of those plain-living people now observed 
With clearer knowledge; with another eye 
I saw the quiet woodman in the woods, 
The shepherd roam the hdls. With new 

delight, 
This chiefly, did I note my grey-haired 

Dame ; 
Saw her go forth to church or other work 
Of state equipped in monumental trim; 
Short velvet cloak, (her bonnet of the like), 
A mantle such as Spanish Cavaliers 221 

Wore hi old times. Her smooth domestic 

life, 
Affectionate without disquietude, 
Her talk, her business, pleased me; and 

no less 
Her clear though shallow stream of piety 
That ran on Sabbath days a fresher course; 
With thoughts unfelt till now I saw, her 

read 
Her Bible on hot Sunday afternoons, 
And loved the book, when she had dropped 

asleep 
And made of it a pillow for her head. 230 

Nor less do I remember to have felt, 
Distinctly manifested at this time, 
A human-heartedness about my love 



BOOK IV 



THE PRELUDE 



149 



For objects hitherto the absolute wealth 
Of my own private being and no more; 
Which I had loved, even as a blessed spirit 
Or Angel, if he were to dwell on earth, 
Might love in individual happiness. 
But now there opened on me other thoughts 
Of change, congratulation or regret, 240 

A pensive feeling ! It spread far and wide ; 
The trees, the mountains shared it, and the 

brooks, 
The stars of Heaven, now seen in their old 

haunts — 
White Sirius glittering o'er the southern 

crags, 
Orion with his belt, and those fair Seven, 
Acquaintances of every little child, 
And Jupiter, my own beloved star ! 
Whatever shadings of mortality, 
Whatever imports from the world of death 
Had come among these objects hereto- 
fore, 250 
Were, in the main, of mood less tender: 

strong, 
Deep, gloomy were they, and severe; the 

scatterings 
Of awe or tremulous dread, that had given 

way 
In later youth to yearnings of a love 
Enthusiastic, to delight and hope. 

s 

As one who hangs down-bending from 

the side 
Of a slow-moving boat, upon the breast 
Of a still water, solacing himself 
With such discoveries as his eye can make 
Beneath him in the bottom of the deep, 260 
Sees many beauteous sights — weeds, fishes, 

flowers, 
Grots, pebbles, roots of trees, and fancies 

more, 
Yet often is perplexed, and cannot part 
The shadow from the substance, rocks and 

sky, 

Mountains and clouds, reflected in the depth 
Of the clear flood, from things which there 

abide 
In their true dwelling; now is crossed by 

gleam 
Of his own image, by a sunbeam now, 
And wavering motions sent he knows not 

whence, 
Impediments that make his task more 

sweet; 27 o 

Such pleasant office have we long pursued 
Incumbent o'er the surface of past time 



With like success, nor often have appeared 
Shapes fairer or less doubtfully discerned 
Than these to which the Tale, indulgent 

Friend ! 
Would now direct thy notice. Yet in spite 
Of pleasure won, and knowledge not with- 
held, 
There was an inner falling off — I loved, 
Loved deeply all that had been loved before, 
More deeply even than ever: but a swarm 
Of heady schemes jostling each other, 
gawds, 281 

And feast and dance, and public revelry, 
And sports and games (too grateful in 

themselves, 
Yet in themselves less grateful, I believe, 
Than as they were a badge glossy and fresh 
Of manliness and freedom) all conspired 
To lure my mind from firm habitual quest 
Of feeding pleasures, to depress the zeal 
And damp those yearnings which had once 

been mine — 
A wild, unworldly-minded youth, given 



up 



290 
It would de- 



To his own eager thoughts 

mand 
Some skill, and longer time than may be 

spared 
To paint these vanities, and how they 

wrought 
In haunts where they, till now, had been 

unknown. 
It seemed the very garments that I wore 
Preyed on my strength, and stopped the 

quiet stream 
Of self-forgetfulness. 

Yes, that heartless chase 
Of trivial pleasures was a poor exchange 
For books and nature at that early age. 
'T is true, some casual knowledge might be 

gamed 300 

**Of character or life ; but at that time, 
Of manners put to school I took small note, 
And all my deeper passions lay elsewhere. 
Far better had it been to exalt the mind 
By solitary study, to uphold 
Intense desire through meditative peace; 
And yet, for chastisement of these regrets, 
The memory of one particular hour 
Doth here rise up against me. 'Mid a 

throng 
Of maids and youths, old men, and matrons 

staid, 310 

A medley of all tempers, I had passed 
The night in dancing, gaiety, and mirth, 



IS© 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK IV 



With dm of instruments and shuffling feet, 
And glancing forms, and tapers glittering, 
And unarmed prattle Hying up and down; 
Spirits upon the stretch, and here and there 
Slight shocks of young love-liking inter- 
spersed, 
Whose transient pleasure mounted to the 

head, 
And tingled through the veins. Ere we 

retired, 
The cock had crowed, and now the eastern 

sky 320 

Was kindling, not unseen, from humble 

copse 
And open field, through which the pathway 

wound, 
And homeward led my steps. Magnificent 
The morning rose, in memorable pomp, 
Glorious as e'er I had beheld — in front, 
The sea lay laughing at a distance; near, 
The solid mountains shone, bright as the 

clouds, 
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean 

. light; 
And in the meadows and the lower grounds 
Was all the sweetness of a common 

dawn — 330 

Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds, 
And labourers going forth to till the fields. 
Ah ! need I say, dear Friend ! that to the 

brim 
My heart was full; I made no vows, but 

vows 
Were then made for me; bond unknown to 

me 
Was given, that I should be, else shining 

greatly, 
A dedicated Spirit. On I walked 
In thankful blessedness, which yet survives. 

Strange rendezvous ! My mind was at 
that tune 
A parti-coloured show of grave and gay, 340 
Solid and light, short-sighted and profound ; 
Of inconsiderate habits and sedate, 
Consortmg hi one mansion unreproved. 
The worth I knew of powers that I pos- 
sessed, 
Though slighted and too oft misused. Be- 
sides, 
That summer, swarming as it did with 

thoughts 
Transient and idle, lacked not intervals 
When Folly from the frown of fleeting 
Time 



Shrunk, and the mind experienced hi her- 
self 
Conformity as just as that of old 350 

To the end and written spirit of God's 

works, 
Whether held forth hi Nature or in Man, 
Through pregnant vision, separate or con- 
joined. 

When from our better selves we have 
too long 
Been parted by the hurrying world, and 

droop, 
Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, 
How gracious, how benign, is Solitude; 
How potent a mere image of her sway; 
Most potent when impressed upon the mind 
With an appropriate human centre — her- 
mit, 36^ 
Deep in the bosom of the wilderness; 
Votary (in vast cathedral, where no foot 
Is treading, where no other face is seen) 
Kneeling at prayers; or watchman on the 

top 
Of lighthouse, beaten by Atlantic waves; 
Or as the soul of that great Power is met 
Sometimes embodied on a public road, 
When, for the night deserted, it assumes 
A character of quiet more profound 
Than pathless wastes. 

Once, when those summer months 

Were flown, and autumn brought its annual 

show 37 1 

Of oars with oars contending, sails with 

sails, 
Upon Winander's spacious breast, it 

chanced 
That — after I had left a flower-decked 

room 
(Whose in-door pastime, lighted up, sur- 
vived 
To a late hour), and spirits overwrought 
Were making night do penance for a day 
Spent in a round of strenuous idleness — 
My homeward course led uji a long ascent, 
Where the road's watery surface, to the 

top 3S0 

Of that sharp rising, glittered to the moon 
And bore the semblance of another stream 
Stealing with silent lapse to join the brook 
That murmured in the vale. All else was 

still; 
No living thing appeared in earth or air, 
And, save the flowing water's peaceful 

voice, 



BOOK IV 



THE PRELUDE 



iSi 



Sound there was none — but, lo ! an un- 
couth shape, 
Shown by a sudden turning of the road, 
So near that, slipping back into the shade 
Of a thick hawthorn, I could mark him 

well, 390 

Myself unseen. He was of stature tall, 
A span above man's common measure, tall, 
Stilt', lank, and upright; a more meagre 

man 
Was never seen before by night or day. 
Long were his arms, pallid his hands; his 

mouth 
Looked ghastly in the moonlight: from 

behind, 
A mile-stone propped him ; I could also ken 
That he was clothed in military garb, 
Though faded, yet entire. Companionless, 
No dog attending, by no staff sustained, 400 
He stood, and in his very dress appeared 
A desolation, a simplicity, 
To which the trappings of a gaudy world 
Make a strange back-ground. From his 

lips, ere long, 
Issued low muttered sounds, as if of pain 
Or some uneasy thought; yet still his form 
Kept the same awful steadiness — at his 

feet 
His shadow lay, and moved not. From 

self-blame 
Not wholly free, I watched him thus; at 

length 
Subduing my heart's specious cowardice, 410 
.1 left the shady nook where I had stood 
And hailed him. Slowly from his resting- 
place 
He rose, and with a lean and wasted arm 
In measured geshire lifted to his head 
Returned my salutation; then resumed 
His station as before; and when I asked 
His history, the veteran, in reply, 
Was neither slow nor eager ; but, unmoved, 
And with a quiet uncomplaining voice, 
A stately air of mild indifference, 420 

He told hi few plain words a soldier's 

tale — 
That in the Tropic Islands he had served, 
Whence he had landed scarcely three weeks 

past; 
That on his landing he had been dismissed, 
And now was travelling towards his native 

home. 
This heard, I said, in pity, " Come with me." 
He stooped, and straightway from the 

ground took up 



An oaken staff by me yet unobserved — 
A staff which must have dropped from his 

slack hand 
And lay till now neglected in the grass. 430 
Though weak his step and cautious, he ap- 
peared 
To travel withoiit pain, and I beheld, 
With an astonishment but ill suppressed, 
His ghostly figure moving at my side; 
Nor could I, while we journeyed thus, for- 
bear 
To turn from present hardships to the past, 
And speak of war, battle, and pestilence, 
Sprinkling this talk with questions, better 

spared, 
On what he might himself have seen or 

felt. 
He all the while was in demeanour calm, 440 
Concise in answer; solemn and sublime 
He might have seemed, but that in all he 

said 
There was a strange half-absence, as of 

one 
Knowing too well the importance of his 

theme, 
But feeling it no longer. Our discourse 
Soon ended, and together on we passed 
In silence through a wood gloomy and still. 
Up-turning, then, along au open field, 
We reached a cottage. At the door I 

knocked, 
And earnestly to charitable care 450 

Commended him as a poor friendless man, 
Belated and by sickness overcome. 
Assured that now the traveller would repose 
In comfort, I entreated that henceforth 
He would not linger in the public ways, 
But ask for timely furtherance and help 
Such as his state required. At this reproof, 
With the same ghastly mildness in his look, 
He said, " My trust is in the God of Hea- 
ven, 459 
And in the eye of him who passes me ! " 

The cottage door was speedily unbarred, 
And now the soldier touched his hat once 

more 
With his lean hand, and in a faltering voice, 
Whose tone bespake reviving interests 
Till then unfelt, he thanked me ; I returned 
The farewell blessing of the patient man, 
And so we parted. Back I cast a look, 
And lingered near the door a little space, 
Then sought with quiet heart my distant 

home. 



152 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK V 



BOOK FIFTH 
BOOKS 

When Contemplation, like the night-calm 

felt 
Through earth and sky, spreads widely, and 

sends deep 
Into the soul its tranquillising power, 
Even then I sometimes grieve for thee, O 

Man, 
Earth's paramount Creature ! not so much 

for woes 
That thou endurest; heavy though that 

weight be, 
Cloud-like it mounts, or touched with light 

divine 
Doth melt away; but for those palms 

achieved 
Through length of tune, by patient exercise 
Of study and hard thought; there, there, 

it is 10 

That sadness finds its fuel. Hitherto, 
In progress through this Verse, my mind 

hath looked 
Upon the speaking face of earth and heaven 
As her prune teacher, intercourse with man 
Established by the sovereign Intellect, 
Who through that bodily image hath dif- 
fused, 
As might appear to the eye of fleeting time, 
A deathless spirit. Thou also, man ! hast 

wrought, 
For commerce of thy nature with herself, 
Things that aspire to unconquerable life; 
And yet we feel — we cannot choose but 

feel — 2 1 

That they must perish. Tremblings of the 

heart 
It gives, to think that our immortal being 
No more shall need such garments ; and yet 

man, 
As long as he shall be the child of earth, 
Might almost " weep to have " what he may 

lose, 
Nor be himself extinguished, but survive, 
Abject, depressed, forlorn, disconsolate. 
A thought is with me sometimes, and I 

say, — 
Should the whole frame of earth by inward 

throes 3° 

}*e wrenched, or fire come down from far 

to scorch 
Her pleasant habitations, and dry up 
Old Ocean, in his bed left singed and bare, 
Yet would the living Presence still subsist 



Victorious, and composure would ensue, 
And kindlings like the morning — presage 

sure 
Of day returning and of life revived. 
But all the meditations of mankind, 
Yea, all the adamantine holds of truth 
By reason built, or passion, which itself 40 
Is highest reason hi a soul sublime; 
The consecrated works of Bard and Sage, 
Sensuous or intellectual, wrought by men, 
Twin labourers and heirs of the same hopes; 
Where would they be ? Oh ! why hath not 

the Mind 
Some element to stamp her image on 
In nature somewhat nearer to her own ? 
Why, gifted with such powers to send 

abroad 
Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail ? 

One day, when from my lips a like com- 
plaint 50 
Had fallen in presence of a studious friend, 
He with a smile made answer, that in truth 
'T was going far to seek disquietude ; 
But on the front of his reproof confessed 
That he himself had oftentimes given way 
To kindred hauntings. Whereupon I told, 
That once in the stillness of a summer's 

noon, 
While I was seated in a rocky cave 
By the sea-side, perusing, so it chanced, 
The famous history of the errant knight 60 
Recorded by Cervantes, these same 

thoughts 
Beset me, and to height unusual rose, 
While listlessly I sate, and, having closed 
The book, had turned my eyes toward the 

wide sea. 
On poetry and geometric truth, 
And their high privilege of lasting life, 
From all internal injury exempt, 
I mused; upon these chiefly: and at length, 
My senses yielding to the sultry air, 69 

Sleep seized me, and I passed into a dream. 
I saw before me stretched a boundless plain 
Of sandy wilderness, all black and void, 
And as I looked around, distress and fear 
Came creeping over me, when at my side, 
Close at my side, an uncouth shape ap- 
peared 
Upon a dromedary, mounted high. 
He seemed an Arab of the Bedouin tribes: 
A lance he bore, and underneath one arm 
A stone, and in the opposite hand a shell 
Of a surpassing brightness. At the sight 80 



BOOK V 



THE PRELUDE 



153 



Much I rejoiced, not doubting but a guide 
Was present, one who with unerring skill 
Would through the desert lead me; and 

while yet 83 

I looked and looked, self-questioned what 

this freight 
Which the new-comer carried through the 

waste 
Could mean, the Arab told me that the 

stone 
(To give it in the language of the dream) 
Was " Euclid's Elements," and "This," 

said he, 
" Is something of more worth; " and at the 

word 
Stretched forth the shell, so beautiful in 

shape, go 

In colour so resplendent, with command 
That I should hold it to my ear. I did so, 
And heard that instant in an unknown tongue, 
Which yet I understood, articulate sounds, 
A loud prophetic blast of harmony; 
An Ode, in passion uttered, which foretold 
Destruction to the children of the earth 
By deluge, now at hand. No sooner ceased 
The song, than the Arab with calm look de- 
clared 
That all would come to pass of which the 

voice 100 

Had given forewarning, and that he himself 
Was going then to bury those two books: 
The one that held acquaintance with the 

stars, 
And wedded soul to soul in purest bond 
Of reason, undisturbed by space or time; 
The other that was a god, yea many gods, 
Had voices more than all the winds, with 

power 
To exhilarate the spirit, and to soothe, 
Through every clime, the heart of human 

kind. 
While this was uttering, strange as it may 

seem, no 

I wondered not, although I plainly saw 
The one to be a stone, the other a shell; 
Nor doubted once but that they both were 

books, 
Having a perfect faith in all that passed. 
Far stronger, now, grew the desire I felt 
To cleave unto this man; but when I prayed 
To share his enterprise, he hurried on 
Reckless of me: I followed, not unseen, 
For oftentimes he cast a backward look, 
Grasping his twofold treasure. — Lance in 

rest, 120 



He rode, I keeping pace with him ; and now 
He, to my fancy, had become the knight 
Whose tale Cervantes tells; yet not the 

knight, 
But was an Arab of the desert too; 
Of these was neither, and was both at once. 
His countenance, meanwhile, grew more 

disturbed ; 
And, looking backwards when he looked, 

mine eyes 
Saw, over half the wilderness diffused, 
A bed of glittering light: I asked the cause: 
" It is," said he, " the waters of the deep 130 
Gathering upon us;" quickening then the 

pace 
Of the unwieldy creature he bestrode, 
He left me: I called after him aloud; 
He heeded not ; but, with his twofold charge 
Still in his grasp, before me, full in view, 
Went hurrying o'er the illimitable waste, 
With the fleet waters of a drowning world 
In chase of him ; whereat I waked in terror, 
And saw the sea before me, and the book, 
In which I had been reading, at my side. 

Full often, taking from the world of 
sleep 1 4. 

This Arab phantom, which I thus beheld, 
This semi-Quixote, I to him have given 
A substance, fancied him a living man, 
A gentle dweller in the desert, crazed 
By love and feeling, and internal thought 
Protracted among endless solitudes; 
Have shaped him wandering upon this quest ! 
Nor have I pitied him ; but rather felt 
Reverence was due to a being thus em- 
ployed; i 5 o 
And thought that, in the blind and awful 

lair 
Of such a madness, reason did lie couched. 
Enow there are on earth to take in charge 
Their wives, their children, and their virgin 

loves, 
Or whatsoever else the heart holds dear; 
Enow to stir for these ; yea, will I say, 
Contemplating in soberness the approach 
Of an event so dire, by signs in earth 
Or heaven made manifest, that I could share 
That maniac's fond anxiety, and go 160 

Upon like errand. Oftentimes at least 
Me hath such strong entrancement over« 

come, 
When I have held a volume in my hand, 
Poor earthly casket of immortal verse, 
Shakespeare, or Milton, labourers divine ! 



*54 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK V 



Great and benign, indeed, must be the 

power 
Of living nature, which could thus so long 
Detain me from the best of other guides 
And dearest helpers, left unthanked, un- 

praised, 
Even in the time of lisping infancy; 170 

And later down, in prattling childhood even, 
While I was travelling back among those 

days, 
How could I ever play an ingrate's part ? 
Once more should I have made those bowers 

resound, 
By intermingling strains of thankfulness 
With their own thoughtless melodies ; at 

least 
It might have well beseemed me to repeat 
Some simply fashioned tale, to tell again, 
In slender accents of sweet verse, some tale 
That did bewitch me then, and soothes me 

now. i So 

O Friend ! O Poet ! brother of my soul, 
Think not that I could pass along untouched 
By these remembrances. Yet wherefore 

speak ? 
Why call upon a few weak words to say 
What is already written hi the hearts 
Of all that breathe ? — what in the path of 

all 
Drops daily from the tongue of every child, 
Wherever man is f ound ? The trickling tear 
Upon the cheek of listening Infancy 
Proclaims it, and the insuperable look 190 
That drinks as if it never could be full. 

That portion of my story I shall leave 
There registered: whatever else of power 
Or pleasure sown, or fostered thus, may be 
Peculiar to myself, let that remain 
Where still it works, though hidden from 

all search 
Among the depths of time. Yet is it just 
That here, in memory of all books which lay 
Their sure foundations in the heart of man, 
Whether by native prose, or numerous verse, 
That in the name of all inspired souls — 201 
From Homer the great Thunderer, from 

the voice 
That roars along the bed of Jewish song, 
And that more varied and elaborate, 
Those trumpet-tones of harmony that shake 
Our shores in England, — from those loftiest 

notes 
Down to the low and wren-like warblings, 

made 



For cottagers and spinners at the wheel, 
And sun-burnt tra"ellers resting their tired 

limbs, 
Stretched under wayside hedge-rows, ballad 

tunes, 210 

Food for the hungry ears of little ones, 
And of old men who have survived their 

joys — 

'T is just that in behalf of these, the works, 
And of the men that framed them, whether 

known 
Or sleeping nameless in their scattered 

graves, 
That I should here assert their rights, attest 
Their honours, and should, once for all, pro- 
nounce 
Their benediction; speak of them as Powers 
For ever to be hallowed; only less, 
For what we are and what we may become, 
Than Nature's self, which is the breath of 
God, 221 

Or His pure Word by miracle revealed. 

Rarely and with reluctance would I stoop 
To transitory themes; yet I rejoice, 
And, by these thoughts admonished, will 

pour out 
Thanks with uplifted heart, that I was 

reared 
Safe from an evil which these days have 

laid 
Upon the children of the land, a pest 
That might have dried me up, body and soul. 
This verse is dedicate to Nature's self, 230 
And things that teach as Nature teaches: 

then, 
Oh ! where had been the Man, the Poet 

where, 
Where had we been, we two, beloved Friend ! 
If in the season of unperilous choice, 
In lieu of wandering, as we did, through 

vales 
Rich with indigenous produce, open ground 
Of Fancy, happy pastures ranged at will, 
We had been followed, hourly watched, and 

noosed, 
Each in his several melancholy walk 
Stringed like a poor man's heifer at its 

feed, 240 

Led through the lanes in forlorn servitude; 
Or rather like a stalled ox debarred 
From touch of growing grass, that may 

not taste 
A flower till it have yielded up its sweets 
A prelibation to the mower's scythe. 



BOOK V 



THE PRELUDE 



i5S 



Behold the parent hen amid her brood, 
Though fledged and feathered, and well 

pleased to part 
And straggle froni her presence, still a 

brood, 
And she herself from the maternal bond 249 
Still undischarged; yet doth she little more 
Than move with them in tenderness and 

love, 
A centre to the circle which they make; 
And now and then, alike from need of theirs 
And call of her own natural appetites, 
She scratches, ransacks up the earth for 

food, 
Which they partake at pleasure. Early 

died 
My honoured Mother, she who was the 

heart 
And hinge of all our learnings and our 

loves : 
She left vis destitute, and, as we might, 
Trooping together. Little suits it me 260 
To break upon the sabbath of her rest 
With any thought that looks at others' 

blame ; 
Nor would I praise her but in perfect love. 
Hence am I checked: but let me boldly say, 
In gratitude, and for the sake of truth, 
Unheard by her, that she, not falsely taught, 
Fetching her goocbiess rather from times 

past, 
Than shaping novelties for times to come, 
Had no presumption, no such jealousy, 269 
Nor did by habit of her thoughts mistrust 
Our nature, but had virtual faith that He 
Who fills the mother's breast with innocent 

milk, 
Doth also for our nobler part provide, 
Under His great correction and control, 
As innocent instincts, and as innocent food; 
Or draws, for minds that are left free to 

trust 
In the simplicities of opening life, 
Sweet honey out of spurned or dreaded 

weeds. 
This was her creed, and therefore she was 

pure 
From anxious fear of error or mishap, 280 
And evil, overweeningly so called; 
Was not puffed up by false unnatural hopes, 
Nor selfish with unnecessary cares, 
Nor with impatience from the season asked 
More than its timely produce ; rather loved 
The hours for what they are, than from 

regard 



Glanced on their promises m restless pride. 
Such was she — not from faculties more 

strong 
Than others have, but from the times, per- 
haps, 
And spot in which she lived, and through a 

grace 290 

Of modest meekness, simple-mindedness, 
A heart that found benignity and hope, 
Being itself benign. 

My drift I fear 
Is scarcely obvious ; but, that common sense 
May try this modern system by its fruits, 
Leave let me take to place before her sight 
A specimen pourtrayed with faithful hand. 
Full early trained to worship seemliness, 
This model of a child is never known 
To mix in quarrels ; that were far beneath 
Its dignity; with gifts he bubbles o'er 301 
As generous as a fountain; selfishness 
May not come near him, nor the little throng 
Of flitting pleasures tempt him from his 

path ; 
The wandering beggars propagate his name, 
Dumb creatures find him tender as a nun, 
And natural or supernatural fear, 
Unless it leap upon him in a dream, 
Touches him not. To enhance the wonder, 

see 
How arch his notices, how nice his sense 
Of the ridiculous; not blind is he 311 

To the broad follies of the licensed world, 
Yet innocent himself withal, though shrewd, 
And can read lectiu-es upon innocence; 
A miracle of scientific lore, 
Ships be can guide across the pathless sea, 
And tell you all their cunning ; he can read 
The inside of the earth, and spell the stars ; 
He knows the policies of foreign lands; 
Can string you names of districts, cities, 

towns, 320 

The whole world over, tight as beads of 

dew 
Upon a gossamer thread; he sifts, he 

weighs ; 
All things are put to question; he must live 
Knowing that he grows wiser every day 
Or else not live at all, and seeing too 
Each little drop of wisdom as it falls 
Into the dimpling cistern of his heart: 
For this unnatural growth the trainer blame, 
Pity the tree. — Poor human vanity, 329 
Wert thou extinguished, little would be left 
Which he could truly love ; but how escape ? 
For, ever as a thought of purer birth 



156 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK V 



Rises to lead him toward a better clime, 
Some intermeddler still is on the watch 
To drive him back, and pound him, like a 

stray, 
Within the pinfold of his own conceit. 
Meanwhile old grandame earth is grieved 

to find 
The playthings, which her love designed for 

him, 
Unthought of: in their woodland beds the 

flowers 
Weep, and the river sides are all forlorn. 340 
Oh ! give us once again the wishing-cap 
Of Fortunatus, and the invisible coat 
Of Jack the Giant-killer, Robin Hood, 
And Sabra in the forest with St. George ! 
The child, whose love is here, at least, doth 

reap 
One precious gain, that he forgets himself. 

These mighty workmen of our later age, 
Who, with a broad highway, have over- 
bridged 
The froward chaos of futurity, 
Tamed to their bidding; they who have the 

skill 3;o 

To manage books, and things, and make 

them act 
On infant minds as surely as the sun 
Deals with a flower; the keepers of our 

time, 
The guides and wardens of our faculties, 
Sages who in their prescience would control 
All accidents, and to the very road 
Which they have fashioned would confine 

us down, 
Like engines; when will their presumption 

learn, 
That in the unreasoning progress of the 

world 
A wiser spirit is at work for us, 360 

A better eye than theirs, most prodigal 
Of blessings, and most studious of our good, 
Even in what seem our most unfruitful 

hours? 

There was a Boy: ye knew him well, ye 

cliffs 
And islands of Winander ! — many a time 
At evening, when the earliest stars began 
To move along the edges of the hills, 
Rising or setting, would he stand alone 
Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake, 
And there, with fingers interwoven, both 

hands 3,-p 



Pressed closely palm to palm, and to his 

mouth 
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, 
That they might answer him; and they 

would shout 
Across the watery vale, and shout again, 
Responsive to his call, with quivering peals, 
And long halloos and screams, and echoes 

loud, 
Redoubled and redoubled, concourse wild 
Of jocund din; and, when a lengthened 

pause 
Of silence came and baffled his best skill, 
Then sometimes, in that silence while he 
hung 3S1 

Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
Has carried far into his heart the voice 
Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene 
Would enter unawares into his mind, 
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, re- 
ceived 
Into the bosom of the steady lake. 

This Boy was taken from his mates, and 
died 
In childhood, ere he was fidl twelve years 
old. 390 

Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale 
Where he was bom; the grassy church- 
yard hangs 
Upon a slope above the village school, 
And through that churchyard when my way 

has led 
On summer evenings, I believe that there 
A long half hour together I have stood 
Mute, looking at the grave in which he lies ! 
Even now appears before the mind's clear 

eye 
That self-same village church ; I see her sit 
( The throned Lady whom ere while we hailed) 
On her green hill, forgetful of this Boy 401 
Who slumbers at her feet, — forgetful, too, 
Of all her silent neighbourhood of graves, 
And listening only to the gladsome sounds 
That, from the rural school ascending, play 
Beneath her and about her. May she long 
Behold a race of young ones like to those 
With whom I herded ! — (easily, indeed, 
We might have fed upon a fatter soil 
Of arts and letters — but be that forgiven) — 
A race of real children; not too wise, 411 
Too learned, or too good ; but wanton, fresh, 
And bandied up and down by love and hate; 



BOOK V 



THE PRELUDE 



iS7 



Not unresentful where self-justified; 
Fierce, moody, patient, venturous, niodest, 

shy; 
Mad at their sports like withered leaves in 

winds ; 
Though doing wrong and suffering, and full 

oft 
Bending beneath our life's mysterious weight 
Of pain, and doubt, and fear, yet yielding not 
In happiness to the happiest upon earth. 420 
Simplicity in habit, truth in speech, 
Be these the daily strengtheners of their 

minds ; 
May books and Nature be their early joy ! 
And knowledge, rightly honoured with that 

name — 
Knowledge not purchased by the loss of 



power 



Well do I call to mind the very week 
When I was first intrusted to the care 
Of that sweet Valley; when its paths, its 

shores, 
And brooks were like a dream of novelty 
To my half -inf ant thoughts ; that very week, 
While I was roving up and down alone, 43 1 
Seeking I knew not what, I chanced to cross 
One of those open fields, which, shaped like 

ears, 
Make green peninsulas onEsthwaite's Lake : 
Twilight was coming on, yet through the 

gloom 
Appeared distinctly on the opposite shore 
A heap of garments, as if left by one 
Who might have there been bathing. Long 

I watched, 
But no one owned them; meanwhile the 

calm lake 
Grew dark with all the shadows on its breast, 
And, now and then, a fish up-leaping 

snapped 441 

The breathless stillness. The succeeding 

day, 
Those unclaimed garments telling a plain 

tale 
Drew to the spot an anxious crowd; some 

looked 
In passive expectation from the shore, 
While from a boat others hung o'er the 

deep, 
Sounding with grappling irons and long 

poles. 
At last, the dead man, 'mid that beauteous 

scene 
Of trees and hills and water, bolt upright 



Rose, with his ghastly face, a spectre 
shape 450 

Of terror; yet no soul-debasing fear, 
Young as I was, a child not nine years old, 
Possessed me, for my inner eye had seen 
Such sights before, among the shining 

streams 
Of faery land, the forest of romance. 
Their spirit hallowed the sad spectacle 
With decoration of ideal grace; 
A dignity, a smoothness, like the works 
Of Grecian art, and purest poesy. 

A precious treasure had I long pos- 
sessed, 460 
A little yellow, canvas-covered book, 
A slender abstract of the Arabian tales; 
And, from companions in a new abode, 
When first I learnt, that this dear prize of 

mine 
Was but a block hewn from a mighty 

quarry — 
That there were four large volumes, laden 

all 
With kindred matter, 't was to me, in truth, 
A promise scarcely earthly. Instantly, 
With one not richer than myself, I made 
A covenant that each should lay aside 470 
The moneys he possessed, and hoard up 

more 
Till our joint savings had amassed enough 
To make this book our own. Through 

several months, 
In spite of all temptation, we preserved 
Religiously that vow; but firmness failed, 
Nor were we ever masters of our wish. 

And when thereafter to my father's house 
The holidays returned me, there to find 
That golden store of books which I had 

left, 
What joy was mine ! How often in the 
course 4 8o 

Of those glad respites, though a soft west 

wind 
Ruffled the waters to the angler's wish, 
For a whole day together, have I lain 
Down by thy side, O Dcrwent ! murmur- 
ing stream, 
On the hot stones, and in the glaring sun, 
And there have read, devouring as I read, 
Defrauding the day's glory, desperate ! 
Till with a sudden bound of smart reproach, 
Such as an idler deals with in his shame, 
J to the sport betook myself again. 490 



158 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK V 



A gracious spirit o'er this earth presides, 
And o'er the heart of man; invisibly 
It comes, to works of unreproved delight, 
And tendency benign, directing those 
Who care not, know not, think not, what 

they do. 
The tales that charm away the wakeful night 
In Araby ; romances ; legends penned 
For solace by dim light of monkish lamps; 
Fictions, for ladies of their love, devised 
By youthful squires; adventures endless, 
spun 500 

By the dismantled warrior in old age, 
Out of the bowels of those very schemes 
In which his youth did first extravagate ; 
These spread like day, and something in 

the shape 
Of these will live till man shall be no more. 
Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours, 
And they must have their food. Our child- 
hood sits, 
Our simple childhood, sits upon a throne 
That hath more power than all the ele- 
ments. 
I guess not what this tells of Being past, 510 
Nor what it augurs of the life to come; 
But so it is ; and, in that dubious hour — 
That twilight — when we first begin to see 
Tliis dawning earth, to recognise, expect, 
And, in the long probation that ensues, 
The tune of trial, ere we learn to live 
In reconcilement with our stinted powers; 
To endure this state of meagre vassalage, 
Unwilling to forego, confess, submit, 
Uneasy and unsettled, yoke-fellows 520 

To custom, mettlesome, and not yet tamed 
And humbled down — oh ! then we feel, we 

feel, 
We know where we have friends. Ye 

dreamers, then, 
Forgers of daring tales ! we bless you then, 
Impostors, drivellers, dotards, as the ape 
Philosophy will call you: then we feel 
With what, and how great might ye are in 

league, 
Who make our wish, our power, our thought 

a deed, 
An empire, a possession, — ye whom time 
And seasons serve ; all Faculties to whom 530 
Earth crouches, the elements are potter's 

clay, 
Space like a heaven filled up with northern 

lights, 
Here, nowhere, there, and everywhere at 
once. 



Relinquishing this lofty eminence 
For ground, though humbler, not the less a 

tract 
Of the same isthmus, which our spirits 

cross 
In progress from their native continent 
To earth and human life, the Song might 

dwell 
On that delightful time of growing youth, 
When craving for the marvellous gives 

way 540 

To strengthening love for things that we 

have seen ; 
When sober truth and steady sympathies, 
Offered to notice by less daring pens, 
Take firmer hold of us, and words them- 
selves 
Move us with conscious pleasure. 

I am sad 
At thought of rapture now for ever flown; 
Almost to tears I sometimes could be sad 
To think of, to read over, many a page, 
Poems withal of name, which at that time 
Did never fail to entrance me, and are 

now 550 

Dead hi my eyes, dead as a theatre 
Fresh emptied of spectators. Twice five 

years 
Or less I might have seen, when first my 

mind 
With conscious pleasure opened to the 

charm 
Of words in tuneful order, found them 

sweet 
For their own sakes, a passion, and a power; 
And phrases pleased me chosen for delight, 
For pomp, or love. Oft, in the public roads 
Yet unfrequented, while the morning light 
Was yellowing the hill tops, I went 

abroad 560 

With a dear friend, and for the better part 
Of two delightful hours we strolled along 
By the still borders of the misty lake, 
Repeating favourite verses with one voice, 
Or conning more, as happy as the birds 
That round us chaunted. Well might we 

be glad, 
Lifted above the ground by airy fancies, 
More bright than madness or the dreams 

of wine; 
And, though full oft the objects of our love 
Were false, and in their splendour over- 
wrought, 570 
Yet was there surely then no vulgar power 
Working within us, — nothing less, in truth, 



BOOK VI 



THE PRELUDE 



*59 






Than that most noble attribute of man, 
Though yet untutored and inordinate, 
That wish for something loftier, more 

adorned, 
Than is the common aspect, daily garb, 
Of human life. What wonder, then, if 

sounds 
Of exultation echoed through the groves ! 
For, images, and sentiments, and words, 
And everything encountered or pursued 580 
In that delicious world of poesy, 
Kept holiday, a never-ending show, 
With music, incense, festival, and flowers ! 

Here must we pause: this only let me 
add, 
From heart-experience, and in humblest 

sense 
Of modesty, that he, who in his youth 
A daily wanderer among woods and fields 
With living Nature hath been intimate, 
Not only in that raw unpractised tune 
Is stirred to ecstasy, as others are, 590 

By glittering verse; but further, doth re- 
ceive, 
In measure only dealt out to himself, 
Knowledge and increase of enduring joy 
From the great Nature that exists in works 
Of mighty Poets. Visionary power 
Attends the motions of the viewless winds, 
Embodied hi the mystery of words: 
There, darkness makes abode, and all the 

host 
Of shadowy things work endless changes, — 

there, 
As in a mansion like their proper home, 600 
Even forms and substances are circumfused 
By that transparent veil with light divine, 
And, through the turnings intricate of 

verse, 
Present themselves as objects recognised, 
In flashes, and with glory not their own. 



BOOK SIXTH 
CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS 

The leaves were fading when to Esth- 

waite's banks 
And the simplicities of cottage life 
I bade farewell; and, one among the youth 
Who, summoned by that season, reunite 
As scattered birds troop to the fowler's lure, 
Went back to Granta's cloisters, not so 

prompt 



Or eager, though as gay and undepressed 
In mind, as when I thence had taken flight 
A few short months before. I turned my 

face 
Without repining from the coves and 

heights 10 

Clothed hi the sunshine of the withering 

fern ; 
Quitted, not loth, the mild magnificence 
Of calmer lakes and louder streams; and 

you, 
Frank-hearted maids of rocky Cumberland, 
You and your not unwelcome days of mirth, 
Relinquished, and your nights of revelry, 
And in my own unlovely cell sate down 
In lightsome mood — such privilege has 

youth 
That cannot take long leave of pleasant 

thoughts. 

The bonds of indolent society 20 

Relaxing in their hold, henceforth I lived 
More to myself. Two winters may be 

passed 
Without a separate notice: many books 
Were skimmed, devoured, or studiously 

perused, 
But with no settled plan. I was detached 
Internally from academic cares; 
Yet independent study seemed a course 
Of hardy disobedience toward friends 
And kindred, proud rebellion and unkind. 
This spurious virtue, rather let it bear 30 
A name it now deserves, this cowardice, 
Gave treacherous sanction to that over-love 
Of freedom which encouraged me to turn 
From regulations even of my own 
As from restraints and bonds. Yet who 

can tell — 
Who knows what thus may have been 

gained, both then 
And at a later season, or preserved; 
What love of nature, what original strength 
Of contemplation, what intuitive truths 
The deepest and the best, what keen re- 
search, 40 
Unbiassed, unbewildered, and unawed ? 

The Poet's soul was with me at that time; 
Sweet meditations, the still overflow 
Of present happiness, while future years 
Lacked not anticipations, tender dreams, 
No few of which have since been realised; 
And some remain, hopes for my future life. 
Four years and thirty, told this very week, 



i6o 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK VI 



Have I been now a sojourner on earth, 
By sorrow not imsmitteii; yet for me 50 
Life's morning radiance hath not left the 

hills, 
Her dew is on the flowers. Those were 

the days 
Which also first emboldened me to trust 
With firmness, hitherto but slightly touched 
By such a daring thought, that I might 

leave 
Some monument behind me which pure 

hearts 
Should reverence. The instinctive humble- 
ness, 
Maintained even by the very name and 

thought 
Of printed books and authorship, began 
To melt away; and further, the dread awe 
Of mighty names was softened down and 

seemed 6i 

Approachable, admitting fellowship 
Of modest sympathy. Such aspect now, 
Though not familiarly, my mind put on, 
Content to observe, to achieve, and to enjoy. 

All winter long, whenever free to choose, 
Did I by night frequent the College grove 
And tributary walks; the last, and oft 
The only one, who had been lingering there 
Through hours of sflence, till the porter's 
bell, 70 

A punctual follower on the stroke of nine, 
Rang with its blunt unceremonious voice; 
Inexorable summons ! Lofty elms, 
Inviting shades of opportune recess, 
Bestowed composure on a neighbourhood 
Unpeacefid hi itself. A single tree 
With sinuous trunk, boughs exquisitely 

wreathed, 
Grew there; an ash which Winter for him- 
self 
Decked out with pride, and with outlandish 

grace : 
Up from the ground, and almost to the top, 
The trunk and every master branch were 
green 81 

With clustering ivy, and the lightsome twigs 
And outer spray profusely tipped with seeds 
That hung in yellow tassels, while the air 
Stirred them, not voiceless. Often have I 

stood 
Foot-bound uplooking at this lovely tree 
Beneath a frosty moon. The hemisphere 
Of magic fiction, verse of mine perchance 
May never tread; but scarcely Spenser's self 



Could have more tranquil visions in his 
youth, 9° 

Or could more bright appearances create 
Of human forms with superhuman powers, 
Than I beheld, loitering on cabn clear 

nights 
Alone, beneath this fairy work of earth, 

On the vague reading of a truant youth 
'T were idle to descant. My inner judgment 
Not seldom differed from my taste in books, 
As if it appertained to another mind, 
And yet the books which then I valued 

most 
Are dearest to me noio ; for, having scanned, 
Not heedlessly, the laws, and watched the 
forms 101 

Of Nature, in that knowledge I possessed 
A standard, often usefully applied, 
Even when unconsciously, to tilings re- 
moved 
From a familiar sympathy. — In fine, 
I was a better judge of thoughts than words, 
Misled hi estimating words, not only 
By common inexperience of youth, 
But by the trade in classic niceties, 
The dangerous craft, of culling term and 
phrase no 

From languages that want the living voice 
To carry meaning to the natural heart; 
To tell us what is passion, what is truth, 
What reason, what simplicity and sense. 

Yet may we not entirely overlook 
The pleasure gathered from the rudiments 
Of geometric science. Though advanced 
In these enquiries, with regret 1 speak, 
No farther than the threshold, there I found 
Both elevation and composed delight: 120 
With Indian awe and wonder, ignorance 

pleased 
With its own struggles, did I meditate 
On the relation those abstractions bear 
To Nature's laws, and by what process led, 
Those immaterial agents bowed their heads 
Duly to serve the mind of earth-born man; 
From star to star, from kindred sphere to 

sphere, 
From system on to system without end. 

More frequently from the same source I 
drew 
A pleasure quiet and profound, a sense 130 
Of permanent and universal sway, 
And paramount belief; there, recognised 



BOOK VI 



THE PRELUDE 



161 



A type, for finite natures, of the one 
Supreme Existence, the surpassing life 
Which — to the boundaries of space and 

time, 
Of melancholy space and doleful time, 
Superior and incapable of change, 
Nor touched by welterings of passion — is, 
And hath the name of, God. Transcendent 

peace 139 

And silence did await upon these thoughts 
That were a frequent comfort to my youth. 

'Tis told by one whom stormy waters 
threw, 
With fellow-sufferers by the shipwreck 

spared, 
Upon a desert coast, that having brought 
To land a single volume, saved by chance, 
A treatise of Geometry, he wont, 
Although of food and clothing destitute, 
And beyond common wretchedness de- 
pressed, 
To part from company and take this book 
(Then first a self-taught pupil in its 
truths) 150 

To spots remote, and draw his diagrams 
With a long staff upon the sand, and thus 
Did oft beguile his sorrow, and almost 
Forget his feeling: so (if like effect 
From the same cause produced, 'mid out- 
ward things 
So different, may rightly be compared), 
So was it then with me, and so will be 
With Poets ever. Mighty is the charm 
Of those abstractions to a mind beset 
With images and haunted by herself, 160 
And specially delightful unto me 
Was that clear synthesis built up aloft 
So gracefully; even then when it appeared 
Not more than a mere plaything, or a toy 
To sense embodied: not the thing it is 
In verity, an independent world, 
Created out of pure intelligence. 

Such dispositions then were mine un- 
earned 
By aught, I fear, of genuine desert — 
Mine, through heaven's grace and inborn 
aptitudes. 170 

And not to leave the story of that time 
Imperfect, with these habits must be joined, 
Moods melancholy, fits of spleen, that loved 
A pensive sky, sad days, and piping winds, 
The twilight more than dawn, autumn than 
spring; 



A treasured and luxurious gloom of choice 
And inclination mainly, and the mere 
Redundancy of youth's contentedness. 
— To time thus spent, add multitudes of 

hours 179 

Pilfered away, by what the Bard who sang 
Of the Enchanter Indolence hath called 
" Good-natured lounging," and behold a map 
Of my collegiate life — far less intense 
Than duty called for, or, without regard 
To duty, might have sprung up of itself 
By change of accidents, or even, to speak 
Without unkindness, in another place. 
Yet why take refuge in that plea ? — the 

fault, 
This I repeat, was mine ; niine be the blame. 

In summer, making quest for works of 

art, 190 

Or scenes renowned for beauty, I explored 
That streamlet whose blue current works 

its way 
Between romantic Dovedale's spiry rocks; 
Pried into Yorkshire dales, or hidden tracts 
Of my own native region, and was blest 
Between these sundry wanderings with a joy 
Above all joys, that seemed another morn 
Risen on mid noon; blest with the presence, 

Friend, 
Of that sole Sister, her who hath been long 
Dear to thee also, thy true friend and niine, 
Now, after separation desolate, 201 

Restored to me — such absence that she 

seemed 
A gift then first bestowed. The varied 

banks 
Of Emont, hitherto unnamed in song, 
And that monastic castle, 'mid tall trees, 
Low standing by the margin of the stream, 
A mansion visited (as fame reports) 
By Sidney, where, in sight of our Helvellyn, 
Or stormy Cross-fell, snatches he might pen 
Of his Arcadia, by fraternal love 210 

Inspired ; — that river and those mouldering 

towers 
Have seen us side by side, when, having 

clomb 
The darksome windings of a broken stair, 
And crept along a ridge of fractured wall, 
Not without trembling, we in safety looked 
Forth, through some Gothic window's open 

space, 
And gathered with one mind a rich reward 
From the far-stretching landscape, by the 

light 



l62 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK VI 



Of morning beautified, or purple eve; 

Or, not less pleased, lay on souie turret's 

head, 220 

Catching from tufts of grass and hare-bell 

flowers 
Their faintest whisper to the passing breeze, 
Given out while mid-day heat oppressed the 

plains. 

Another maid there was, who also shed 
A gladness o'er that season, then to me, 
By her exulting outside look of youth 
And placid under - countenance, first en- 
deared ; 
That other spirit, Coleridge ! who is now 
So near to us, that meek confiding heart, 
So reverenced by us both. O'er paths and 

fields 230 

In all that neighbourhood, through narrow 

lanes 
Of eglantine, and through the shady woods, 
And o'er the Border Beacon, and the waste 
Of naked pools, and common crags that lay 
Exposed on the bare fell, were scattered 

love, 
The spirit of pleasure, and youth's golden 

gleam. 
O Friend ! we had not seen thee at that 

tune, 
And yet a power is on me, and a strong 
Confusion, and I seem to plant thee there. 
Far art thou wandered now hi search of 

health 240 

And milder breezes, — melancholy lot ! 
But thou art with us, with us in the past, 
The present, with us hi the times to come. 
There is no grief, no sorrow, no despair, 
No languor, no dejection, no dismay, 
No absence scarcely can there be, for those 
Who love as we do. Speed thee well ! divide 
With us thy pleasure; thy returning 

strength, 
Receive it daily as a joy of ours; 
Share with us thy fresh spirits, whether gift 
Of gales Etesian or of tender thoughts. 251 

I, too, have been a wanderer; but, alas ! 
How different the fate of different men. 
Though mutually unknown, yea nursed and 

reared 
As if in several elements, we were framed 
To bend at last to the same discipline, 
Predestined, if two beings ever were, 
To seek the same delights, and have one 

health, 



One happiness. Throughout this narrative, 
Else sooner ended, I have borne in mind 260 
For whom it registers the birth, and marks 

the growth, 
Of gentleness, simplicity, and truth, 
And joyous loves, that hallow innocent days 
Of peace and self-command. Of rivers, 

fields, 
And groves I speak to thee, my Friend ! to 

thee, 
Who, yet a liveried schoolboy, in the depths 
Of the huge city, on the leaded roof 
Of that wide edifice, thy school and home, 
Wert used to lie and gaze upon the clouds 
Moving hi heaven; or, of that pleasure tired, 
To shut thine eyes, and by internal light 27 1 
See trees, and meadows, and thy native 

stream, 
Far distant, thus beheld from year to year 
Of a long exile. Nor could I forget, 
In this late portion of my argument, 
That scarcely, as my term of pupilage 
Ceased, had I left those academic bowers 
When thou wert thither guided. From the 

heart 
Of London, and from cloisters there, thou 

earnest, 279 

And didst sit down in temperance and peace, 
A rigorous student. What a stormy course 
Then followed. Oh ! it is a pang that calls 
For utterance, to think what easy change 
Of circumstances might to thee have spared 
A world of pain, ripened a thousand hopes, 
For ever withered. Tlirough this retrospect 
Of my collegiate life I still have had 
Thy after-sojourn in the self-same place 
Present before my eyes, have played with 

times 
And accidents as children do with cards, 290 
Or as a man, who, when his house is built, 
A frame locked up in wood and stone, doth 

still, 
As impotent fancy prompts, by his fireside*, 
Rebuild it to his liking. I have thought 
Of thee, thy learning, gorgeous eloquence, 
And all the strength and plumage of thy 

youth, 
Thy subtle speculations, toils abstruse 
Among the schoolmen, and Platonic forms 
Of wild ideal pageantry, shaped out 
From things well-matched or ill, and words 

for things, 30a 

The self-created sustenance of a mind 
Debarred from Nature's living images, 
Compelled to be a life unto herself, 



BOOK VI 



THE PRELUDE 



163 



And unrelentingly possessed by thirst 
Of greatness, love, and beauty. Not alone, 
Ah ! surely not in singleness of heart 
Should I have seen the light of evening fade 
From smooth Cam's silent waters: had we 

met, 
Even at that early time, needs must I trust 
In the belief, that my maturer age, 310 

My calmer habits, and more steady voice, 
Would with an influence benign have soothed, 
Or chased away, the airy wretchedness 
That battened on thy youth. But thou hast 

trod 
A march of glory, which doth put to shame 
These vain regrets; health suffers in thee, 

else 
Such grief for thee would be the weakest 

thought 
That ever harboured in the breast of man. 

A passing word erewhile did lightly 
touch 

On wanderings of my own, that now em- 
braced 320 

With livelier hope a region wider far. 

When the third summer freed us from 

restraint, 
A youthful friend, he too a mountaineer, 
Not slow to share my wishes, took his staff, 
And sallying forth, we journeyed side by 

side, 
Bound to the distant Alps. A hardy slight, 
Did this unprecedented course imply, 
Of college studies and their set rewards; 
Nor had, in truth, the scheme been formed 

by me 
Without uneasy forethought of the pain, 330 
The censures, and ill-omening, of those 
To whom my worldly interests were dear. 
But Nature then was sovereign in my mind, 
And mighty forms, seizing a youthful fancy, 
Had given a charter to irregular hopes. 
In any age of uneventful calm 
Among the nations, surely woidd my heart 
Have been possessed by similar desire; ' 
But Europe at that time was thrilled with 

joy, 
France standing on the top of golden 

hours, 340 

And human nature seeming born again. 

Lightly equipped, and but a few brief 
looks 
Cast on the white cliffs of our native shore 



From the receding vessel's deck, we 

chanced 
To land at Calais on the very eve 
Of that great federal day; and there we 

saw, 
In a mean city, and among a few, 
How bright a face is worn when joy of one 
Is joy for tens of millions. Southward 

thence 
We held our way, direct tlirough hamlets, 

towns, 350 

Gaudy with reliques of that festival, 
Flowers left to wither on triumphal ares, 
And window-garlands. On the public 

roads, 
And, once, three days successively, through 

paths 
By which our toilsome journey was 

abridged, 
Among sequestered villages we walked 
And found benevolence and blessedness 
Spread like a fragrance everywhere, when 

spring 
Hath left no corner of the land untouched; 
Where elms for many and many a league 

in files 360 

With their thin umbrage, on the stately 

roads 
Of that great kingdom, rustled o'er our 

heads, 
For ever near us as we paced along: 
How sweet at such a time, with such de- 
light 
On every side, in prime of youthful 

strength, 
To feed a Poet's tender melancholy 
And fond conceit of sadness, with the sound 
Of undulations varying as might please 
The wind that swayed them; once, and 

more than once, 
Unhoused beneath the evening star we 

saw 370 

Dances of liberty, and, in late hours 
Of darkness, dances in the open air 
Deftly prolonged, though grey-haired 

lookers on 
Might waste their breath in chiding. 

Under hills — 
The vine-clad hills and slopes of Burgundy, 
Upon the bosom of the gentle Saone 
We glided forward with the flowing stream. 
Swift Rhone ! thou wert the ivings on 

which we cut 
A winding passage with majestic ease 
Between thy lofty rocks. Enchanting show 



164 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK VI 



Those woods and farms and orchards did 

present, 3S1 

And single eottages and lurking towns, 
Reach after reach, succession without end 
Of deep and stately vales ! A lonely pair 
Of strangers, till day closed, we sailed 

along 
Clustered together with a merry crowd 
Of those emancipated, a blithe host 
Of travellers, chiefly delegates, returning 
From the great spousals newly solemnised 
At their chief city, in the sight of Heaven. 
Like bees they swarined, gaudy and gay as 

bees; 391 

Some vapoured in the unruliness of joy, 
And with their swords flourished as if to 

fight 
The saucy air. In this proud company 
We landed — took with them our evening 

meal, 
Guests welcome almost as the angels were 
To Abraham of old. The supper done, 
With flowing cups elate and happy thoughts 
We rose at signal given, and formed a ring 
And, hand hi hand, danced round and 

round the board; 400 

All hearts were open, every tongue was 

loud 
With amity and glee ; Ave bore a name 
Honoured in France, the name of English- 
men, 
And hospitably did they give us hail, 
As their forerunners in a glorious course ; 
And round and round the board we danced 

again. 
With these blithe friends our voyage we 

renewed 
At early dawn. The monastery bells 
Made a sweet jingling in our youthful ears ; 
The rapid river flowing without noise, 410 
And each uprising or receding spire 
Spake with a sense of peace, at intervals 
Touching the heart amid the boisterous 

crew 
By whom we were encompassed. Taking 

leave 
Of this glad throng, foot-travellers side by 

side, 
Measuring our steps in quiet, we pursued 
Our journey, and ere twice the sun had 

set 
Beheld the Convent of Chartreuse, and 

there 
Rested within an awful solitude : 
Yes ; for even then no other than a place 420 



Of soul-affecting solitude appeared 

That far-famed region, though our eyes 

had seen, 
As toward the sacred mansion we advanced, 
Arms flashing, and a military glare 
Of riotous men commissioned to expel 
The blameless inmates, and belike subvert 
That frame of social being, which so long 
Had bodied forth the ghostliness of things 
In silence visible and perpetual cabn. 
— " Stay, stay your sacrilegious hands ! " — 
The voice 430 

Was Nature's, uttered from her Alpine 

throne ; 
I heard it then and seem to hear it now — 
" Your impious work forbear, perish what 

may, 
Let this one temple last, be this one spot 
Of earth devoted to eternity ! " 
She ceased to speak, but while St. Bruno's 

pines 
Waved their dark tops, not silent as they 

waved, 
And while below, along their several beds, 
Murmured the sister streams of Life and 

Death, 
Thus by conflicting passions pressed, my 
heart 440 

Responded ; " Honour to the patriot's zeal ! 
Glory and hope to new-born Liberty ! 
Hail to the mighty projects of the time ! 
Discerning sword that Justice wields, do 

thou 
Go forth and prosper; and, ye purging 

fires, 
Up to the loftiest towers of Pride ascend, 
Fanned by the breath of angry Providence. 
But oh ! if Fast and Future be the wings 
On whose support harmoniously conjoined 
Moves the great spirit of human knowledge, 
spare 450 

These courts of mystery, where a step ad- 
vanced 
Between the portals of the shadowy rocks 
Leaves far behind life's treacherous vani- 
ties, 
For penitential tears and trembling hopes 
Exchanged — to equalise in God's pure 

sight 
Monarch and peasant: be the house re- 
deemed 
With its unworldly votaries, for the sake 
Of conquest over sense, hourly achieved 
Through faith and meditative reason, rest- 
ing 



BOOK VI 



THE PRELUDE 



1*5 



Upon the word of heaven - imparted 

truth, 460 

Calmly triumphant; and for humbler claim 
Of that imaginative impulse sent 
From these majestic floods, yon shining 

cliffs, 
The untransmuted shapes of many worlds, 
Cerulean ether's pure inhabitants, 
These forests unapproachable by death, 
That shall endure as long as man endures, 
To think, to hope, to worship, and to feel, 
To struggle, to be lost within himself 
In trepidation, from the blank abyss 470 
To look with bodily eyes, and be consoled." 
Not seldom since that moment have I 

wished 
That thou, O Friend ! the trouble or the 

calm 
Hadst shared, when, from profane regards 

apart, 
In sympathetic reverence we trod 
The floors of those dun cloisters, till that 

hour, 
From their foundation, strangers to the 

presence 
Of unrestricted and unthinking man. 
Abroad, how cheeringly the sunshine lay 
Upon the open lawns ! Vallombre's 

groves 4 So 

Entering, we fed the soul with darkness; 

thence 
Issued, and with uplifted eyes beheld, 
In different quarters of the bending sky, 
The cross of Jesus stand erect, as if 
Hands of angelic powers had fixed it there, 
Memorial reverenced by a thousand storms ; 
Yet then, from the undiseriminating sweep 
And rage of one State-whirlwind, insecure. 

'T is not my present purpose to retrace 
That variegated journey step by step. 490 
A march it was of military speed, 
And Earth did change her images and forms 
Before us, fast as clouds are changed in 

heaven. 
Day after day, up early and down late, 
From hill to vale we dropped, from vale to 

hill 
Mounted — from province on to province 

swept, 
Keen hunters in a chase of fourteen weeks, 
Eager as birds of prey, or as a ship 
Upon the stretch, when winds are blowing 

fair: 499 

Sweet coverts did we cross of pastoral life, 



Enticing valleys, greeted them and left 
Too soon, while yet the very flash and 

gleam 
Of salutation were not passed away. 
Oh ! sorrow for the youth who could have 

seen, 
Unchastened, unsubdued, unawed, unraised 
To patriarchal dignity of mind, 
And pure simplicity of wish and will, 
Those sanctified abodes of peaceful man, 
Pleased (though to hardship born, and com- 
passed round 509 
With danger, varying as the seasons change), 
Pleased with his daily task, or, if not pleased, 
Contented, from the moment that the dawn 
(Ah ! surely not without attendant gleams 
Of soul-ilhunmation) calls him forth 
To industry, by glistenings flung on rocks, 
Whose evening shadows lead him to repose. 

Well might a stranger look with bound- 

hig heart 
Down on a green recess, the first I saw 
Of those deep haunts, an aboriginal vale, 
Quiet and lorded over and possessed 520 
By naked huts, wood-built, and sown like 

tents 
Or Indian cabins over the fresh lawns 
And by the river side. 

That very day, 
From a bare ridge we also first beheld 
Unveiled the summit of Mont Blanc, and 

grieved 
To have a soulless image on. the eye 
That bad usurped upon a living thought 
That never more could be. The wondrous 

Vale 
Of Chamouny stretched far below, and 

soon 
With its dumb cataracts and streams of 

ice, 530 

A motionless array of mighty waves, 
Five rivers broad and vast, made rich 

amends, 
And reconciled us to realities; 
There small birds warble from the leafy 

trees, 
The eagle soars high in the element, 
There doth the reaper bhid the yellow 

sheaf, 
The maiden spread the haycock in the sun, 
While Winter like a well-tamed lion walks, 
Descending from the mountain to make 

sport 
Among the cottages by beds of flowers. 540 



i66 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK VI 



Whate'er in this wide circuit we beheld, 
Or heard, was fitted to our unripe state 
Of intellect and heart. With such a book 
Before our eyes, we could not choose but 

read 
Lessons of genuine brotherhood, the plain 
And universal reason of mankind, 
The truths of young and old. Nor, side by 

side 
Pacing, two social pilgrims, or alone 
Each with his humour, could we fail to 

aboimd 
In dreams and fictions, pensively composed: 
Dejection taken up for pleasure's sake, 551 
And gilded sympathies, the willow wreath, 
And sober posies of funereal flowers, 
Gathered among those solitudes sublime 
From formal gardens of the lady Sorrow, 
Did sweeten many a meditative hour. 

Yet still in me with those soft luxuries 
Mixed something of stern mood, an under- 

thirst 
Of vigour seldom utterly allayed : 
And from that source how different a sad- 
ness 560 
Would issue, let one incident make known. 
When from the Vallais we had turned, and 

clomb 
Along the Simplon's steep and rugged road, 
Following a band of muleteers, we reached 
A halting-place, where all together took 
Their noon-tide meal. Hastily rose our 

guide, 
Leaving us at the board; awhile we lin- 
gered, 
Then paced the beaten downward way that 

led 
Right to a rough stream's edge, and there 

broke off; 
The only track now visible was one 570 

That from the torrent's further brink held 

forth 
Conspicuous invitation to ascend 
A lofty mountain. After brief delay 
Crossing the mibridged stream, that road 

we took, 
And clomb with eagerness, till anxious 

fears 
Intruded, for we failed to overtake 
Our comrades gone before. By fortunate 

chance, 
While every moment added doubt to doubt, 
A peasant met us, from whose mouth we 
learned 



That to the spot which had perplexed us 

first 5S0 

We must descend, and there should find the 

road, 
Which in the stony channel of the stream 
Lay a few steps, and then along its banks ; 
And, that our future course, all plain to 

sight, 
Was downwards, with the current of that 

stream. 
Loth to believe what we so grieved to hear, 
For still we had hopes that pointed to the 

clouds, 
We questioned him agahi, and yet again; 
But every word that from the peasant's lips 
Came hi reply, translated by our feelings, 
Ended in this, — that we had crossed the 

Alps. 591 

Imagination — here the Power so called 
Through sad incompetence of human speech, 
That awful Power rose from the mind's 

abyss 
Like an unfathered vapour that enwraps, 
At once, some lonely traveller. I was lost ; 
Halted without an effort to break through ; 
But to my conscious soid I now can say — 
" I recognise thy glory : " in such strength 
Of usurpation, when the light of sense 600 
Goes out, but with a flash that has revealed 
The invisible world, doth greatness make 

abode, 
There harboiu-s; whether we be young or 

old, 
Our destiny, our being's heart and home, 
Is with infinitude, and only there ; 
With hope it is, hope that can never die, 
Effort, and expectation, and desire, 
And something evermore about to be. 
Under such banners militant, the soul 
Seeks for no trophies, struggles for no 

spoils 610 

That may attest her prowess, blest hi 

thoughts 
That are their own perfection and reward, 
Strong in herself and in beatitude 
That hides her, like the mighty flood of 

Nile 
Poured from his fount of Abyssinian clouds 
To fertilise the whole Egyptian plain. 

The melancholy slackening that ensued 
Upon those tidings by the peasant given 
Was soon dislodged. Downwards we hur- 
ried fast, 



BOOK VI 



THE PRELUDE 



167 



And, with the half-shaped road which we 

had missed, 620 

Entered a narrow chasm. The brook and 

road 
Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy strait, 
And with them did we journey several hours 
At a slow pace. The immeasurable height 
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, 
The stationary blasts of waterfalls, 
And in the narrow rent at every turn 
Winds thwarting whids, bewildered and for- 
lorn, 
The torrents shooting from the clear blue 

sky, 
The rocks that muttered close upon our 

ears, 630 

Black drizzling crags that spake by the 

way-side 
As if a voice were in them, the sick sight 
And giddy prospect of the raving stream, 
The unfettered clouds and region of the 

Heavens, 
Tumult and peace, the darkness and the 

light — 
Were all like workings of one mind, the 

features 
Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree; 
Characters of the great Apocalypse, 
The types and symbols of Eternity, 
Of first, and last, and midst, and without 

end. 640 

That night our lodging was a house that 

stood 
Alone within the valley, at a point 
Where, tumbling from aloft, a torrent 

swelled 
The rapid stream whose margin we had 

trod ; 
A dreary mansion, large beyond all need, 
With high and spacious rooms, deafened 

and stunned 
By noise of waters, making innocent sleep 
Lie melancholy among weary bones. 

Uprisen betimes, our journey we re- 
newed, 
Led by the stream, ere noon-day magni- 
fied 650 
Into a lordly river, broad and deep, 
Dimpling along in silent majesty, 
With mountains for its neighbours, and hi 

view 
Of distant mountains and their snowy tops, 
And thus proceeding to Locarno's Lake, 



Fit resting-place for such a visitant. 
Locarno ! spreading out in width like 

Heaven, 
How dost thou cleave to the poetic heart, 
Bask in the sunshine of the memory; 
And Corao ! thou, a treasure whom the 

earth 660 

Keeps to herself, confined as in a depth 
Of Abyssinian privacy. I spake 
Of thee, thy chestnut woods, and garden 

plots 
Of Indian corn tended by dark-eyed maids ; 
Thy lofty steeps, and pathways roofed with 

vines, 
Winding from house to house, from town 

to town, 
Sole link that bmds them to each other; 

walks, 
League after league, and cloistral avenues, 
Where silence dwells if music be not there: 
While yet a youth undisciplined in verse, 
Through fond ambition of that hour I 

strove 67 1 

To chant your praise; nor can approach 

you now 
Ungreeted by a more melodious Song, 
Where tones of Nature smoothed by learned 

Art 
May flow hi lasting current. Like a breeze 
Or sunbeam over your domain I passed 
In motion without pause; but ye have 

left 
Your beauty with me, a serene accord 
Of forms and colours, passive, yet endowed 
In their submissiveness with power as sweet 
And gracious, almost, might I dare to say, 
As virtue is, or goodness; sweet as love, 682 
Or the remembrance of a generous deed, 
Or mildest visitations of pure thought, 
When God, the giver of all joy, is thanked 
Religiously, in silent blessedness; 
Sweet as this last herself, for such it is. 

With those delightful pathways we ad- 
vanced, 
For two days' space, in presence of the 

Lake, 
That, stretching far among the Alps, as- 
sumed 690 
A character more stern. The second night, 
From sleep awakened, and misled by sound 
Of the church clock telling the hours with 

strokes 
Whose import then we had not learned, we 
rose 



1 68 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK VI 



By moonlight, doubting not that clay was 

nigh, 
And that meanwhile, by no uncertain path, 
Along the winding margin of the lake, 
Led, as before, we should behold the scene 
Hushed in profound repose. We left the 

town 
Of Gravedona with this hope ; but soon 700 
Were lost, bewildered among woods im- 
mense, 
And on a rock sate down, to wait for day. 
An open place it was, and overlooked, 
From high, the sullen water far beneath, 
On which a dull red image of the moon 
Lay bedded, changing oftentimes its form 
Like an uneasy snake. From hour to hour 
We sate and sate, wondering, as if the 

night 
Had been ensnared by witchcraft. On the 

rock 
At last we stretched our weary limbs for 

sleep, 7'° 

But could not sleep, tormented by the stings 
Of insects, which, with noise like that of 

noon, 
Filled all the woods: the cry of unknown 

birds ; 
The mountains more by blackness visible 
And their own size, than any outward 

light; 
The breathless wilderness of clouds; the 

clock 
That told, with unintelligible voice, 
The widely parted hours; the noise of 

streams, 
And sometimes rustling motions nigh at 

hand, 
That did not leave us free from personal 

fear; 72° 

And, lastly, the withdrawing moon, that 

set 
Before us, while she still was high in 

heaven; — 
These were our food; and such a summer's 

night 
Followed that pair of golden days that 

shed 
On Como's Lake, and all that round it lay, 
Their fairest, softest, happiest influence. 

But here I must break off, and bid fare- 
well 

To days, each offering some new sight, or 
fraught 

With some untried adventure, in a course 



Prolonged till sprinklings of autumnal 

snow 73c- 

Checked our unwearied steps. Let this 

alone 
Be mentioned as a parting word, that not 
In hollow exultation, dealing out 
Hyperboles of praise comparative; 
Not rich one moment to be poor for ever; 
Not prostrate, overborne, as if the ruind 
Herself were nothing, a mere pensioner 
On outward forms — did we hi presence 

stand 
Of that magnificent region. On the front 
Of this whole Song is written that my 

heart 740 

Must, hi such Temple, needs have offered 

U P 
A different worship. Finally, whate'er 

I saw, or heard, or felt, was but a stream 

That flowed into a kindred stream ; a gale, 

Confederate with the current of the soul, 

To speed my voyage ; every sound or sight, 

In its degree of power, administered 

To grandeur or to tenderness, — to the one 

Directly, but to tender thoughts by means 

Less often instantaneous in effect; 750 

Led me to these by paths that, in the main, 

Were more circuitous, but not less sure 

Duly to reach the point marked out by 

Heaven. 

Oh, most beloved Friend ! a glorious 

time, 
A happy time that was; triumphant looks 
Were then the common language of all 

eyes; 
As if awaked from sleep, the Nations hailed 
Their great expectancy: the fife of war 
Was then a spirit-stirring sound indeed, 
A blackbird's whistle in a budding grove. 
We left the Swiss exulting in the fate 761 
Of their near neighbours; and, when 

shortening fast 
Our pilgrimage, nor distant far from home, 
We crossed the Brabant armies on the fret 
For battle in the cause of Liberty. \ 
A stripling, scarcely of the household then 
Of social life, I looked upon these things 
As from a distance; heard, and saw, and 

felt, 
Was touched, but with no intimate concern ; 
I seemed to move along them, as a bird 770 
Moves through the air, or as a fish pursues 
Its sport, or feeds in its proper element; 
I wanted not that joy, I did not need 



BOOK VII 



THE PRELUDE 



169 



Such help; the ever-living universe, 

Turn where I might, was opening out its 

glories, 
And the independent spirit of pure youth 
Called forth, at every season, new delights, 
Spread round my steps like sunshine o'er 

green fields. 



BOOK SEVENTH 
RESIDENCE IN LONDON 

Six changeful years have vanished since I 

first 
Poured out (saluted by that quickening 

breeze 
Which met me issuing from the City's 

walls) 
A glad preamble to this Verse: I sang 
Aloud, with fervour irresistible 
Of short-lived transport, like a torrent 

biu'sting, 
From a black thunder-cloud, down Scafell's 

side 
To rush and disappear. But soon broke 

forth 
(So willed the Muse) a less impetuous 

stream, 9 

That flowed awhile with unabating strength, 
Then stopped for years; not audible again 
Before last primrose-time. Beloved Friend ! 
The assurance which then cheered some 

heavy thoughts 
On thy departure to a foreign land 
Has failed; too slowly moves the promised 

work. 
Through the whole summer have I been at 

rest, 
Partly from voluntary holiday, 
And part through outward hindrance. But 

I heard, 
After the hour of sunset yester-even, 
Sitting within doors between light and 

dark, 20 

A choir of redbreasts gathered somewhere 

near 
My threshold, — minstrels from the distant 

woods 
Sent in on Winter's service, to announce, 
With preparation artful and benign, 
That the rough lord had left the surly 

North 
On his accustomed journey. The delight, 
Due to this timely notice, unawares 
Smote me, and, listening, I in whispers said, 



" Ye heartsoine Choristers, ye and I will be 
Associates, and, unscared by blustering 

winds, 30 

Will chant together." Thereafter, as the 

shades 
Of twilight deepened, going forth, I spied 
A glow-worm underneath a dusky plume 
Or canopy of yet unwithered fern, 
Clear-shining, like a hermit's taper seen 
Through a thick forest. Silence touched 

me here 
No less than sound had done before; the 

child 
Of Summer, lingering, shining, by herself, 
The voiceless worm on the unfrequented 

hills, 
Seemed sent on the same errand with the 

choir 4 o 

Of Winter that had warbled at my door, 
And the whole year breathed tenderness 

and love. 

The last night's genial feeling overflowed 
Upon this morning, and my favourite grove, 
Tossing in sunshine its dark boughs aloft, 
As if to make the strong wind visible, 
Wakes in me agitations like its own, 
A spirit friendly to the Poet's task, 
Which we will now resume with lively hope, 
Nor checked by aught of tamer argument 
That lies before us, needful to be told. 51 

Returned from that excursion, soon I bade 
Farewell for ever to the sheltered seats 
Of gowned students, quitted hall and 

bower, 
And every comfort of that privileged 

ground, 
Well pleased to pitch a vagrant tent among 
The unfenced regions of society. 

Yet, undetermined to what course of life 
I should adhere, and seeming to possess 
A little space of intermediate time 60 

At full command, to London first I turned, 
In no disturbance of excessive hope, 
By personal ambition unenslaved, 
Frugal as there was need, and, though 

self-willed, 
From dangerous passions free. Three 

years had flown 
Since I had felt hi heart and soul the shock 
Of the huge town's first presence, and had 

paced 
Her endless streets, a transient visitant: 



170 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK VII 



Now, fixed amid that concourse of mankind 
Where Pleasure whirls about incessantly, 70 
And life and labour seem but one, I rilled 
An idler's place ; an idler well content 
To have a house (what matter for a home '?) 
That owned him; living cheerfully abroad 
With unchecked fancy ever on the stir, 
And all my young affections out of doors. 

There was a tune when whatsoe'er is 

feigned 
Of airy palaces, and gardens built 
By Genii of romance; or hath iu grave 
Authentic history been set forth of Rome, 
Alcairo, Babylon, or Persepolis; 81 

Or given upon report by pilgrim friars, 
Of golden cities ten months' journey deep 
Among Tartarian wilds — fell short, far 

short, 
Of what my fond simplicity believed 
And thought of London — held me by a 

chain 
Less strong of wonder and obscure delight. 
Whether the bolt of childhood's Fancy shot 
For me beyond its ordinary mark, 
'Twere vain to ask; but hi our flock of 

boys 90 

Was One, a cripple from his birth, whom 

chance 
Summoned from school to London; fortu- 
nate 
And envied traveller ! When the Boy 

returned, 
After short absence, curiously I scanned 
His mien and person, nor was free, in sooth, 
From disappointment, not to find some 

change 
In look and air, from that new region 

brought, 
As if from Fairy-land. Much I questioned 

him ; 
And every word he uttered, on my ears 
Fell flatter than a caged parrot's note, 100 
That answers unexpectedly awry. 
And mocks the prompter's listening. Mar- 
vellous things 
Had vanity (quick Spirit that appears 
Almost as deeply seated and as strong 
In a Child's heart as fear itself) conceived 
For my enjoyment. Would that I coidd 

now 
Recall what then I pictured to myself, 
Of mitred Prelates, Lords in ermine clad, 
The King, and the King's Palace, and, not 

last, 



Xor least, Heaven bless him ! the renowned 

Lord Mayor. no 

Dreams not unlike to those which once begat 
A change of purpose hi young Whittingtoii, 
When he, a friendless and a drooping boy, 
Sate on a stone, and heard the bells speak 

out 
Articulate music. Above all, one thought 
Baffled my understanding: how men lived 
Even next-door neighbours, as we say, yet 

still 
Strangers, not knowing each the other's 

name. 

Oh, wondrous power of words, by simple 

faith 119 

Licensed to take the meaning that we love ! 
Vauxhall and Ranelagh ! 1 then had heard 
Of your green groves, and wilderness of 

lamps 
Dimming the stars, and fireworks magical, 
And gorgeous ladies, under splendid domes, 
Floating in dance, or warbling high in air 
The songs of spirits .' Nor had Fancy 

fed 
With less delight upon that other class 
Of marvels, broad-day wonders permanent: 
The River proudly 1 nidged; the dizzy top 
And Whispering Gallery of St. Paul's; the 

tombs 130 

Of Westminster; the Giants of Guildhall; 
Bedlam, and those carved maniacs at the 

gates, 
Perpetually recumbent; Statues — man, 
And the horse under him — in gilded pomp 
Adorning flowery gardens, 'mid vast 

squares; 
The Monument, and that Chamber of the 

Tower 
Where England's sovereigns sit in long 

array, 
Their steeds bestridmg, — every mimic 

shape 
Cased in the gleaming mail the monarch 

w r ore, 
Whether for gorgeous tournament ad- 
dressed, 140 
Or life or death upon the battle-field. 
Those bold imaginations hi due time 
Had vanished, leaving others in their stead: 
And now I looked upon the living scene; 
Familiarly perused it; oftentimes, 
In spite of strongest disappointment, pleased 
Through courteous self-submission, as a tax 
Paid to the object by prescriptive right. 



BOOK VII 



THE PRELUDE 



171 



Rise up, thou monstrous ant-hill on the 

plain 
Of a too busy world ! Before me flow, 150 
Thou endless stream of men and moving 

things ! 
Thy every-day appearance, as it strikes — 
With wonder heightened, or sublimed by 

awe — 
On strangers, of all ages; the quick dance 
Of colours, lights, and forms; the deafening 

din; 
The comers and the goers face to face, 
Face after face ; the string of dazzling wares, 
Shop after shop, with symbols, blazoned 

names, 
And all the tradesman's honours overhead: 
Here, fronts of houses, like a title-page, 160 
With letters huge inscribed from top to 

toe, 
Stationed above the door, like guardian 

saints ; 
There, allegoric shapes, female or male, 
Or physiognomies of real men, 
Land-warriors, kings, or admirals of the 

sea, 
Boyle, Shakspeare, Newton, or the attrac- 
tive head 
Of some quack-doctor, famous in his day. 

Meanwhile the roar continues, till at 
length, 
Escaped as from an enemy, we turn 
Abruptly into some sequestered nook, 170 
Still as a sheltered place when winds blow 

loud ! 
At leisure, thence, through tracts of thin 

resort, 
And sights and sounds that come at inter- 
vals, 
We take our way. A raree-show is here, 
With children gathered round; another 

street 
Presents a company of dancing dogs, 
Or dromedary, with an antic pair 
Of monkeys on his back; a minstrel band 
Of Savoyards; or, single and alone, 
An English ballad-singer. Private courts, 
Gloomy as coffins, and unsightly lanes 1S1 
Thrilled by some female vendor's scream, 

belike 
The very shrillest of all London cries, 
May then entangle our impatient steps; 
Conducted through those labyrinths, un- 
awares, 
To privileged regions and inviolate, 



Where from their airy lodges studious 

lawyers 
Look out on waters, walks, and gardens 

green. 

Thence back into the throng, until we 
reach, 
Following the tide that slackens by degrees, 
Some half-frequented scenes, where wider 
streets 191 

Bring straggling breezes of suburban air. 
Here files of ballads dangle from dead walls ; 
Advertisements, of giant-size, from high 
Press forward, in all colours, on the sight; 
These, bold hi conscious merit, lower down; 
That, fronted with a most imposing word, 
Is, peradventure, one in masquerade. 
As on the broadening causeway we advance, 
Behold, turned upwards, a face hard and 
strong 200 

In lineaments, and red with over-toil. 
'T is one encountered here and everywhere ; 
A travelling cripple, by the trunk cut short, 
And stumping on his arms. In sailor's garb 
Another lies at length, beside a range 
Of well-formed characters, with chalk in- 
scribed 
Upon the smooth flat stones: the Nurse is 

here, 
The Bachelor, that loves to sun himself, 
The military Idler, and the Dame, 
That field-ward takes her walk with decent 
steps. 210 

Now homeward through the thickening 

hubbub, where 
See, among less distinguishable shapes, 
The begging scavenger, with hat in hand; 
The Italian, as he thrids his way with care, 
Steadying, far-seen, a frame of images 
Upon his head; with basket at his breast 
The Jew; the stately and slow-moving Turk, 
With freight of slippers piled beneath his 

arm ! 

Enough; — the mighty concourse I sur- 
veyed 
With no unthinking mind, well pleased to 
note 220 

Among the crowd all specimens of man, 
Through all the colours which the sun be- 
stows, 
And every character of form and face: 
The Swede, the Russian; from the genial 
south, 



172 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK VII 



The Frenchman and the Spaniard ; from re- 
mote 
America, the Hunter-Indian; Moors, 
Malays, Lascars, the Tartar, the Chinese, 
And Negro Ladies in white muslin gowns. 

At leisure, then, I viewed, from day to 

day, 
The spectacles within doors, — birds and 

beasts 230 

Of every nature, and strange plants con- 
vened 
From every clime; and, next, those sights 

that ape 
The absolute presence of reality, 
Expressing, as hi mirror, sea and land, 
And what earth is, and what she has to 

show. 
I do not here allude to subtlest craft, 
By means refined attaining purest ends, 
But imitations, fondly made in plain 
Confession of man's weakness and his loves. 
Whether the Painter, whose ambitious skill 
Submits to nothing less than taking in 241 
A whole horizon's circuit, do with power, 
Like that of angels or commissioned spirits, 
Fix us upon some lofty pinnacle, 
Or in a ship on waters, with a world 
Of life, and life-like mockery beneath, 
Above, behind, far stretching and before; 
Or more mechanic artist represent 
By scale exact, in model, wood or clay, 249 
From blended colours also borrowing help, 
Some miniature of famous spots or things, — 
St. Peter's Church; or, more aspiring aim, 
In microscopic vision, Rome herself; 
Or, haply, some choice rural haunt, — the 

Falls 
Of Tivoli; and, high upon that steep, 
The Sibyl's mouldering Temple ! every tree, 
Villa, or cottage, lurking among rocks 
Throughout the landscape; tuft, stone 

scratch minute — 
All that the traveller sees when he is there. 

Add to these exhibitions, mute and still, 
Others of wider scope, where living men, 
Music, and shifting pantomimic scenes, 262 
Diversified the allurement. Need I fear 
To mention by its name, as in degree, 
Lowest of these and humblest in attempt, 
Yet richlv graced with honours of her own, 
Half -rural Sadler's Wells ? Though at that 

time 
Intolerant, as is the way of youth 



Unless itself be pleased, here more than 
once 269 

Taking my seat, I saw (nor blush to add, 
With ample recompense) giants and dwarfs, 
Clowns, conjurors, posture-masters, harle- 
quins, 
Amid the uproar of the rabblement, 
Perform their feats. Nor was it mean de- 
light 
To watch crude Nature work in untaught 

minds ; 
To note the laws and progress of belief; 
Though obstinate on this way, yet on that 
How willingly we travel, and how far ! 
To have, for instance, brought upon the 
scene 279 

The champion, Jack the Giant-killer: Lo ! 
He dons his coat of darkness ; on the stage 
Walks, and achieves his wonders, from the 

eye 
Of living Mortal covert, " as the moon 
Hid in her vacant interlunar cave." 
Delusion bold ! and how can it be wrought ? 
The garb he wears is black as death, the 

word 
" Invisible " flames forth upon his chest. 

Here, too, were " forms and pressures of 

the time," 
Rough, bold, as Grecian comedy displayed 
When Art was young; dramas of living 

men, 290 

And recent things yet warm with life; a 

sea-fight, 
Shipwreck, or some domestic incident 
Divulged by Truth and magnified by Fame; 
Such as the daring brotherhood of late 
Set forth, too serious theme for that light 

place — 
I mean, O distant Friend ! a story drawn 
From our own ground, — the Maid of But- 

termere, — 
And how, imf aithful to a virtuous wife 
Deserted and deceived, the Spoiler came 
And wooed the artless daughter of the hills, 
And wedded her, hi cruel mockery 301 

Of love and marriage bonds. These words 

to thee 
Must needs bring back the moment when 

we first, 
Ere the broad world rang with the maiden's 

name, 
Beheld her serving at the cottage inn; 
Both stricken, as she entered or withdrew, 
With admiration of her modest mien 



BOOK VII 



THE PRELUDE 



173 



And carriage, marked by unexampled grace. 
We since that time not unfamiliarly 
Have seen her, — her discretion have ob- 
served, 310 
Her just opinions, delicate reserve, 
Her patience, and humility of mind 
Unspoiled by commendation and the excess 
Of public notice — an offensive light 
To a meek spirit suffering inwardly. 

From this memorial tribute to my theme 
I was returning, when, with sundry forms 
Commingled — shapes which met me in the 

way 
That we must tread — thy image rose again, 
Maiden of Buttermere ! She lives in peace 
Upon the spot where she was born and reared ; 
Without contamination doth she live 322 
In quietness, without anxiety: 
Beside the mountain chapel, sleeps in earth 
Her new-born infant, fearless as a lamb 
That, thither driven from some unsheltered 

place, 
Rests underneath the little rock-like pile 
When storms are raging. Happy are they 

both — 
Mother and child ! — These feelings, in 

themselves 329 

Trite, do yet scarcely seem so when I think 
On those ingenuous moments of our youth 
Ere we have learnt by use to slight the 

crimes 
And sorrows of the world. Those simple 

days 
Are now my theme; and, foremost of the 

scenes, 
Which yet survive in memory, appears 
One, at whose centre sate a lovely Boy, 
A sportive infant, who, for six months' 

space, 
Not more, had been of age to deal about 
Articulate prattle — Child as beautiful 
As ever clung around a mother's neck, 340 
Or father fondly gazed upon with pride. 
There, too, conspicuous for stature tall 
And large dark eyes, beside her infant stood 
The mother; but, upon her cheeks diffused, 
False tints too well accorded with the glare 
From play-house lustres thrown without re- 
serve 
On every object near. The Boy had been 
The pride and pleasure of all lookers-on 
In whatsoever place, but seemed in this 
A sort of alien scattered from the clouds. 
Of lusty vigour, more than infantine 351 



He was in limb, in cheek a summer rose 
Just tliree parts blown — a cottage-child — 

if e'er, 
By cottage-door on breezy mountain-side, 
Or in some sheltering vale, was seen a 

babe 
By Nature's gifts so favoured. Upon a 

board 
Decked with refreshments had this child 

been placed, 
His little stage hi the vast theatre, 
And there he sate, surrounded with a 

throng 
Of chance spectators, chiefly dissolute men 
And shameless women, treated and ca- 
ressed; 361 
Ate, drank, and with the fruit and glasses 

played, 
While oaths and laughter and indecent 

speech 
Were rife about him as the songs of birds 
Contending after showers. The mother 

now 
Is fading out of memory, but I see 
The lovely Boy as I beheld him then 
Among the wretched and the falsely gay, 
Like one of those who walked with hair 

unsinged 3 ^ 

Amid the fiery furnace. Charms and spells 
Muttered on black and spiteful instigation 
Have stopped, as some believe, the kind- 
liest growths. 
Ah, with how different spirit might a prayer 
Have been preferred, that this fair creature, 

checked 
By special privilege of Nature's love, 
Should hi his childhood be detamed for 

ever ! 
But with its universal freight the tide 
Hath rolled along, and this bright innocent, 
Mary ! may now have lived till he could 

look 379 

With envy on thy nameless babe that sleeps, 
Beside the mountain chapel, undisturbed. 

Four rapid years had scarcely then been 
told 
Since, travelling southward from our pas- 
toral hills, 
I heard, and for the first time in my life, 
The voice of woman utter blasphemy — 
Saw woman as she is, to open shame 
Abandoned, and the pride of public vice; 
I shuddered, for a barrier seemed at once 
Thrown in that from humanity divorced 



i74 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK VII 



Humanity, splitting the race of man 390 
In twain, yet leaving the same outward 

form. 
Distress of mind ensued upon the sight, 
And ardent meditation. Later years 
Broiight to such spectacle a milder sadness, 
Feelings of pure commiseration, grief 
For the individual and the overthrow 
Of her soul's beauty; farther I was then 
But seldom led, or wished to go; in truth 
The sorrow of the passion stopped me 

there. 

But let me now, less moved, in order 
take 4°° 

Our argument. Enough is said to show 
How casual incidents of real life, 
Observed where pastime only had been 

sought, 
Outweighed, or put to flight, the set events 
And measured passions of the stage, albeit 
By Siddons trod in the fulness of her power. 
Yet was the theatre my dear delight; 
The very gilding, lamps and painted scrolls, 
And all the mean upholstery of the place, 
Wanted not animation, when the tide 410 
Of pleasure ebbed but to return as fast 
With the ever-shifting figures of the scene, 
Solemn or g~ay: whether some beauteous 

dame 
Advanced in radiance through a deep recess 
Of thick entangled forest, like the moon 
Opening the clouds ; or sovereign king, 

announced 
With flourishing trumpet, came in full- 
blown state 
Of the world's greatness, winding round 

with tram 
Of courtiers, banners, and a length of 

guards ; 
Or captive led in abject weeds, and jin- 
gling 420 
His slender manacles ; or romping girl 
Bounced, leapt, and pawed the air ; or 

mumbling sire, 
A scare-crow pattern of old age dressed up 
In all the tatters of infirmity 
All loosely put together, hobbled in, 
Stumping upon a cane with which he smites, 
From time to time, the solid boards, and 

makes them 
Prate somewhat loudly of the whereabout 
Of one so overloaded with his years. 
But what of this ! the laugh, the grin, gri- 
mace, 430 



The antics striving to outstrip each other, 
Were all received; the least of them not 

lost, 
With an unmeasured welcome. Through 

the night, 
Between the show, and many-headed mass 
Of the spectators, and each several nook 
Filled with its fray or brawl, how eagerly 
And with what flashes, as it were, the mind 
Turned this way — that way ! sportive and 

alert 
And watchful, as a kitten when at play, 
While winds are eddying round her, among 

straws 440 

And rustling leaves. Enchanting age and 

sweet ! 
Romantic almost, looked at through a space, 
How small, of intervening years ! For then, 
Though surely no mean progress had been 

made 
In meditations holy and sublime, 
Yet something of a girlish child-like gloss 
Of novelty survived for scenes like these; 
Enjoyment haply handed down from times 
When at a country-playhouse, some rude 

barn 
Tricked out for that proud use, if I per- 
chance 450 
Caught, on a summer evening through a 

chink 
In the old wall, an unexpected glimpse 
Of daylight, the bare thought of where I 

was 
Gladdened me more than if I had been led 
Into a dazzling cavern of romance, 
Crowded with Genii busy among works 
Not to be looked at by the common sun. 

The matter that detains us now may 

seem, 
To many, neither dignified enough 
Nor arduous, yet will not be scorned by 

them, 460 

Who, looking inward, have observed the 

ties 
That bind the perishable hours of life 
Each to the other, and the curious props 
By which the world of memory and thought 
Exists and is sustained. More lofty themes, 
Such as at least do wear a prouder face, 
Solicit our regard; but when I think 
Of these, I feel the imaginative power 
Languish within me; even then it slept, 
When, pressed by tragic sufferings, the 

heart 470 



BOOK VII 



THE PRELUDE 



*75 



Was more than full; amid my sobs and 

tears 
It slept, even in the pregnant season of 

youth. 
For though I was most passionately moved 
And yielded to all changes of the scene 
With an obsequious promptness, yet the 

storm 
Passed not beyond the suburbs of the mind; 
Save when realities of act and mien, 
The incarnation of the spirits that move 
In harmony amid the Poet's world, 
Rose to ideal grandeur, or, called forth 480 
By power of contrast, made me recognise, 
As at a glance, the things which I had 

shaped, 
And yet not shaped, had seen and scarcely 

seen, 
When, having closed the mighty Shak- 

speare's page, 
I mused, and thought, and felt, in soli- 
tude. 

Pass we from entertainments, that are 
such 
Professedly, to others titled higher, 
Yet, in the estimate of youth at least, 
More near akin to those than names im- 
ply* — 

I mean the brawls of lawyers in their courts 
Before the ermined judge, or that great 

stage 491 

Where senators, tongue-favoured men, per- 
form, 
Admired and envied. Oh ! the beating 

heart, 
When one among the prune of these rose 

up, — 
One, of whose name from childhood we had 

heard 
Familiarly, a household term, like those, 
The Bedfords, Glosters, Salsburys, of old, 
Whom the fifth Harry talks of. Silence ! 

hush ! 
This is no trifler, no short-flighted wit, 
No stammerer of a minute, painfully 500 
Delivered. No ! the Orator hath yoked 
The Hours, like young Aurora, to his car: 
Thrice welcome Presence ! how can patience 

e'er 
Grow weary of attending on a track 
That kindles with such glory ! All are 

charmed, 
Astonished ; like a hero in romance, 
He winds away his never-ending horn; 



Words follow words, sense seems to follow 

sense : 
What memory and what logic ! till the 

strain 509 

Transcendent, superhuman as it seemed, 
Grows tedious even hi a young man's ear. 

Genius of Burke ! forgive the pen se- 
duced 
By specious wonders, and too slow to tell 
Of what the ingenuous, what bewildered 

men, 
Beginning to mistrust their boastful guides, 
And wise men, willing to grow wiser, 

caught, 
Rapt auditors ! from thy most eloquent 

tongue — 
Now mute, for ever mute in the cold grave. 
I see him, — old, but vigorous hi age, — 
Stand like an oak whose stag-horn branches 

start 520 

Out of its leafy brow, the more to awe 
The younger brethren of the grove. But 

some — 
While he forewarns, denounces, launches 

forth, 
Against all systems built on abstract rights, 
Keen ridicule ; the majesty proclaims 
Of Institutes and Laws, hallowed by time; 
Declares the vital power of social ties 
Endeared by Custom; and with high dis- 
dain, 
Exploding upstart Theory, insists 
Upon the allegiance to which men are 

born — 53 o 

Some — say at once a froward multitude — • 
Murmur (for truth is hated, where not 

loved) 
As the winds fret within the JEolian cave, 
Galled by their monarch's chain. The times 

were big 
With ominous change, which, night by 

night, provoked 
Keen struggles, and black clouds of passion 

raised ; 
But memorable moments intervened, 
When Wisdom, like the Goddess from 

Jove's brain, 
Broke forth in armour of resplendent words, 
Startling the Synod. Could a youth, and 

one 540 

In ancient story versed, whose breast had 

heaved 
Under the weight of classic eloquence, 
Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, uninspired ? 



176 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK VII 



Nor did the Pulpit's oratory fail 
To achieve its higher triumph. Not unfelt 
Were its admonishments, uor lightly heard 
The awful truths delivered thence hy 

tongues 
Endowed with various power to search the 

soul ; 
Yet ostentation, domineering, oft 
Poured forth harangues, how sadly out of 

place ! — 550 

There have I seen a comely bachelor, 
Fresh from a toilette of two hours, ascend 
His rostrum, with seraphic glance look up, 
And, in a tone elaborately low 
Beginning, lead his voice through many a 

maze 
A minuet course; and, winding up his 

mouth, 
From time to time, into an orifice 
Most delicate, a lurking eyelet, small, 
And only not invisible, again 
Open it out, diffusing thence a smile 560 
Of rapt irradiation, exquisite. 
Meanwhile the Evangelists, Isaiah, Job, 
Moses, and he who penned, the other day, 
The Death of Abel, Shakspeare, and the 

Bard 
Whose genius spangled o'er a gloomy theme 
With fancies thick as his inspiring stars, 
And Ossian (doubt not — 'tis the naked 

truth) 
Summoned from streamy Morven — each 

and all 
Would, in their turns, lend ornaments and 

flowers 
To entwine the crook of eloquence that 

helped 570 

This pretty Shepherd, pride of all the plains, 
To rule and guide his captivated flock. 

I glance but at a few conspicuous marks, 
Leaving a thousand others, that, in hall, 
Court, theatre, conventicle, or shop, 
In public room or private, park or street, 
Each fondly reared on his own pedestal, 
Looked out for admiration. Folly, vice, 
Extravagance in gesture, mien, and dress, 
And all the strife of singularity, 580 

Lies to the ear, and lies to every sense — 
Of these, and of the living shapes they 

wear, 
There is no end. Such candidates for re- 
gard, 
Although well pleased to be where they 
were found, 



I did not hunt after, nor greatly prize, 

Nor made unto myself a secret boast 

Of reading them with quick and curious 

eye; 
But, as a common produce, things that are 
To-day, to-morrow will be, took of them 
Such willing note, as, on some errand bound 
That asks not speed, a traveller might be- 
stow 591 
On sea-shells that bestrew the sandy beach, 
Or daisies swarming through the fields of 
June. 

But foolishness and madness in parade, 
Though most at home in this their dear 

domain, 
Are scattered everywhere, no rarities, 
Even to the rudest novice of the Schools. 
Me, rather, it employed, to note, and keep 
In memory, those individual sights 
Of courage, or integrity, or truth, 600 

Or tenderness, which there, set off by foil, 
Appeared more touching. One will I se- 
lect — 
A Father — for he bore that sacred 

name ; — 
Him saw I, sitting in an open square, 
Upon a corner-stone of that low wall, 
Wherein were fixed the iron pales that 

fenced 
A spacious grass-plot; there, hi silence, 

sate 
This One Man, with a sickly babe out- 
stretched 
Upon his knee, whom he had thither 

brought 
For sunshine, and to breathe the fresher 
air. 610 

Of those who passed, and me who looked at 

him, 
He took no heed ; but in his brawny arms 
(The Artificer was to the elbow bare, 
And from his work this moment had been 

stolen) 
He held the child, and, bending over it, 
As if he were afraid both of the sun 
And of the air, which he had come to seek, 
Eyed the poor babe with love unutterable. 

As the black storm upon the mountain top 
Sets off the sunbeam in the valley, so 620 
That huge fermenting mass of human-kind 
Serves as a solemn back-ground, or relief, 
To single forms and objects, whence they 
draw, 



BOOK VII 



THE PRELUDE 



177 



For feeling and contemplative regard, 
More than inherent liveliness and power. 
How oft, amid those overflowing streets, 
Have I gone forward with the crowd, and 

said 
Unto myself, " The face of every one 
That passes by me is a mystery ! " 
Thus have I looked, nor ceased to look, op- 
pressed 630 
By thoughts of what and whither, when 

and how, 
Until the shapes before my eyes became 
A second-sight procession, such as glides 
Over still mountains, or appears hi dreams; 
And once, far-travelled in such mood, be- 
yond 
The reach of common indication, lost 
Amid the moving pageant, I was smitten 
Abruptly, with the view (a sight not rare) 
Of a blind Beggar, who, with upright face, 
Stood, propped against a wall, upon his 
chest 640 

Wearing a written paper, to explain 
His story, whence he came, and who he 

was. 
Caught by the spectacle my mind turned 

round 
As with the might of waters; and apt type 
This label seemed of the utmost we can 

know, 
Both of ourselves and of the universe; 
And, on the shape of that unmoving man, 
His steadfast face and sightless eyes, I 

gazed, 
As if admonished from another world. 

Though reared upon the base of outward 

things, 650 

Structures like these the excited spirit 

mainly 
Builds for herself; scenes different there 

are, 
Full-formed, that take, with small internal 

help, 
Possession of the faculties, — the peace 
That comes with night; the deep solemnity 
Of nature's intermediate hours of rest, 
When the great tide of human life stands 

still: 
The business of the day to come, unborn, 
Of that gone by, locked up, as hi the grave ; 
The blended calmness of the heavens and 

earth, 660 

Moonlight and stars, and empty streets, and 

sounds 



Unfrequent as in deserts; at late hours 
Of whiter evenings, when unwholesome 

rains 
Are falling hard, with people yet astir, 
The feeble salutation from the voice 
Of some unhappy woman, now and then 
Heard as we pass, when no one looks about, 
Nothing is listened to. But these, I fear, 
Are falsely catalogued ; things that are, are 

not, 
As the mind answers to them, or the 

heart 670 

Is prompt, or slow, to feel. What say you, 

then, 
To times, when half the city shall break 

out 
Full of one passion, vengeance, rage, or 

fear? 
To executions, to a street on fire, 
Mobs, riots, or rejoicings ? From these 

sights 
Take one, — that ancient festival, the Fair, 
Holden where martyrs suffered hi past 

time, 
And named of St. Bartholomew; there, see 
A work completed to our hands, that lays, 
If any spectacle on earth can do, 6S0 

The whole creative powers of man 

asleep ! — 
For once, the Muse's help will we implore, 
And she shall lodge us, wafted on her 

wings, 
Above the press and danger of the crowd, 
Upon some showman's platform. What a 

shock 
For eyes and ears ! what anarchy and din, 
Barbarian and infernal, — a phantasma, 
Monstrous hi colour, motion, shape, sight, 

sound ! 
Below, the open space, through every nook 
Of the wide area, twinkles, is alive 690 

With heads; the midway region, and above, 
Is thronged with staring pictures and huge 

scrolls, 
Dumb proclamations of the Prodigies ; 
With chattering monkeys dangling from 

their poles, 
And children whirling in their roundabouts ; 
With those that stretch the neck and strain 

the eyes, 
And crack the voice hi rivalship, the crowd 
Inviting; with buffoons against buffoons 
Grimacing, writhing, screaming, — him who 

grinds 
The hurdy-gurdy, at the fiddle weaves, 700 



1 7 8 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK VIII 



Rattles the salt-box, thumps the kettle- 
drum, 

And him who at the trumpet puffs his 
cheeks, 

The silver-collared Negro with his timbrel, 

Equestrians, tumblers, women, girls, and 
boys, 

Blue-breeched, pink-vested, with high- 
towering plumes. — 

All moveables of wonder, from all parts, 

Are here — Albinos, painted Indians, 
Dwarfs, 

The Horse of knowledge, and the learned 

Pig, 

The Stone-eater, the man that swallows fire, 

Giants, Ventriloquists, the Invisible Girl, 

The Bust that speaks and moves its gog- 
gling eyes, 711 

The Wax-work, Clock-work, all the mar- 
vellous craft 

Of modern Merlins, Wild Beasts, Puppet- 
shows, 

All out-o'-the-way, far-fetched, perverted 
things, 

All freaks of nature, all Promethean 
thoughts 

Of man, his dulness, madness, and their 
feats 

All jumbled up together, to compose 

A Parliament of Monsters. Tents and 
Booths 

Meanwhile, as if the whole were one vast 
mill, 

Are vomiting, receiving on all sides, 720 

Men, Women, three-years' Children, Babes 
in arms. 

Oh, blank confusion ! true epitome 
Of what the mighty City is herself, 
To thousands upon thousands of her sons, 
Living amid the same perpetual whirl 
Of trivial objects, melted and reduced 
To one identity, by differences 
That have no law, no meaning, and no 

end — 
Oppression, under which even highest 

minds 
Must labour, whence the strongest are not 

free. 730 

But though the picture weary out the 

eye, 
By nature an unmanageable sight, 
It is not wholly so to him who looks 
In steadiness, who hath among least things 
An under-sense of greatest; sees the parts 



As parts, but with a feeling of the whole. 
This, of all acquisitions, first awaits 
On sundry and most widely different modes 
Of education, nor with least delight 
On that through which I passed. Atten- 
tion springs, 740 
And comprehensiveness and memory flow, 
From early converse with the works of God 
Among all regions; chiefly where appear 
Most obviously simplicity and power. 
Think, how the everlasting streams and 

woods, 
Stretched and still stretching far and wide, 

exalt 
The roving Indian, on his desert sands: 
What grandeur not unfelt, what pregnant 

show 
Of beauty, meets the sun-burnt Arab's eye: 
And, as the sea propels, from zone to 
zone, 750 

Its currents; magnifies its shoals of life 
Beyond all compass; spreads, and sends 

aloft 
Armies of clouds, — even so, its powers and 

aspects 
Shape for mankind, by principles as fixed, 
The views and aspirations of the soid 
To majesty. Like virtue have the forms 
Perennial of the ancient hills; nor less 
The changeful language of their counte- 
nances 
Quickens the slumbering mind, and aids 

the thoughts, 
However multitudinous, to move 760 

With order and relation. This, if still, 
As hitherto, in freedom I may speak, 
Not viola tmg any just restraint, 
As may be hoped, of real modesty, — 
This did I feel, hi London's vast domain. 
The Spirit of Nature was upon me there; 
The soul of Beauty and enduring Life 
Vouchsafed her inspiration, and diffused, 
Through meagre lines and colours, and the 

press 
Of self-destroying, transitory things, 770 
Composure, and ennobling Harmony. 



BOOK EIGHTH 

RETROSPECT — LOVE OF NATURE LEAD- 
ING TO LOVE OF MAN 

What sounds are those, Helvellyn, that 

are heard 
Up to thy summit, through the depth of air 



BOOK VIII 



THE PRELUDE 



179 



Ascending, as if distance had the power 
To make the sounds more audible ? What 

crowd 
Covers, or sprinkles o'er, yon village green ? 
Crowd seems it, solitary hill ! to thee, 
Though but a little family of men, 
Shepherds and tillers of the ground — be- 
times 
Assembled with their children and their 

wives, 
And here and there a stranger interspersed. 
They hold a rustic fair — a festival, 1 1 

Such as, on this side now, and now on that, 
Repeated through his tributary vales, 
Helvellyn, in the silence of his rest, 
Sees annually, if clouds towards either 

ocean 
Blown from their favourite resting-place, or 

mists 
Dissolved, have left him an unshrouded 

head. 
Delightful day it is for all who dwell 
In this secluded glen, and eagerly 
They give it welcome. Long ere heat of 

noon, 20 

From byre or field the kine were brought; 

the sheep 
Are penned in cotes; the chaffering is 

begun. 
The heifer lows, uneasy at the voice 
Of a new master; bleat the flocks aloud. 
Booths are there none; a stall or two is 

here ; 
A lame man or a blind, the one to beg, 
The other to make music ; hither, too, 
From far, with basket, slung upon her arm, 
Of hawker's wares — books, pictures, combs, 

and pins — 
Some aged woman finds her way again, 30 
Year after year, a punctual visitant ! 
There also stands a speech-maker by rote, 
Pulling the strings of his boxed raree-show ; 
And in the lapse of many years may come 
Prouder itinerant, mountebank, or he 
Whose wonders in a covered wain lie hid. 
But one there is, the loveliest of them all, 
Some sweet lass of the valley, looking out 
For gains, and who that sees her would not 

buy ? 
Fruits of her father's orchard are her wares, 
And with the ruddy produce she walks 

round 4 1 

Among the crowd, half pleased with, half 

ashamed 
Of, her new office, blushing restlessly. 



The children now are rich, for the old to-day 
Are generous as the young; and, if content 
With looking on, some ancient wedded pair- 
Sit in the shade together; while they gaze, 
" A cheerful smile unbends the wrinkled 

brow, 
The days departed start again to life, 
And all the scenes of childhood reappear, 
Faint, but more tranquil, like the changing 

sun 51 

To him who slept at noon and wakes at eve." 
Thus gaiety and cheerfulness prevail, 
Spreading from young to old, from old to 

young, 
And no one seems to want his share. — 

Immense 
Is the recess, the circumambient world 
Magnificent, by which they are embraced: 
They move about upon the soft green turf : 
How little they, they and their doings, 

seem, 
And all that they can further or obstruct ! 
Through utter weakness pitiably dear, 61 
As tender infants are : and yet how great ! 
For all things serve them: them the morn- 
ing light 
Loves, as it glistens on the silent rocks; 
And them the silent rocks, which now from 

high 
Look down upon them; the reposing clouds; 
The wild brooks prattling from invisible 

haunts; 
And old Helvellyn, conscious of the stir 
Which animates this day their calm abode. 

With deep devotion, Nature, did I feel, 70 
In that enormous City's turbulent world 
Of men and things, what benefit I owed 
To thee, and those domains of rural peace, 
Where to the sense of beauty first my heart 
Was opened; tract more exquisitely fair 
Than that famed paradise of ten thousand 

trees, 
Or Gehol's matchless gardens, for delight 
Of the Tartarian dynasty composed 
(Beyond that mighty wall, not fabulous, 79 
China's stupendous mound) by patient toil 
Of myriads and boon nature's lavish help; 
There, in a clime from widest empire chosen, 
Fulfilling (could enchantment have done 

more ?) 
A sumptuous dream of flowery lawns, with 

domes 
Of pleasure sprinkled over, shady dells 
For eastern monasteries, sunny mounts 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK VIII 



With temples crested, bridges, gondolas, 
Rocks, dens, and groves of foliage taught 

to melt 
Into each other their obsequious hues, 
Vanished and vanishing in subtle chase, 90 
Too fine to be pursued; or standing forth 
In no discordant opposition, strong 
And gorgeous as the colours side by side 
Bedded among rich plumes of tropic birds; 
And mountains over all, embracing all; 
And all the landscape, endlessly enriched 
With waters running, falling, or asleep. 

But lovelier far than this, the paradise 
Where I was reared; in Nature's primitive 

gifts 
Favoured no less, and more to every sense 
Delicious, seeing that the sun and sky, 101 
The elements, and seasons as they change, 
Do find a worthy fellow-labourer there — 
Man free, man working for himself, with 

choice 
Of time, and place, and object; by his 

wants, 
His comforts, native occupations, cares, 
Cheerfully led to individual ends 
Or social, and still followed by a train 
Unwooed, unthought-of even — simplicity, 
And beauty, and inevitable grace. no 

Yea, when a glimpse of those imperial 

bowers 
Would to a child be transport over-great, 
When but a half-hour's roam through such 

a place 
Would leave behind a dance of images, 
That shall break in upon his sleep for weeks ; 
Even then the common haunts of the green 

earth, 
And ordinary interests of man, 
Which they embosom, all without regard 
As both may seem, are fastening on the 

heart 
Insensibly, each with the other's help. 120 
For me, when my affections first were led 
From kindred, friends, and playmates, to 

partake 
Love for the human creature's absolute self, 
That noticeable kindliness of heart 
Sprang out of fountains, there abounding 

most, 
Where sovereign Nature dictated the tasks 
And occupations which her beauty adorned, 
And Shepherds were the men that pleased 

me first; 



Not such as Saturn ruled 'mid Latian wilds, 
With arts and laws so tempered, that their 

lives 130 

Left, even to us toiling in this late day, 
A bright tradition of the golden age; 
Not such as, 'mid Arcadian fastnesses 
Sequestered, handed down among them- 
selves 
Felicity, in Grecian song renowned; 
Nor such as — when an adverse fate had 

driven, 
From house and home, the courtly band 

whose fortunes 
Entered, with Shakspeare's genius, the wild 

woods 
Of Arden — amid smishine or in shade 
Culled the best fruits of Time's uncounted 

hoiu'S, 140 

Ere Phoebe sighed for the false Ganymede; 
Or there where Perdita and Florizel 
Together danced, Queen of the feast, and 

King; 
Nor such as Spenser fabled. True it is, 
That I had heard (what he perhaps had 

seen) 
Of maids at sunrise bringing hi from far 
Their May-bush, and along the streets in 

flocks 
Parading with a song of taunting rhymes, 
Aimed at the laggards slumbering within 

doors; 
Had also heard, from those who yet remem- 
bered, 150 
Tales of the May-pole dance, and wreaths 

that decked 
Porch, door-way, or kirk-pillar ; and of 

youths, 
Each with his maid, before the sun was up, 
By annual custom, issuing forth in troops, 
To drink the waters of some sainted well, 
And hang it round with garlands. Love 

survives ; 
But, for such purpose, flowers no longer 

grow: 
The tunes, too sage, perhaps too proud, 

have dropped 
These lighter graces; and the rural ways 
And manners which my childhood looked 

Upon i6q 

Were the unluxuriant produce of a life 
Intent on little but substantial needs, 
Yet rich in beauty, beauty that was felt. 
But images of danger and distress, 
Man suffering among awful Powers and 
Forms; 



BOOK VIII 



THE PRELUDE 



Of this I heard, and saw enough to make 
Imagination restless; nor was free 
Myself from frequent perils ; nor were tales 
Wanting, — the tragedies of former times, 
Hazards and strange escapes, of which the 
rocks 170 

Immutable, and everflowing streams, 
Where'er I roamed, were speaking monu- 
ments. 

Smooth life had flock and shepherd in 

old time, 
Long springs and tepid wmters, on the 

banks 
Of delicate Galesus; and no less 
Those scattered along Adria's myrtle 

shores : 
Smooth life had herdsman, and his snow- 
white herd 
To triumphs and to sacrificial rites 
Devoted, on the inviolable stream 
Of rich Clitumnus; and the goat-herd 

lived 180 

As calmly, imderneath the pleasant brows 
Of cool Lucretilis, where the pipe was heard 
Of Pan, Invisible God, thrilling the rocks 
With tutelary music, from all harm 
The fold protecting. I myself, mature 
In manhood then, have seen a pastoral tract 
Like one of these, where Fancy might run 

wild, 
Though under skies less generous, less 

serene : 
There, for her own delight had Nature 

framed 
A pleasure-groimd, diffused a fair ex- 
panse 1 9 o 
Of level pasture, islanded with groves 
And banked with woody risings; but the 

Plain 
Endless, here opening widely out, and there 
Shut up in lesser lakes or beds of lawn 
And intricate recesses, creek or bay 
Sheltered within a shelter, where at large 
The shepherd strays, a rolling hut his 

home. 
Thither he comes with spring-time, there 

abides 
All summer, and at sunrise ye may hear 
His flageolet to liquid notes of love 200 

Attuned, or sprightly fife resounding far. 
Nook is there none, nor tract of that vast 

space 
Where passage opens, but the same shall 

have 



In turn its visitant, telling there his hours 
In xmlaborious pleasure, with no task 
More toilsome than to carve a beechen 

bowl 
For sprhig or fountain, which the traveller 

finds, 
When through the region he pursues at 

will 
His devious course. A glimpse of such 

sweet life 
I saw when, from the melancholy walls 210 
Of Goslar, once imperial, I renewed 
My daily walk along that wide champaign, 
That, reaching to her gates, spreads east 

and west, 
And northwards, from beneath the moun- 
tainous verge 
Of the Hercynian forest. Yet, hail to you 
Moors, mountains, headlands, and ye hol- 
low vales, 
Ye long deep channels for the Atlantic's 

voice, 
Powers of my native region ! Ye that 

seize 
The heart with firmer grasp ! Your snows 

and streams 219 

Ungovernable, and your terrifying winds, 
That howl so dismally for him who treads 
Companionless your awful solitudes ! 
There, 't is the shepherd's task the winter 

long 
To wait upon the storms : of their approach 
Sagacious, into sheltering coves he drives 
His flock, and thither from the homestead 

bears 
A toilsome burden up the craggy ways, 
And deals it out, their regular nourishment 
Strewn on the frozen snow. And when the 

spring 
Looks out, and all the pastures dance with 

lambs, 230 

And when the flock, with warmer weather, 

climbs 
Higher and higher, him his office leads 
To watch their goings, whatsoever track 
The wanderers choose. For this he quits 

his home 
At day-spring, and no sooner doth the sim 
Begin to strike him with a fire-like heat, 
Than he lies down upon some shining rock, 
And breakfasts with his dog. When they 

have stolen, 
As is their wont, a pittance from strict 

time, 
For rest not needed or exchange of love, 240 



l82 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK VIII 



Then from his couch he starts; and now 

his feet 
Crush out a livelier fragrance from the 

flowers 
Of lowly thyme, by Nature's skill en- 
wrought 
In the wild turf: the lingering dews of 

morn 
Smoke round him, as from hill to hill he 

hies, 
His staff protending like a hunter's spear, 
Or by its aid leaping from crag to crag, 
And o'er the brawling beds of unbridged 

streams. 
Philosophy, methinks, at Fancy's call, 
Might deign to follow him through what 
he does 250 

Or sees hi his day's march; himself he 

feels, 
In those vast regions where his service lies, 
A freeman, wedded to his life of hope 
And hazard, and hard labour interchanged 
With that majestic indolence so dear 
To native man. A rambling schoolboy, 

thus, 
I felt his presence in his own domain, 
As of a lord and master, or a power, 
Or genius, under Nature, under God, 
Presiding; and severest solitude 260 

Had more commanding looks when he was 

there. 
When up the lonely brooks on rainy days 
Angling I went, or trod the trackless hills 
By mists bewildered, suddenly mine eyes 
Have glanced upon him distant a few steps, 
In size a giant, stalking through thick fog, 
His sheep like Greenland bears; or, as he 

stepped 
Beyond the boundary line of some hill- 
shadow, 
His form hath flashed upon me, glorified 
By the deep radiance of the setting sim: 270 
Or him have I descried in distant sky, 
A solitary object and sublime, 
Above all height ! like an aerial cross 
Stationed alone upon a spiry rock 
Of the Chartreuse, for worship. Thus was 

man 
Ennobled outwardly before my sight, 
And thus my heart was early introduced 
To an unconscious love and reverence 
Of human nature; hence the human form 
To me became an index of delight, 2S0 

Of grace and honour, power and worthi- 
ness. 



Meanwhile this creature — spiritual almost 
As those of books, but more exalted far; 
Far more of an imaginative form 
Than the gay Corin of the groves, who 

lives 
For his own fancies, or to dance by the 

hour, 
In coronal, with Phyllis in the midst — 
Was, for the purposes of kind, a man 
With the most common; husband, father; 

learned, 
Could teach, admonish; suffered with the 

rest 290 

From vice and folly, wretchedness and 

fear ; 
Of this I little saw, cared less for it, 
But something must have felt. 

Call ye these appearances — 
Which I beheld of shepherds hi my youth, 
This sanctity of Nature given to man — 
A shadow, a delusion, ye who pore 
On the dead letter, miss the spirit of 

thmgs ; 
Whose truth is not a motion or a shape 
Instinct with vital functions, but a block 
Or waxen image which yourselves have 

made, 300 

And ye adore ! But blessed be the God 
Of Nature and of Man that this was so; 
That men before my inexperienced eyes 
Did first present themselves thus purified, 
Removed, and to a distance that was fit: 
And so we all of us in some degree 
Are led to knowledge, wheresoever led, 
And howsoever; were it otherwise, 
And we found evil fast as we find good 
In our first years, or think that it is 

found, 310 

How could the innocent heart bear up and 

live ! 
But doubly fortunate my lot; not here 
Alone, that something of a better life 
Perhaps was round me than it is the privi- 
lege 
Of most to move in, but that first I looked 
At Man through objects that were great or 

fair ; 
First communed with him by their help. 

And thus 
Was founded a sure safeguard and defence 
Against the weight of meanness, selfish 

cares, 
Coarse manners, vulgar passions, that beat 

hi 320 

On all sides from the ordinary world 



BOOK VIII 



THE PRELUDE 



183 



In which we traffic. Starting from this 

point 
I had my face turned toward the truth, 

began 
With an advantage furnished by that kind 
Of prepossession, without which the soul 
Receives no knowledge that can bring forth 

good, 
No genuine insight ever comes to her. 
From the restraint of over-watchful eyes 
Preserved, I moved about, year after year, 
Happy, and now most thankful that my 

walk 33° 

Was guarded from too early intercourse 
With the deformities of crowded life, 
And those ensuing laughters and contempts, 
Self-pleasing, which, if we would wish to 

think 
With a due reverence on earth's rightful 

lord, 
Here placed to be the inheritor of heaven, 
Will not permit us; but pursue the mind, 
That to devotion willingly would rise, 
Into the temple and the temple's heart. 

Yet deem not, Friend ! that human kind 
with me 340 

Thus early took a place pre-eminent; 
Nature herself was, at this unripe time, 
But secondary to my own pursuits 
And animal activities, and all 
Their trivial pleasures ; and when these had 

drooped 
And gradually expired, and Nature, prized 
For her own sake, became my joy, even 

then — 
And upwards through late youth, until not 

less 
Than two-and-twenty summers had been 

told — 
Was Man in my affections and regards 350 
Subordinate to her, her visible forms 
And viewless agencies: a passion, she, 
A rapture often, and immediate love 
Ever at hand; he, only a delight 
Occasional, an accidental grace, 
His hour being not yet come. Far less had 

then 
The inferior creatures, beast or bird, at- 
tuned 
My spirit to that gentleness of love, 
(Though they had long been carefully ob- 
served), 
Won from me those minute obeisances 360 
Of tenderness, which I may number now 



With my first blessings. Nevertheless, on 

these 
The light of beauty did not fall in vain, 
Or grandeur circumfuse them to no end. 

But when that first poetic facidty 
Of plain Imagination and severe, 
No longer a mute influence of the soul, 
Ventured, at some rash Muse's earnest call, 
To try her strength among harmonious 

words ; 
And to book-notions and the rules of art 370 
Did knowingly conform itself; there came 
Among the simple shapes of human life 
A wilfulness of fancy and conceit; 
And Nature and her objects beautified 
These fictions, as in some sort, in their turn, 
They burnished her. From touch of this 

new power 
Nothing was safe : the elder-tree that grew 
Beside the well-known charnel-house had 

then 
A dismal look: the yew-tree had its ghost, 
That took his station there for ornament: 
The dignities of plain occurrence then 381 
Were tasteless, and truth's golden mean, a 

point 
Where no sufficient pleasure could be found. 
Then, if a widow, staggering with the blow 
Of her distress, was known to have turned 

her steps 
To the cold grave in which her husband 

slept, 
One night, or haply more than one, through 

pain 
Or half-insensate impotence of mind, 
The fact was caught at greedily, and there 
She must be visitant the whole year through, 
Wetting the turf with never-ending tears. 

Through quaint obliquities I might pur- 
sue 392 
These cravings; when the foxglove, one by 

one, 
Upwards through every stage of the tall 

stem, 
Had shed beside the public way its bells, 
And stood of all dismantled, save the last 
Left at the tapering ladder's top, that 

seemed 
To bend as doth a slender blade of grass 
Tipped with a rain-drop, Fancy loved to 

seat, 
Beneath the plant despoiled, but crested still 
With this last relic, soon itself to fall, 401 



184 



THE PRELUDE 



EOOK VIII 



Some vagrant mother, whose arch little 

ones, 
All unconcerned by her dejected plight, 
Laughed as with rival eagerness their hands 
Gathered the purple cups that round them 

lay, 
Strewing the turf's green slope. 

A diamond light 
(Whene'er the siunmer sun, declining, 

smote 
A smooth rock wet with constant springs) 

was seen 
Sparkling from out a copse-clad bank that 

rose 
Fronting our cottage. Oft beside the hearth 
Seated, with open door, often and long 4 n 
Upon this restless lustre have I gazed, 
That made my fancy restless as itself. 
'T was now for me a burnished silver shield 
Suspended over a knight's tomb, who lay 
Inglorious, buried in the dusky wood: 
An entrance now into some magic cave 
Or palace built by fairies of the rock; 
Nor could I have been bribed to disen- 
chant 
The spectacle, by visiting the spot. 420 

Thus wilful Fancy, in no hurtful mood, 
Engrafted far-fetched shapes on feelings 

bred 
By pure Imagination: busy Power 
She was, and with her ready pupil turned 
Instinctively to human passions, then 
Least understood. Yet, 'mid the fervent 

swarm 
Of these vagaries, with an eye so rich 
As mine was through the bounty of a grand 
And lovely region, I had forms distinct 4 =q 
To steady me: each airy thought revolved 
Round a substantial centre, which at once 
Incited it to motion, and controlled. 
I did not pine like one in cities bred, 
As was thy melancholy lot, dear Friend ! 
Great Spirit as thou art, in endless dreams 
Of sickliness, disjoining, joining, things 
Without the light of knowledge. Where 

the harm, 
If, when the woodman languished with dis- 
ease 
Induced by sleeping nightly on the ground 
Within his sod-built cabin, Indian-wise, 44 o 
I called the pangs of disappointed love, 
And all the sad etcetera of the wrong, 
To help him to his grave ? Meanwhile the 

man, 
If not already from the woods retired 



To die at home, was haply, as I knew, 
Withering by slow degrees, 'mid gentle airs, 
Birds, running streams, and hills so beauti- 
ful 
On golden evenings, while the charcoal pile 
Breathed up its smoke, an image of his ghost 
Or spirit that full soon must take her flight. 
Nor shall we not be tending towards that 

point 45' 

Of sound humanity to which our Tale 
Leads, though by sinuous ways, if here I 

show 
How Fancy, hi a season when she wove 
Those slender cords, to guide the uncon- 
scious Boy 
For the Man's sake, could feed at Nature's 

call 
Some pensive musings which might well 

beseem 
Maturer years. 

A grove there is whose boughs 
Stretch from the western marge of Thur- 

stonmere, 
With length of shade so thick, that whoso 

glides 460 

Along the line of low-roofed water, moves 
As in a cloister. Once — while, in that 

shade 
Loitering, I watched the golden beams of 

light 
Flung from the setting sun, as they reposed 
In silent beauty on the naked ridge 
Of a high eastern hill — thus flowed my 

thoughts 
In a pure stream of words fresh from the 

heart : 
Dear native Regions, wheresoe'er shall 

close 
My mortal course, there will I think on 

you; 469 

Dying, will cast on you a backward look ; 
Even as this setting sun (albeit the Vale 
Is no where touched by one memorial 

gleam) 
Doth with the fond remains of his last 

power 
Still linger, and a farewell lustre sheds, 
On the dear mountain-tops where first he 

rose. 

Enough of humble arguments; recall, 
My Song ! those high emotions which thy 

voice 
Has heretofore made known; that bursting 
forth 



BOOK VIII 



THE PRELUDE 



'8S 



Of sympathy, inspiring and inspired, 
When everywhere a vital pnlse was felt, 480 
And all the several frames of things, like 

stars, 
Through every magnitude distinguishable, 
Shone mutually indebted, or half lost 
Each in the other's blaze, a galaxy 
Of life and glory. In the midst stood 

Man, 
Outwardly, inwardly contemplated, 
As, of all visible natures, crown, though 

born 
Of dust, and kindred to the worm ; a Being, 
Both hi perception and discernment, first 
In every capability of rapture, 490 

Through the divine effect of power and 

love ; 
As, more than anything we know, instinct 
With godhead, and, by reason and by will, 
Acknowledging dependency sublime. 

Ere long, the lonely mountains left, I 

moved, 
Begirt, from day to day, with temporal 

shapes 
Of vice and folly thrust upon my view, 
Objects of sport, and ridicule, and scorn, 
Maimers and characters discriminate, 
And little bustling passions that eclipse, 500 
As well they might, the impersonated 

thought, 
The idea, or abstraction of the kind. 

An idler among academic bowers, 
Such was my new condition, as at large 
Has been set forth; yet here the vulgar 

light 
Of present, actual, superficial life, 
Gleaming through colouring of other times, 
Old usages and local privilege, 
Was welcomed, softened, if not solemnised. 
This notwithstanding, being brought more 

near 510 

To vice and guilt, f orerunnhig wretchedness, 
I trembled, — thought, at times, of human 

life 
With an indefinite terror and dismay, 
Such as the storms and angry elements 
Had bred hi me; but gloomier far, a dim 
Analogy to uproar and misrule, 
Disquiet, danger, and obscurity. 

It might be told (but wherefore speak of 
tbings 
Common to all ?) that, seeing, I was led 



Gravely to ponder — judging between good 
And evil, not as for the mind's delight 521 
But for her guidance — one who was to 

act, 
As sometimes to the best of feeble means 
I did, by human sympathy impelled: 
And, through dislike and most offensive 

pain, 
Was to the truth conducted; of this faith 
Never forsaken, that, by acting well, 
And understanding, I should learn to love 
The end of life, and everything we know. 

Grave Teacher, stern Preceptress ! for at 
times 530 

Thou canst put on an aspect most severe ; 
London, to thee I willingly return. 
Erewhile my verse played idly with the 

flowers 
Enwrought upon thy mantle; satisfied 
With that amusement, and a simple look 
Of child-like inquisition now and then 
Cast upwards on thy countenance, to de- 
tect 
Some inner meanings which might harbour 

there. 
But how could I in mood so light in- 
dulge, 
Keeping such fresh remembrance of the 
day, 540 

When, having thridded the long labyrinth 
Of the suburban villages, I first 
Entered thy vast dominion ? On the roof 
Of an itinerant vehicle I sate, 
With vulgar men about me, trivial forms 
Of houses, pavement, streets, of men and 

things, — 
Mean shapes on every side: but, at the 

instant, 
When to myself it fairly might be said, 
The threshold now is overpast, ( how strange 
That aught external to the living mind 550 
Should have such mighty sway ! yet so it 

was), 
A weight of ages did at once descend 
Upon my heart; no thought embodied, no 
Distinct remembrances, but weight and 

power, — 
Power growing under weight: alas ! I feel 
That I am trifling: 't was a moment's 

pause, — 
All that took place within me came and 

went 
As in a moment; yet with Time it dwells, 
And grateful memory, as a thing divine. 



i86 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK VIII 



The curious traveller, who, from open day, 
Hath passed with torches into some huge 
cave, 561 

The Grotto of Antiparos, or the Den 
In old time haunted by that Danish Witch, 
Yordas ; he looks around and sees the vault 
Widening on all sides; sees, or thinks he 

sees, 
Erelong, the massy roof above his head, 
That instantly unsettles and recedes, — 
Substance and shadow, light and darkness, 

all 
Commingled, making up a canopy 
Of shapes and forms and tendencies to shape 
That shift and vanish, change and inter- 
change 571 
Like spectres, — ferment silent and sublime ! 
That after a short space works less and less, 
Till, every effort, every motion gone, 
The scene before him stands hi perfect view 
Exposed, and lifeless as a written book ! — 
But let him pause awhile, and look again, 
And a new quickening shall succeed, at 

first 
Beginning timidly, then creeping fast, 
Till the whole cave, so late a senseless mass, 
Busies the eye with images and forms 581 
Boldly assembled, — here is shadowed forth 
From the projections, wrinkles, cavities, 
A variegated landscape, — there the shape 
Of some gigantic warrior clad in mail, 
The ghostly semblance of a hooded monk, 
Veiled nun, or pilgrim resting on his staff : 
Strange congregation ! yet not slow to meet 
Eyes that perceive through minds that can 
inspire. 

Even in such sort had I at first been 
moved, 590 

Nor otherwise continued to be moved, 
As I explored the vast metropolis, 
Fomit of my coxmtry's destiny and the 

world's ; 
That great emporium, chronicle at once 
And burial-place of passions, and their home 
Imperial, their chief living residence. 

With strong sensations teeming as it did 
Of past and present, such a place must 

needs 
Have pleased me, seeking knowledge at 

that time 
Far less than craving power ; yet knowledge 

came, 600 

Sought or unsought, and influxes of power 



Came, of themselves, or at her call derived 
In fits of kindliest apprehensiveness, 
From all sides, when whate'er was in itself 
Capacious found, or seemed to find, in me 
A correspondent amplitude of mind; 
Such is the strength and glory of our youth ! 
The human nature unto which I felt 
That I belonged, and reverenced with love, 
Was not a punctual presence, but a spirit 
Diffused through tune and space, with aid 

derived 611 

Of evidence from monuments, erect, 
Prostrate, or leaning towards their common 

rest 
In earth, the widely scattered wreck sublime 
Of vanished nations, or more clearly drawn 
From books and what they picture and 

record. 

'T is true, the history of our native land — 
With those of Greece compared and popular 

Rome, 
And in our high-wrought modern narratives 
Stript of their harmonising soul, the life 620 
Of manners and familiar incidents — 
Had never much delighted me. And less 
Than other intellects had mine been used 
To lean upon extrinsic circumstance 
Of record or tradition; but a sense 
Of what in the Great City had been done 
And suffered, and was doing, suffering, still, 
Weighed with me, could support the test of 

thought ; 
And, hi despite of all that had gone by, 
Or was departing never to return, 630 

There I conversed with majesty and power 
Like independent natures. Hence the place 
Was thronged with impregnations bike the 

Wilds 
In which my early feelings had been 

nursed — 
Bare hills and valleys, full of caverns, rocks, 
And audible seclusions, dashing lakes, 
Echoes and waterfalls, and pointed crags 
That into music touch the passing wind. 
Here then my young imagination found 
No uncongenial element; could here 640 
Among new objects serve or give command, 
Even as the heart's occasions might re- 
quire, 
To forward reason's else too-scrupulous 

march. 
The effect was, still more elevated views 
Of human nature. Neither vice nor guilt, 
Debasement undergone by body or mind, 



BOOK IX 



THE PRELUDE 



187 



Nor all the misery forced upon my sight, 
Misery not lightly passed, but sometimes 

scanned 
Most feelingly, could overthrow my trust 
In what we may become; induce belief 650 
That I was ignorant, had been falsely 

taught, 
A solitary, who with vain conceits 
Had been inspired, and walked about in 

dreams. 
From those sad scenes when meditation 

turned, 
Lo ! everything that was indeed divine 
Retained its purity inviolate, 
Nay brighter shone, by this portentous 

gloom 
Set off; such opposition as aroused 
The mind of Adam, yet in Paradise 
Though fallen from bliss, when in the East 

he saw 660 

Darkness ere day's mid course, and morn- 
ing light 
More orient hi the western cloud, that drew 
O'er the blue firmament a radiant white, 
Descending slow with something heavenly 

fraught. 

Add also, that among the multitudes 
Of that huge city, oftentimes was seen 
Affectingly set forth, more than elsewhere 
Is possible, the unity of man, 
One spirit over ignorance and vice 
Predominant, hi good and evil hearts; 670 
One sense for moral judgments, as one eye 
For the sun's light. The soul when smit- 
ten thus 
By a sublime idea, whencesoe'er 
Vouchsafed for miion or communion, feeds 
On the pure bliss, and takes her rest with 
God. 

Thus from a very early age, O Friend ! 
My thoughts by slow gradations had been 

drawn 
To human-kind, and to the good and ill 
Of human life : Nature had led me on ; 
And oft amid the " busy hum " I seemed 
To travel independent of her help, 681 

As if I had forgotten her; but no, 
The world of human-kind outweighed not 

hers 
In my habitual thoughts ; the scale of love, 
Though filling daily, still was light, com- 
pared 
With that in which her mighty objects lay. 



BOOK NINTH 

RESIDENCE IN FRANCE 

Even as a river, — partly (it might seem) 
Yielding to old remembrances, and swayed 
In part by fear to shape a way direct, 
That would engulph him soon in the raven- 
ous sea — 
Turns, and will measure back his course, 

far back, 
Seeking the very regions which he crossed 
In his first outset ; so have we, my Friend ! 
Turned and returned with intricate delay. 
Or as a traveller, who has gamed the brow 
Of some aerial Down, while there he halts 
For breathing-time, is tempted to review 1 1 
The region left behind him; and, if aught 
Deserving notice have escaped regard, 
Or been regarded with too careless eye, 
Strives, from that height, with one and yet 

one more 
Last look, to make the best amends he 

may: 
So have we lingered. Now we start afresh 
With courage, and new hope risen on our 

toil. 
Fair greetings to this shapeless eagerness, 
Whene'er it comes ! needful hi work so 
long, 20 

Thrice needful to the argument which now 
Awaits us ! Oh, how much unlike the past ! 

Free as a colt at pasture on the hill, 
I ranged at large, through London's wide 

domain, 
Month after month. Obscurely did I live, 
Not seeking frequent intercourse with men, 
By literature, or elegance, or rank, 
Distinguished. Scarcely was a year thus 

spent 
Ere I forsook the crowded solitude, 
With less regret for its luxurious pomp, 30 
And all the nicely-guarded shows of art, 
Than for the humble book-stalls in the 

streets, 
Exposed to eye and hand where'er I turned. 

France lured me forth; the realm that I 

had crossed 
So lately, journeying toward the snow-clad 

Alps. 
But now, relinquishing the scrip and staff, 
And all enjoyment which the summer sun 
Sheds round the steps of those who meet 

the day 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK IX 



With motion constant as his own, I went 
Prepared to sojourn hi a pleasant town, 40 
Washed by the current of the stately Loire. 

Through Paris lay my readiest course, 

and there 
Sojourning a few days, I visited 
In haste, each spot of old or recent fame, 
The latter chiefly; from the field of Mars 
Down to the suburbs of St. Antony, 
And from Mont Martre southward to the 

Dome 
Of Genevieve. In both her clamorous 

Halls, 
The National Synod and the Jacobins, 
I saw the Revolutionary Power 50 

Toss like a ship at anchor, rocked by 

storms ; 
The Arcades I traversed, in the Palace 

huge 
Of Orleans; coasted round and round the 

line 
Of Tavern, Brothel, Gaming-house, and 

Shop, 
Great rendezvous of worst and best, the 

walk 
Of all who had a purpose, or had not; 
I stared and listened, with a stranger's 

ears, 
To Hawkers and Haranguers, hubbub wild ! 
And hissing Factionists with ardent eyes, 
In knots, or pairs, or single. Not a look 60 
Hope takes, or Doubt or Fear is forced to 

wear, 
But seemed there present; and I scanned 

them all, 
Watched every gesture uncontrollable, 
Of anger, and vexation, and despite, 
All side by side, and struggling face to 

face, 
With gaiety and dissolute idleness. 

Where silent zephyrs sported with the 

dust 
Of the Bastille, I sate in the open sun, 
And from the rubbish gathered up a stone, 
And pocketed the relic, in the guise 70 

Of an enthusiast: yet, in honest truth, 
I looked for something that I could not find, 
Affecting more emotion than I felt; 
For 'tis most certain, that these various 

sights, 
However potent their first shock, with me 
Appeared to recompense the traveller's 

pains 



Less than the painted Magdalene of Le 

Brun, 
A beauty exquisitely wrought, with hair 
Dishevelled, gleaming eyes, and rueful 

cheek 79 

Pale and bedropped with overflowing tears. 

But hence to my more permanent abode 
I hasten; there, by novelties in speech, 
Domestic manners, customs, gestures, looks, 
And all the attire of ordinary life, 
Attention was engrossed; and, thus amused, 
I stood 'mid those concussions, unconcerned, 
Tranquil almost, and careless as a flower 
Glassed hi a green-house, or a parlour 

shrub 
That spreads its leaves in unmolested peace, 
While every bush and tree, the country 
tlirough, go 

Is shaking to the roots: indifference this 
Which may seem strange: but I was un- 
prepared 
With needful knowledge, had abruptly 

passed 
Into a theatre, whose stage was filled 
And busy with an action far advanced. 
Like others, I had skimmed, and some- 
times read 
With care, the master pamphlets of the 

day; 
Nor wanted such half-insight as grew wild 
Upon that meagre soil, helped out by talk 
And public news; but having never seen 
A chronicle that might suffice to show 101 
Whence the main organs of the public 

power 
Had sprung, their transmigrations, when 

and how 
Accomplished, giving thus unto events 
A form and body; all things were to me 
Loose and disjointed, and the affections 

left 
Without a vital interest. At that time, 
Moreover, the first storm was overblown, 
And the strong hand of outward violence 
Locked up hi quiet. For myself, I fear 1 10 
Now, in connection with so great a theme, 
To speak (as I must be compelled to do) 
Of one so unimportant; night by night 
Did I frequent the formal haunts of men, 
Whom, in the city, privilege of birth 
Sequestered from the rest, societies 
Polished hi arts, and hi punctilio versed; 
Whence, and from deeper causes, all dis- 
course 



BOOK IX 



THE PRELUDE 



189 



Of good and evil of the time was shunned 
With scrupulous care; but these restric- 
tions soon 120 
Proved tedious, and I gradually withdrew 
Into a noisier world, and thus ere long 
Became a patriot; and my heart was all 
Given to the people, and my love was 
theirs. 

A band of military Officers, 
Then stationed in the city, were the chief 
Of my associates: some of these wore 

swords 
That had been seasoned in the wars, and 

all 
Were men well-born; the chivalry of 

France. 
In age and temper differing, they had yet 
One spirit ruling in each li3art; alike 131 
(Save only one, hereafter to be named) 
Were bent upon undoing what was done: 
This was their rest and only hope; there- 
with 
No fear had they of bad becoming worse, 
For worst to them was come; nor would 

have stirred, 
Or deemed it worth a moment's thought to 

stir, 
In anything, save only as the act 
Looked thitherward. One, reckoning by 

years, 
Was in the prime of manhood, and ere- 
while 140 

He had sate lord in many tender hearts; 
Though heedless of such honours now, and 

changed: 
His temper was quite mastered by the 

times, 
And they had blighted him, had eaten away 
The beauty of his person, doing wrong 
Alike to body and to mind: his port, 
Which once had been erect and open, now 
Was stooping and contracted, and a face, 
Endowed by Nature with her fairest gifts 
Of symmetry and light and bloom, ex- 
pressed, 150 
As much as any that was ever seen, 
A ravage out of season, made by thoughts 
Unhealthy and vexatious. With the hour, 
That from the press of Paris duly brought 
Its freight of public news, the fever came, 
A punctual visitant, to shake this man, 
Disarmed his voice and fanned his yellow 

cheek 
Into a thousand colours; while he read, 



Or mused, his sword was haunted by his 

touch 
Continually, like an uneasy place 160 

In his own body. 'T was in truth an hour 
Of universal ferment; mildest men 
Were agitated; and commotions, strife 
Of passion and opinion, filled the walls 
Of peaceful houses with unquiet sounds. 
The soil of common life was, at that time, 
Too hot to tread upon. Oft said I then, 
And not then only, " What a mockery 

this 
Of history, the past and that to come ! 
Now do I feel how all men are deceived, 170 
Reading of nations and their works, in 

faith, 
Faith given to vanity and emptiness; 
Oh ! laughter for the page that would re- 
flect 
To future times the face of what now 

is!" 
The land all swarmed with passion, like a 

plain 
Devoured by locusts, — Carra, Gorsas, — 

add 
A hundred other names, forgotten now, 
Nor to be heard of more; yet they were 

powers, 
Like earthquakes, shocks repeated day by 

day, 
And felt through every nook of town and 

field. 1 So 

Such was the state of things. Mean- 
while the chief 
Of my associates stood prepared for flight 
To augment the band of emigrants in arms 
Upon the borders of the Rhine, and leagued 
With foreign foes mustered for instant 

war. 
This was their undisguised intent, and they 
Were waiting with the whole of their de- 
sires 
The moment to depart. 

An Englishman, 
Born in a land whose very name appeared 
To license some unrulmess of mind; igo 

A stranger, with youth's further privilege, 
And the indulgence that a half-learnt 

speech 
Wins from the courteous; I, who had been 

else 
Shunned and not tolerated, freely lived 
With these defenders of the Crown, and 
talked, 



190 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK IX 



And heard their notions ; nor did they dis- 
dain 
The wish to bring me over to their cause. 

But though untaught by thinking or by 

books 
To reason well of polity or law, 
And nice distinctions, then on every 

tongue, 200 

Of natural rights and civil; and to acts 
Of nations and their passing interests 
(If with unworldly ends and aims com- 
pared) 
Almost indifferent, even the historian's 

tale 
Prizing but little otherwise than I prized 
Tales of the poets, as it made the heart 
Beat high, and filled the fancy with fair 

forms, 
Old heroes and their sufferings and their 

deeds ; 
Yet in the regal sceptre, and the pomp 
Of orders and degrees, I nothing found 210 
Then, or had ever, even in crudest youth, 
That dazzled me, but rather what I 

mourned 
And ill could brook, beholding that the 

best 
Ruled not, and feeling that they ought to 

rule. 

For, born in a poor district, and which 

y et 

Retaineth more of ancient homeliness, 
Than any other nook of English ground, 
It was my fortune scarcely to have seen, 
Through the whole tenor of my school-day 

time, 
The face of one, who, whether boy or 
man, 220 

Was vested with attention or respect 
Through claims of wealth or blood; nor 

was it least 
Of many benefits, in later years 
Derived from academic institutes 
And rules, that they held something up to 

view 
Of a Republic, where all stood thus far 
Upon equal ground; that we were brothers 

all 
In honour, as in one community, 
Scholars and gentlemen; where, further- 
more, 
Distinction open lay to all that came, 230 
And wealth and titles were in less esteem 



Than talents, worth, and prosperous indus- 
try. 
Add unto this, subservience from the first ^y 
To presences of God's mysterious power 
Made manifest hi Nature's sovereignty, 
And fellowship with venerable books, 
To sanction the proud workhigs of the soul, 
And mountain liberty. It could not be 
But that one tutored thus should look with 

awe 
Upon the faculties of man, receive 240 

Gladly the highest promises, and hail, 
As best, the government of equal rights 
And individual worth. And hence, O 

Friend ! 
If at the first great outbreak I rejoiced 
Less than might well befit my youth, the 

cause 
In part lay here, that unto me the events 
Seemed nothing out of nature's certain 

course, 
A gift that was come rather late than soon.^ 
No wonder, then, if advocates like these, 
Inflamed by passion, blind with preju- 
dice, 250 
And stung with injury, at this riper day, 
Were impotent to make my hopes put on 
The shape of theirs, my understanding 

bend 
In honour to their honour: zeal, which yet 
Had slumbered, now hi opposition burst 
Forth like a Polar summer: every word 
They uttered was a dart, by counter-winds 
Blown back upon themselves; their reason 

seemed 
Confusion-stricken by a higher power 
Than human understanding, their dis- 
course 260 
Maimed, spiritless; and, in their weakness 

strong, 
I triumphed. 

Meantime, day by day, the roads 
Were crowded with the bravest youth of 

France, 
And all the promptest of her spirits, linked 
In gallant soldiership, and posting on 
To meet the war upon her frontier boimds. 
Yet at this very moment do tears start 
Into mine eyes : I do not say I weep — 
I wept not then, — but tears have dimmed 

my sight, 
In memory of the farewells of that time, 
Domestic severings, female fortitude 271 
At dearest separation, patriot love 
And self-devotion, and terrestrial hope, 



BOOK IX 



THE PRELUDE 



191 



Encouraged with a martyr's confidence; 
Even tiles of strangers merely seen but 

once, 
And for a moment, men from far with 

sound 
Of music, martial tunes, and banners spread, 
Entering the city, here and there a face, 
Or person, singled out among the rest, 279 
Yet still a stranger and beloved as such; 
Even by these passing spectacles my heart 
Was oftentimes uplifted, and they seemed 
Arguments sent from Heaven to prove the 

cause 
Good, pure, which no one could stand up 

against, 
Who was not lost, abandoned, selfish, proud, 
Mean, miserable, wilfully depraved, 
Hater perverse of equity and truth. 

Among that band of Officers was one, 
Already hinted at, of other mould — 
A patriot, thence rejected by the rest, 290 
And with an oriental loathing spurned, 
As of a different caste. A meeker man 
Than this lived never, nor a more benign, 
Meek though enthusiastic. Injuries 
Made him more gracious, and his nature 

then 
Did breathe its sweetness out most sensibly, 
As aromatic flowers on Alpine turf, 
When foot hath crushed them. He through 

the events 
Of that great change wandered in perfect 

faith, 299 

As through a book, an old romance, or tale 
Of Fairy, or some dream of actions wrought 
Behind the simirner clouds. By birth he 

ranked 
With the most noble, but unto the poor 
Among mankind he was in service bound, 
As by some tie invisible, oaths professed 
To a religious order. Man he loved 
As man; and, to the mean and the obscure, 
And all the homely in their homely works, 
Transferred a courtesy which had no air 
Of condescension ; but did rather seem 3 10 
A passion and a gallantry, like that 
Which he, a soldier, in his idler day 
Had paid to woman : somewhat vain he was, 
Or seemed so, yet it was not vanity, 
But fondness, and a kind of radiant joy 
Diffused around him, while he was intent 
On works of love or freedom, or revolved 
Complacently the progress of a cause, 
Whereof he was a part: yet this was meek 



And placid, and took nothing from the man 
That was delightful. Oft in solitude 321 
With bun did I discourse about the end 
Of civil government, and its wisest forms; 
Of ancient loyalty, and chartered rights, 
Custom and habit, novelty and change; 
Of self-respect, and virtue in the few 
For patrimonial honour set apart, 
And ignorance in the labouring multitude. 
For he, to all intolerance indisposed, 329 
Balanced these contemplations in his mind ; 
And I, who at that time was scarcely dipped 
Into the turmoil, bore a sounder judgment 
Than later days allowed ; carried about me, 
With less alloy to its integrity, 
The experience of past ages, as, through 

help 
Of books and common life, it makes sure 

way 
To youthful minds, by objects over near 
Not pressed upon, nor dazzled or misled 
By struggling with the crowd for present 

ends. 

But though not deaf, nor obstinate to find 
Error without excuse upon the side 341 

Of them who strove against us, more de- 
light 
We took, and let this freely be confessed, 
In painting to ourselves the miseries 
Of royal courts, and that voluptuous life 
Unfeeling, where the man who is of soul 
The meanest thrives the most; where 

dignity, 
True personal dignity, abideth not; 
A light, a cruel, and vain world cut off 
From the natural inlets of just sentiment, 
From lowly sympathy and chastening 
truth; 351 

Where good and evil interchange their 

names, 
And thirst for bloody spoils abroad is paired 
With vice at home. We added dearest 

themes — 
Man and his noble nature, as it is 
The gift which God has placed within his 

power, 
His blind desires and steady faculties 
Capable of clear truth, the one to break 
Bondage, the other to build liberty 
On firm foundations, making social life, 360 
Through knowledge spreading and imper- 
ishable, 
As just in regulation, and as pure 
As individual in the wise and good. 



192 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK IX 



We summoned up the honourable deeds 
Of ancient Story, thought of each bright 

spot, 
That would be found hi all recorded time, 
Of truth preserved and error passed away; 
Of single spirits that catch the flame from 

Heaven, 
And how the multitudes of men will feed 
And fan each other; thought of sects, how 

keen 370 

They are to put the appropriate nature on, 
Triumphant over every obstacle 
Of custom, language, country, love, or hate, 
And what they do and suffer for their creed ; 
How far they travel, and how long endure ; 
How quickly mighty Nations have been 

formed, 
From least beginnings ; how, together locked 
By new opinions, scattered tribes have made 
One body, spreading wide as clouds hi 

heaven. 
To aspirations then of our own minds 3S0 
Did we appeal; and, finally, beheld 
A living confirmation of the whole 
Before us, in a people from the depth 
Of shameful imbecility uprisen, 
Fresh as the morning star. Elate we looked 
Upon their virtues; saw, hi rudest men, 
Self-sacrifice the firmest; generous love, 
And continence of mind, and sense of right, 
Uppermost in the midst of fiercest strife. 

Oh, sweet it is, in academic groves, 390 
Or such retirement, Friend ! as we have 

known 
In the green dales beside our Rotha's 

stream, 
Greta, or Derwent, or some nameless rill, 
To ruminate, with interchange of talk, 
On rational liberty, and hope in man, 
Justice and peace. But far more sweet 

such toil — 
Toil, say I, for it leads to thoughts ab- 
struse — 
If nature then be standing on the brink 
Of some great trial, and we hear the voice 
Of one devoted, — one whom circumstance 
Hath called upon to embody his deep 
sense 401 

In action, give it outwardly a shape, 
And that of benediction, to the world. 
Then doubt is not, and truth is more than 

truth, — 
A hope it is, and a desire; a creed 
Of zeal, by an authority Divine 



Sanctioned, of danger, difficulty, or death. 
Such conversation, under Attic shades, 
Did Dion hold with Plato; ripened thus 
For a Deliverer's glorious task, — and such 
He, on that ministry already bound, 411 
Held with Eudemus and Timonides, 
Surrounded by adventurers in arms, 
When those two vessels with their daring 

freight, 
For the Sicilian Tyrant's overthrow, 
Sailed from Zacynthus, — philosophic war, 
Led by Philosophers. With harder fate, 
Though like ambition, such was he, 

Friend ! 
Of whom I speak. So Beaupuis (let the 

name 
Stand near the worthiest of Antiquity) 420 
Fashioned his life ; and many a long dis- 
course, 
With like persuasion honoured, we mam- 
tamed : 
He, on his part, accoutred for the worst, 
He perished fighting, hi supreme command, 
Upon the borders of the unhappy Loire, 
For liberty, against deluded men, 
His fellow -countrymen; and yet most 

blessed 
In this, that he the fate of later times 
Lived not to see, nor what we now behold, 
Who have as ardent hearts as he had 
then. 430 

Along that very Loire, with festal mirth 
Resounding at all hours, and iimocent yet 
Of civil slaughter, was our frequent walk; 
Or in wide forests of continuous shade, 
Lofty and over-arched, with open space 
Beneath the trees, clear footing many a 

mile — 
A solemn region. Oft amid those haunts, 
From earnest dialogues I slipped in thought, 
And let remembrance steal to other times, 
When, o'er those interwoven roots, moss- 
clad, 440 
And smooth as marble or a waveless sea, 
Some Hermit, from his cell forth-strayed, 

might pace 
In sylvan meditation undisturbed; 
As on the pavement of a Gothic church 
Walks a lone Monk, when service hath ex- 
pired, 
In peace and silence. But if e'er was 

heard, — 
Heard, though unseen, — a devious travel- 
ler, 



BOOK IX 



THE PRELUDE 



i93 



Retiring or approaching from afar 

With speed and echoes loud of trampling 

hoofs 
From the hard floor reverberated, then 450 
It was Angelica thundering through the 

woods 
Upon her palfrey, or that gentle maid 
Erminia, fugitive as fair as she. 
Sometimes methought I saw a pair of 

knights 
Joust underneath the trees, that as in storm 
Rocked high above their heads; anon, the 

din 
Of boisterous merriment, and music's roar, 
In sudden proclamation, burst from haunt 
Of Satyrs in some viewless glade, with 

dance 
Rejoicing o'er a female in the midst, 460 
A mortal beauty, their unhappy thrall. 
The width of those huge forests, unto me 
A novel scene, did often in this way 
Master my fancy while I wandered on 
With that revered companion. And some- 
times — 
When to a convent in a meadow green, 
By a brook-side, we came, a roofless pile, 
And not by reverential touch of Time 
Dismantled, but by violence abrupt — 
In spite of those heart-bracing collo- 
quies, 470 
In spite of real fervour, and of that 
Less genuine and wrought up within my- 
self — 
I could not but bewail a wrong so harsh, 
And for the Matin-bell to sound no more 
Grieved, and the twilight taper, and the 

cross 
High on the topmost pinnacle, a sign 
(How welcome to the weary traveller's 

eyes !) 
Of hospitality and peaceful rest. 
And when the partner of those varied walks 
Pointed upon occasion to the site 480 

Of Romorentin, home of ancient kings, 
To the imperial edifice of Blois, 
Or to that rural castle, name now slipped 
From my remembrance, where a lady 

lodged, 
By the first Francis wooed, and boiuid to 

him 
In chains of mutual passion, from the 

tower, 
As a tradition of the country tells, 
Practised to commune with her royal 
knight 



By cressets and love-beacons, intercourse 
'Twixt her high-seated residence and 

his 490 

Far off at Chambord on the plain beneath; 
Even here, though less than with the peace- 
ful house 
Religious, 'mid those frequent monuments 
Of Kings, their vices and their better deeds, 
Imagination, potent to inflame 
At times with virtuous wrath and noble 

scorn, 
Did also often mitigate the force 
Of civic prejudice, the bigotry, 
So call it, of a youthful patriot's mind; 
And on these spots with many gleams I 

looked 500 

Of chivalrous delight. Yet not the less, 
Hatred of absolute rule, where will of one 
Is law for all, and of that barren pride 
In them who, by immunities unjust, 
Between the sovereign and the people 

stand, 
His helper and not theirs, laid stronger hold 
Daily upon me, mixed with pity too 
And love; for where hope is, there love 

will be 
For the abject multitude. And when we 

chanced 
One day to meet a hunger-bitten girl, 510 
Who crept along fitting her languid gait 
Unto a heifer's motion, by a cord 
Tied to her arm, and picking thus from the 

lane 
Its sustenance, while the girl with pallid 

hands 
Was busy knitting in a heartless mood 
Of solitude, and at the sight my friend 
In agitation said, " 'T is against that 
That we are fighting," I with him believed 
That a benignant spirit was abroad 
Which might not be withstood, that 

poverty 520 

Abject as this woidd in a little time 
Be found no more, that we should see the 

earth 
Unthwarted in her wish to recompense 
The meek, the lowly, patient child of toil, 
All institutes for ever blotted out 
That legalised exclusion, empty pomp 
Abolished, sensual state and cruel power 
Whether by edict of the one or few; 
And finally, as sum and crown of all, 529 
Should see the people having a strong hand 
In framing their own laws; whence better 

days 



194 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK X 



To 



But, these things set 



of 

540 
shall 



all in a 11k i nd 

apart, 
Was not this single confidence enough 
To animate the mind that ever turned 
A thought to human welfare ? That 

henceforth 
Captivity by mandate without law 
Should cease; and open accusation lead 
To sentence in the hearing of the world, 
And open punishment, if not the air 
Be free to breathe in, and the heart 

man 
Dread nothing 

not stoop 
To humbler matter that detained us oft 
In thought or conversation, public acts, 
And public persons, and emotions wrought 
Within the breast, as ever-varying winds 
Of record or report swept over us; 
But I might here, instead, repeat a tale, 
Told by my Patriot friend, of sad events, 
That prove to what low depth had struck 

the roots, 
How widely spread the boughs, of that old 

tree 550 

Which, as a deadly mischief, and a foul 
And black dishonour, France was weary of. 

Oh, happy tune of youthful lovers, (thus 
The story might begin,) oh, balmy time, 
In which a love-knot, on a lady's brow, 
Is fairer than the fairest star in Heaven ! 
So might — and with that prelude did 

begin 
The record ; and, in faithful verse, was 

given 
The doleful sequel. 

But our little bark 
On a strong river boldly hath been 

launched ; 560 

And from the dining current should we 

turn 
To loiter wilfully within a creek, 
Howe'er attractive, Fellow voyager ! 
Would'st thou not chide ? Yet deem not 

my pains lost: 
For Vaudracour and Julia (so were named 
The ill-fated pair) hi that plain tale will 

draw 
Tears from the hearts of others, when their 

own 
Shall beat no more. Thou, also, there 

may'st read, 
At leisure, how the enamoured youth was 

driven, 



By public power abased, to fatal crime, 57 o 
Nature's rebellion agamst monstrous law; 
How, between heart and heart, oppression 

thrust 
Her mandates, severing whom true love 

had joined, 
Harassing both; until he sank and pressed 
The couch his fate had made for kim; 

supine, 
Save when the stings of viperous remorse, 
Trying their strength, enforced him to 

start up, 
Aghast and prayerless. Into a deep wood 
He fled, to shun the haunts of human kind] 
There dwelt, weakened hi spirit more and 

more ; 580 

Nor could the voice of Freedom, which 

through France 
Full speedily resounded, public hope, 
Or personal memory of his own worst 

wrongs, 
Rouse him; but, hidden in those gloomy 

shades, 
His days he wasted, — an imbecile mind. 

BOOK TENTH 
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE {continued') 

It was a beautiful and silent day 

That overspread the countenance of earth, 

Then fading with unusual quietness, — 

A day as beautiful as e'er was given 

To soothe regret, though deepening what it 

soothed, 
When by the gliding Loire I paused, and 

cast 
Upon his rich domains, vineyard and tilth, 
Green meadow-ground, and many-coloured 

woods, 
Again, and yet again, a farewell look; 
Then from the quiet of that scene passed 

on, 10 

Bound to the fierce Metropolis. From his 

throne 
The King had fallen, and that invading 

host — 
Presumptuous cloud, on whose black front 

was written 
The tender mercies of the dismal wind 
That bore it — on the plains of Liberty 
Had burst innocuous. Say hi bolder words, 
They — who had come elate as eastern 

hunters 
Banded beneath the Great Mogul, when he 



BOOK X 



THE PRELUDE 



J 95 



Erewliile went forth from Agra or Lahore, 
Rajahs and Omrahs in his train, intent 20 
To drive their prey enclosed within a ring 
Wide as a province, but, the signal given, 
Before the point of the life-threatening 

spear 
Narrowing itself by moments — they, rash 

men, 
Had seen the anticipated quarry turned 
Into avengers, from whose wrath they fled 
In terror. Disappointment and dismay 
Remained for all whose fancies had run 

wild 
With evil expectations; confidence 29 

And perfect triumph for the better cause. 

The State — as if to stamp the final seal 
On her security, and to the world 
Show what she was, a high and fearless 

soid, 
Exulting in defiance, or heart-stung 
By sharp resentment, or belike to taunt 
With spitefid gratitude the baffled League, 
That had stirred up her slackening faculties 
To a new transition — when the King was 

crushed, 
Spared not the empty throne, and in proud 

haste 
Assumed the body and venerable name 40 
Of a Republic. Lamentable crimes, 
'T is true, had gone before this hour, dire 

work 
Of massacre, in which the senseless sword 
Was prayed to as a judge; but these were 

past, 
Earth free from them for ever, as was 

thought, — 
Ephemeral monsters, to be seen but once ! 
Things that could only show themselves 

and die. 

Cheered with this hope, to Paris I re- 
turned, 
And ranged, with ardour heretofore unfelt, 
The spacious city, and in progress passed 
The prison where the unhappy Monarch 
lay, 51 

Associate with his children and his wife 
In bondage; and the palace, lately stormed 
With roar of cannon by a furious host. 
I crossed the square (an empty area then !) 
Of the Carrousel, where so late had lain 
The dead, upon the dying heaped, and gazed 
On this and other spots, as doth a man 
Upon a volume whose contents he knows 



Are memorable, but from him locked up, 60 
Being written hi a tongue he cannot read, 
So that he questions the mute leaves with 

pain, 
And half upbraids their silence. But that 

night 
I felt most deeply hi what world I was, 
What .ground I trod on, and what air I 

breathed. 
High was my room and lonely, near the 

roof 
Of a large mansion or hotel, a lodge 
That would have pleased me in more quiet 

times ; 
Nor was it wholly without pleasure then. 
With unextinguished taper I kept watch, 70 
Reading at intervals; the fear gone by 
Pressed on me almost Idee a fear to come. 
I thought of those September massacres, 
Divided from me by one little month, 
Saw them and touched: the rest was con- 
jured up 
From tragic fictions or true history, 
Remembrances and dim admonishments. 
The horse is taught his manage, and no 

star 
Of wddest course but treads back his own 

steps; 
For the spent hurricane the air provides 80 
As fierce a successor; the tide retreats 
But to return out of its hiding-place 
In the great deep; all things have second 

birth; 
The earthquake is not satisfied at once; 
And in this way I wrought upon myself, 
Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried, 
To the whole city, " Sleep no more." The 

trance 
Fled with the voice to which it had given 

birth ; 
But vainly comments of a calmer mind 
Promised soft peace and sweet forgetf ill- 
ness. 90 
The place, all hushed and silent as it was, 
Appeared unfit for the repose of night, 
Defenceless as a wood where tigers roam. 

With early morning towards the Palace- 
walk 

Of Orleans eagerly I turned: as yet 

The streets were still; not so those long 
Arcades ; 

There, 'mid a peal of ill-matched sounds 
and cries, 

That greeted me on entering, I could hear 



196 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK X 



Shrill voices from the hawkers in the 

throng, 
Bawling, " Denunciation of the Crimes 100 
Of Maximilian Robespierre;" the hand, 
Prompt as the voice, held forth a printed 

speech, 
The same that had been recently pro- 
nounced, 
When Robespierre, not ignorant for what 

mark 
Some words of indirect reproof had been 
Intended, rose hi hardihood, and dared 
The man who had an ill surmise of him 
To bring his charge in openness; whereat, 
When a dead pause ensued, and no one 

stirred, 
In silence of all present, from his seat no 
Louvet walked single through the avenue, 
And took his station hi the Tribune, saying, 
" I, Robespierre, accuse thee ! " Well is 

known 
The inglorious issue of that charge, and how 
He, who had launched the startling thunder- 
bolt, 
The one bold man, whose voice the attack 

had sounded, 
Was left without a follower to discharge 
His perilous duty, and retire lamenting 
That Heaven's best aid is wasted upon men 
Who to themselves are false. 

But these are things 
Of which I speak, only as they were storm 
Or sunshine to my individual mind, 122 

No further. Let me then relate that now — 
In some sort seeing with my proper eyes 
That Liberty, and Life, and Death, would 

soon 
To the remotest corners of the land 
Lie in the arbitrament of those who ruled 
The capital City; what was struggled for, 
And by what combatants victory must be 

won ; 
The indecision on their part whose aim 130 
Seemed best, and the straightforward path 

of those 
Who in attack or hi defence were strong 
Through their impiety — my inmost soul 
Was agitated; yea, I could almost 
Have prayed that throughout earth upon 

all men, 
By patient exercise of reason made 
Worthy of liberty, all spirits filled 
With zeal expanding in Truth's holy light, 
The gift of tongues might fall, and power 

arrive 



From the four quarters of the winds to do 
For France, what without help she could 
not do, 141 

A work of honour; think not that to this 
I added, work of safety: from all doubt 
Or trepidation for the end of things 
Far was I, far as angels are from guilt. 

Yet did I grieve, nor only grieved, but 
thought 
Of opposition and of remedies: 
An insignificant stranger and obscure, 
And one, moreover, little graced with power 
Of eloquence even in my native speech, 150 
And all unfit for tumult or intrigue, 
Yet would I at this time with willing heart 
Have imdertaken for a cause so great 
Service however dangerous. I revolved, 
How much the destiny of Man had still 
Hung upon single persons; that there was, 
Transcendent to all local patrimony, 
One nature, as there is one sun in heaven; 
That objects, even as they are great, thereby 
Do come within the reach of humblest 
eyes; 160 

That Man is only weak through his mis- 
trust 
And want of hope where evidence divine 
Proclaims to him that hope should be most 

sure ; 
Nor did the inexperience of my youth 
Preclude conviction, that a spirit strong 
In hope, and trahied to noble aspirations, 
A spirit thoroughly faithful to itself, 
Is for Society's unreasoning herd 
A domineering instinct, serves at once 
For way and guide, a fluent receptacle 170 
That gathers up each petty straggling rill 
And vein of water, glad to be rolled on 
In safe obedience; that a mind, whose rest 
Is where it ought to be, in self-restraint, 
In circumspection and simplicity, 
Falls rarely in entire discomfiture 
Below its aim, or meets with, from without, 
A treachery that foils it ov defeats; 
And, lastly, if the means on hiunan will, 
Frail human will, dependent should betray 
Him who too boldly trusted them, I felt i8i 
That 'mid the loud distractions of the world 
A sovereign voice subsists within the soul, 
Arbiter undisturbed of right and wrong, 
Of life and death, in majesty severe 
Enjoining, as may best promote the aims 
Of truth and justice, either sacrifice, 
From whatsoever region of our cares 



BOOK X 



THE PRELUDE 



197 



Or our infirm affections Nature pleads, 
Earnest and blind, against the stern decree. 

On the other side, I called to mind those 

truths 191 

That are the commonplaces of the schools — 

(A theme for boys, too hackneyed for their 

sires,) 
Yet, with a revelation's liveliness, 
In all their comprehensive bearings known 
And visible to philosophers of old, 
Men who, to business of the world un- 
trained, 
Lived in the shade; and to Harmodius 

known 
And his compeer Aristogiton, known igg 
To Brutus — that tyrannic power is weak, 
Hath neither gratitude, nor faith, nor love, 
Nor the support of good or evil men 
To trust ill ; that the godhead which is ours 
Can never utterly be charmed or stilled; 
That nothing hath a natural right to last 
But eqiuty and reason; that all else 
Meets foes irreconcilable, and at best 
Lives only by variety of disease. 

Well might my wishes be intense, my 

thoughts 

Strong and perturbed, not doubting at that 

time 210 

But that the virtue of one paramount mind 

Would have abashed those impious crests 

— have quelled 
( )utrage and bloody power, and — in despite 
Of what the People long had been and were 
Through ignorance and false teaching, sad- 
der proof 
Of immaturity, and — in the teeth 
Of desperate opposition from without — 
Have cleared a passage for just govern- 
ment, 
And left a solid birthright to the State, 
Redeemed, according to example given 220 
By ancient lawgivers. 

In this frame of mind, 
Dragged by a chain of harsh necessity, 
So seemed it, — now I thankfully acknow- 
ledge, 
Forced by the gracious providence of 

Heaven, — 
To England I returned, else (though as- 
sured 
That I both was and must be of small 

weight, 
No better than a landsman on the deck 



Of a ship struggling with a hideous storm) 
Doubtless, I should have then made com- 
mon cause 
With some who perished; haply perished 

too, 230 

A poor mistaken and bewildered offering, — 
Should to the breast of Nature have gone 

back, 
With all my resolutions, all my hopes, 
A Poet only to myself, to men 
Useless, and even, beloved Friend ! a soul 
To thee unknown ! 

Twice had the trees let fall 
Their leaves, as often Winter had put on 
His hoary crown, since I had seen the surge 
Beat against Albion's shore, smce ear of 

mine 239 

Had caught the accents of my native speech 
Upon our native country's sacred ground. 
A patriot of the world, how could I glide 
Into communion with her sylvan shades, 
Erewhile my tuneful haunt ? It pleased 

me more 
To abide in the great City, where I found 
The general air still busy with the stir 
Of that first memorable onset made 
By a strong levy of humanity 
Upon the traffickers in Negro blood; 
Effort which, though defeated, had recalled 
To notice old forgotten principles, 251 

And through the nation spread a novel heat 
Of virtuous feeling. For myself, I own 
That this particular strife had wanted power 
To rivet my affections; nor did now 
Its unsuccessful issue much excite 
My sorrow; for I brought with me the 

faith 
That, if France prospered, good men would 

not long 
Pay fruitless worship to humanity, 
And this most rotten branch of human 

shame, 260 

Object, so seemed it, of superfluous pains, 
Would fall together with its parent tree. 
What, then, were my emotions, when in 

arms 
Britain put forth her free-born strength in 

league, 
Oh, pity and shame ! with those confeder- 
ate Powers ! 
Not in my single self alone I found, 
But in the minds of all ingenuous youth, 
Change and subversion from that hour. No 

shock 
Given to my moral nature had I known 269 



ig8 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK X 



Down to that very moment; neither lapse 

Nor turn of sentiment that might be named 

A revolution, save at this one time ; 

All else was progress on the self -same path 

On which, with a diversity of pace, 

I had been travelling: this a stride at once 

Into another region. As a light 

And pliant harebell, swinging in the breeze 

On some grey rock — its birth-place — so 

had I 
Wantoned, fast rooted on the ancient tower 
Of my beloved country, wishing not 280 
A happier fortune than to wither there: 
Now was I from that pleasant station torn 
And tossed about in whirlwind. I rejoiced, 
Yea, afterwards — truth most painful to 

record ! — 
Exidted, in the triumph of my soul, 
When Englishmen by thousands were o'er- 

thrown, 
Left without glory on the field, or driven, 
Brave hearts ! to shameful flight. It was 

a grief, — 
Grief call it not, 't was anything but that, — 
A conflict of sensations without name, 290 
Of which he only, who may love the sight 
Of a village steeple, as I do, can judge, 
When, in the congregation bending all 
To their great Father, prayers were offered 

up, 
Or praises for our country's victories; 
And, 'mid the simple worshippers, perchance 
I only, like an uninvited guest 
Whom no one owned, sate silent, shall I 

add, 
Fed on the day of vengeance yet to come. 

Oh ! much have they to account for, who 
could tear, 300 

By violence, at one decisive rent, 
From the best youth in England their dear 

pride, 
Their joy, in England ; this, too, at a time 
In which worst losses easily might wean 
The best of names, when patriotic love 
Did of itself in modesty give way, 
Like the Precursor when the Deity 
Is come Whose harbinger he was; a time 
In which apostasy from ancient faith 
Seemed but conversion to a higher creed ; 
Withal a season dangerous and wild, 3 1 1 
A time when sage Experience would have 

snatched 
Flowers out of any hedge-row to compose 
A chaplet in contempt of his grey locks. 



When the proud fleet that bears the red- 
cross Hag 
In that unworthy service was prepared 
To mingle, I beheld the vessels lie, 
A brood of gallant creatures, on the deep ; 
I saw them in their rest, a sojourner 
Through a whole month of calm and glassy 
days 320 

In that delightful island which protects 
Their place of convocation — there I heard, 
Each evening, pacing by the still sea-shore, 
A monitory sound that never failed, — 
The sunset camion. While the orb went 

down 
In the tranquillity of nature, came 
That voice, ill requiem ! seldom heard by 

me 
Without a spirit overcast by dark 
Imaginations, sense of woes to come, 
Sorrow for human kind, and pain of heart. 

In France, the men, who, for their des- 
perate ends, 331 
Had plucked up mercy by the roots, were 

glad 
Of this new enemy. Tyrants, strong before 
In wicked pleas, were strong as demons 

now ; 
And thus, on every side beset with foes, 
The goaded land waxed mad; the crimes 

of few 
Spread into madness of the many; blasts 
From hell came sanctified like airs from 

heaven. 
The sternness of the just, the faith of those 
Who doubted not that Providence had 
times 340 

Of vengeful retribution, theirs who throned 
The human Understanding paramount 
And made of that their God, the hopes of 

men 
Who were content to barter short-lived 

pangs 
For a paradise of ages, the blind rage 
Of insolent tempers, the light vanity 
Of intermeddlers, steady purposes 
Of the suspicious, slips of the hidiscreet, 
And all the accidents of life — were pressed 
Into one service, busy with one work. 350 
The Senate stood aghast, her prudence 

quenched, 
Her wisdom stifled, and her justice scared, 
Her frenzy only active to extol 
Past outrages, and shape the way for new, 
Which no oue dared to oppose or mitigate. 



BOOK X 



THE PRELUDE 



199 



Domestic carnage now filled the whole 
year 
With feast-days; old men from the chimney- 
nook, 
The maiden from the bosom of her love, 
The mother from the cradle of her babe, 
The warrior from the field — all perished, 
all — 36° 

Friends, enemies, of all parties, ages, ranks, 
Head after head, and never heads enough 
For those that bade them fall. They found 

their joy, 
They made it proudly, eager as a child, 
( If like desires of innocent little ones 
May with such heinous appetites be com- 
pared), 
Pleased in some open field to exercise 
A toy that mimics with revolving wings 
The motion of a wind-mill; though the air 
Do of itself blow fresh, and make the vanes 
Spin in his eyesight, that contents him not, 
But with the plaything at arm's length, he 
sets 372 

His front against the blast, and runs amain, 
That it may whirl the faster. 

Amid the depth 
Of those enormities, even thinking minds 
Forgot, at seasons, whence they had their 

being, 
Forgot that such a sound was ever heard 
As Liberty upon earth: yet all beneath 
Her innocent authority was wrought, 
Nor could have been, without her blessed 
name. 380 

The illustrious wife of Roland, in the hour 
Of her composure, felt that agony, 
And gave it vent in her last words. O 

Friend ! 
It was a lamentable time for man, 
Whether a hope had e'er been his or not: 
A wof id time for them whose hopes survived 
The shock; most woful for those few who 

still 
Were flattered, and had trust in human 

kind : 
They had the deepest feeling of the grief. 
Meanwhile the Invaders fared as they de- 
served : 390 
The Herculean Commonwealth had put 

forth her arms, 
And throttled with an infant godhead's 

might 
The snakes about her cradle; that was 

well, 
And as it should be; yet no cure for them 



Whose souls were sick with pain of what 

would be 
Hereafter brought in charge against man- 
kind. 
Most melancholy at that time, O Friend ! 
Were my day-thoughts, — my nights were 

miserable; 
Through months, through years, long after 

the last beat 
Of those atrocities, the hour of sleep 400 
To me came rarely charged with natural 

gifts, 
Such ghastly visions had I of despair 
And tyranny, and implements of death; 
And innocent victims sinking under fear, 
And momentary hope, and worn-out prayer, 
Each in his separate cell, or penned in crowds 
For sacrifice, and struggling with fond mirth 
And levity in dungeons, where the dust 
Was laid with tears. Then suddenly the 

scene 
Changed, and the unbroken dream entangled 

me 4 10 

In long orations, which I strove to plead 
Before unjust tribunals, — with a voice 
Labouring, a brain confounded, and a 

sense, 
Death-like, of treacherous desertion, felt 
In the last place of refuge — my own soul. 

When I began in youth's delightful prime 
To yield myself to Nature, when that strong 
And holy passion overcame me first, 
Nor day nor night, evening or morn, was 

free 
From its oppression. But, O Power Su- 



preme 



Without Whose call this world would cease 

to breathe, 
Who from the fountain of Thy grace dost 

fill 
The veins that branch through every frame 

of life, 
Making man what he is, creature divine, 
In single or in social eminence, 
Above the rest raised infinite ascents 
When reason that enables him to be 
Is not sequestered — what a change is here ! 
How different ritual for this after-worship, 
What countenance to promote this second 

love ! 430 

The first was service paid to things which 

lie 
Guarded within the bosom of Thy will. 
Therefore to serve was high beatitude; 



200 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK X 



Tumult was therefore gladness, and the fear 
Ennobling, venerable; sleep secure, 
And waking thoughts more rich than hap- 
piest dreams. 

But as the ancient Prophets, borne aloft 
In vision, yet constrained by natural laws 
With them to take a troubled human heart, 
Wanted not consolations, nor a creed 440 
Of reconcilement, then when they de- 
nounced, 
On towns and cities, wallowing in the abyss 
Of their offences, punishment to come; 
Or saw, like other men, with bodily eyes, 
Before them, in some desolated place, 
The wrath consummate and the threat 

fulfilled; 
So, with devout humility be it said, 
So did a portion of that spirit fall 
On me uplifted from the vantage-ground 
Of pity and sorrow to a state of being 450 
That through the time's exceeding fierceness 

saw 
Glimpses of retribution, terrible, 
And hi the order of sublime behests: 
But, even if that were not, amid the awe 
Of unintelligible chastisement, 
Not only accpiiescences of faith 
Survived, but daring sympathies with power, 
Motions not treacherous or profane, else 

why 
Within the folds of no ungentle breast 
Their dread vibration to this hour prolonged ? 
Wild blasts of music thus could find their 
way 461 

Into the midst of turbulent events; 
So that worst tempests might be listened to. 
Then was the truth received into my heart, 
That, under heaviest sorrow earth can bring, 
If from the affliction somewhere do not 

grow 
Honour which could not else have been, a 

faith, 
An elevation, and a sanctity, 
If new strength be not given nor old restored, 
The blame is ours, not Nature's. When a 
taunt 470 

Was taken up by scoffers in their pride, 
Saying, " Behold the harvest that we reap 
From popular government and equality," 
I clearly saw that neither these nor aught 
Of wild belief engrafted on their names 
By false philosophy had caused the woe, 
But a terrific reservoir of guilt 
And ignorance filled up from age to age, 



That could no longer hold its loathsome 

charge, 
But burst and spread in deluge through the 

land. 480 

And as the desert hath green spots, the 

sea 
Small islands scattered amid stormy waves, 
So that disastrous period did not want 
Bright sprinklings of all human excellence, 
To which the silver wands of saints in 

Heaven 
Might point with rapturous joy. Yet not 

the less, 
For those examples, hi no age surpassed, 
Of fortitude and energy and love, 
And human nature faithful to herself 
Under worst trials, was I driven to think 490 
Of the glad times when first I traversed 

France 
A youthful pilgrim ; above all reviewed 
That eventide, when under whidows bright 
With happy faces and with garlands hung, 
And through a rainbow-arch that spanned 

the street, 
Triumphal pomp for liberty confirmed, 
I paced, a dear companion at my side, 
The town of Arras, whence with promise 

high 
Issued, on delegation to sustain 
Humanity and right, that Robespierre, 500 
He who thereafter, and hi how short time ! 
Wielded the sceptre of the Atheist crew. 
When the calamity spread far and wide — 
And this same city, that did then appear 
To outrun the rest in exultation, groaned 
Under the vengeance of her cruel son, 
As Lear reproached the winds — I could 

almost 
Have quarrelled with that blameless spec- 
tacle 
For lingering yet an image in my mind 
To mock me under such a strange reverse. 

O Friend ! few happier moments have 

been mine 511 

Than that which told the downfall of this 

Tribe 
So dreaded, so abhorred. The day deserves 
A separate record. Over the smooth sands 
Of Leven's ample estuary lay 
My journey, and beneath a genial sun, 
With distant prospect among gleams of sky 
And clouds and intermingling mountain 
tops, 



BOOK X 



THE PRELUDE 



201 



In one inseparable glory clad, 
Creatures of one ethereal substance met 520 
In consistory, like a diadem 
Or crown of burning seraphs as they sit 
In the empyrean. Underneath that pomp 
Celestial, lay unseen the pastoral vales 
Among whose happy fields I had grown up 
From childhood. On the fulgent spectacle, 
That neither passed away nor changed, I 

gazed 
Enrapt; but brightest things are wont to 

draw 
Sad opposites out of the inner heart, 
As even their pensive influence drew from 

mine. 530 

How could it otherwise ? for not in vain 
That very morning had I turned aside 
To seek the ground where, 'mid a throng 

of graves, 
An honoured teacher of my youth was laid, 
And on the stone were graven by his desire 
Lines from the churchyard elegy of Gray. 
This faithful guide, speaking from his 

death-bed, 
Added no farewell to his parting counsel, 
But said to me, " My head will soon lie 

low; " 
And when I saw the turf that covered 

him, 540 

After the lapse of full eight years, those 

words, 
With sound of voice and countenance of 

the Man, 
Came back upon me, so that some few tears 
Fell from me in my own despite. But now 
I thought, still traversing that widespread 

plain, 
With tender pleasure of the verses graven 
Upon his tombstone, whispering to myself: 
He loved the Poets, and, if now alive, 
Would have loved me, as one not destitute 
Of promise, nor belying the kind hope 550 
That he had formed, when I, at his com- 
mand, 
Began to spin, with toil, my earliest songs. 

As I advanced, all that I saw or felt 
Was gentleness and peace. Upon a small 
And rocky island near, a fragment stood, 
(Itself like a sea rock) the low remains 
(With shells encrusted, dark with briny 

weeds) 
Of a dilapidated structure, once 
A Romish chapel, where the vested priest 
Said matins at the hour that suited those 



Who crossed the sands with ebb of morning 

tide. 561 

Not far from that still ruin all the plain 
Lay spotted with a variegated crowd 
Of vehicles and travellers, horse and foot, 
Wading beneath the conduct of their guide 
In loose procession through the shallow 

stream 
Of inland waters ; the great sea meanwhile 
Heaved at safe distance, far retired. I 

paused, 
Longing for skill to paint a scene so bright 
And cheerful, but the foremost of the band 
As he approached, no salutation given 571 
In the familiar language of the day, 
Cried, " Robespierre is dead ! " nor was a 

doubt, 
After strict question, left within my mind 
That he and his supporters all were fallen. 

Great was my transport, deep my grati- 
tude 
To everlasting Justice, by this fiat 
Made manifest. " Come now, ye golden 

times," 
Said I forth-pouring on those open sands 
A hymn of triumph: " as the morning 

comes 580 

From out the bosom of the night, come ye: 
Thus far our trust is verified; behold ! 
They who with clumsy desperation brought 
A river of Blood, and preached that nothing 

else 
Could cleanse the Augean stable, by the 

might 
Of their own helper have been swept away; 
Their madness stands declared and visible ; 
Elsewhere will safety now be sought, and 

earth 
March firmly towards righteousness and 

peace." — 
Then schemes I framed more calmly, when 

and how 590 

The madding factions might be tranquil- 

lised, 
And how through hardships manifold and 

long 
The glorious renovation would proceed. 
Thus interrupted by uneasy bursts 
Of exultation, I pursued my way 
Along that very shore which I had skimmed 
In former days, when — spurring from the 

Vale 
Of Nightshade, and St. Mary's mouldering 

fane, 



THE PRELUDE 



EOOK XI 



And the stone abbot, after circuit made 
In wantonness of heart, a joyous baud 600 
Of schoolboys hastening to their distant 

home 
Along the margin of the moonlight sea — 
We beat with thundering hoofs the level 

sand. 



BOOK ELEVENTH 

fkance (concluded) 

From that time forth, Authority in France 
Put on a milder face; Terror had ceased, 
Yet everything was wanting that might give 
Courage to them who looked for good by 

light 
Of rational Experience, for the shoots 
And hopeful blossoms of a second spring: 
Yet, in me, confidence was unimpaired; 
The Senate's language, and the public acts 
And measures of the Government, though 

both 
Weak, and of heartless omen, had not 

power 10 

To daunt me; in the People was my trust: 
And, in the virtues which mine eyes had 

seen, 
I knew that woimd external could not take 
Life from the young Republic; that new 

foes 
Would only follow, hi the path of shame, 
Their brethren, and her triumphs be in the 

end 
Great, universal, irresistible. 
This intuition led me to confound 
One victory with another, higher far, — 
Triumphs of unambitious peace at home, 20 
And noiseless fortitude. Beholding still 
Resistance strong as heretofore, I thought 
That what was in degree the same was 

likewise 
The same in quality, — that, as the worse 
Of the two spirits then at strife remained 
Untired, the better, surely, would preserve 
The heart that first had roused him. Youth 

maintains, 
In all conditions of society, 
Communion more direct and intimate 
With Nature, — hence, of ttimes, with rea- 
son tOO — 30 
Than age or manhood, even. To Nature 

then, 
Power had reverted: habit, custom, law, 
Had left. an interregnum's open space 



For her to move about in, uncontrolled. 
Hence could I see how Babel-like their 

task, 
Who, by the recent deluge stupified, 
With their whole souls went culling from 

the day 
Its petty promises, to build a tower 
For their own safety; laughed with my 

compeers 
At gravest heads, by enmity to France 40 
Distempered, till they found, in every blast 
Forced from the street-disturbing news- 
man's horn, 
For her great cause record or prophecy 
Of utter ruin. How might w r e believe 
That wisdom could, in any shape, come 

near 
Men clinging to delusions so insane ? 
And thus, experience proving that no few 
Of our opinions had been just, we took 
Like credit to ourselves wdiere less was due, 
And thought that other notions were as 

sound, 50 

Yea, could not but be right, because we saw 
That foolish men opposed them. 

To a strain 
More animated I might here give way, 
And tell, since juvenile errors are my theme, 
What in those days, through Britain, was 

performed 
To turn all judgments out of their right 

course ; 
But this is passion over-near ourselves, 
Reality too close and too intense, 
And intermixed with something, hi my mind, 
Of scorn and condemnation personal, 60 
That would profane the sanctity of verse. 
Our Shepherds, this say merely, at that time 
Acted, or seemed at least to act, like men 
Thirsting to make the guardian crook of 

law 
A tool of murder; they who ruled the 

State — 
Though with such awful proof before their 

eyes 
That he, who would sow death, reaps death, 

or worse, 
And can reap nothing better — child-like 

longed 

m • • • 

To imitate, not wise enough to avoid; 

Or left (by mere timidity betrayed) 70 

The plain straight road, for one no better 

chosen 
Than if their wish had been to undermine 
Justice, and make an end of Liberty. 



BOOK XI 



THE PRELUDE 



203 



But from these bitter truths I must return 
To my own history. It hath been told 
That I was led to take an eager part 
In arguments of civil polity, 
Abruptly, and indeed before my time : 
I had approached, like other youths, the 

shield 
Of human nature from the golden side, 80 
And would have fought, even to the death, 

to attest 
The quality of the metal which I saw. 
What there is best in individual man, 
Of wise in passion, and sublime in power, 
Benevolent in small societies, 
And great in large ones, I had oft revolved, 
Felt deeply, but not thoroughly understood 
By reason: nay, far from it; they were yet, 
As cause was given me afterwards to learn, 
Not proof against the injuries of the day; 
Lodged only at the sanctuary's door, 91 

Not safe within its bosom. Thus prepared, 
And with such general insight into evil, 
And of the bounds which sever it from good, 
As books and common intercourse with life 
Must needs have given — to the inexpe- 
rienced mind, 
When the world travels in a beaten road, 
Guide faithful as is needed — I began 
To meditate with ardour on the rule 
And management of nations; what it is 100 
And ought to be; and strove to learn how 

far 
Their power or weakness, wealth or poverty, 
Their happiness or misery, depends 
Upon their laws, and fashion of the State. 

O pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! 
For mighty were the auxiliars which then 

stood 
Upon our side, us who were strong in love ! 
Bliss was it hi that dawn to be alive, 
But to be young was very Heaven ! O 

times, 109 

In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways 
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once 
The attraction of a country in romance ! 
When Reason seemed the most to assert her 

rights, 
When most intent on making of herself 
A prime enchantress — to assist the work, 
Which then was going forward in her name ! 
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole 

Earth, 
The beauty wore of promise — that which 

sets 



(As at some moments might not be unfelt 
Among the bowers of Paradise itself) 120 
The budding rose above the rose full blown. 
What temper at the prospect did not wake 
To happiness unthought of ? The inert 
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away ! 
They who had fed their childhood upon 

dreams, 
The play-fellows of fancy, who had made 
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and 

strength 
Their ministers, — who in lordly wise had 

stirred 
Among the grandest objects of the sense, 
And dealt with whatsoever they found there 
As if they had within some lurking right 13 1 
To wield it; — they, too, who of gentle 

mood 
Had watched all gentle motions, and to 

these 
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers 

more mild, 
And in the region of their peaceful selves; — 
Now was it that both found, the meek and 

lofty 
Did both find, helpers to their hearts' desire, 
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could 

wish, — 
Were called upon to exercise their skill, 
Not in Utopia, — subterranean fields, — 140 
Or some secreted island, Heaven knows 

where ! 
But in the very world, which is the world 
Of all of us, — the place where, in the end, 
We find our happiness, or not at all ! 

Why should I not confess that Earth was 
then 
To me, what an inheritance, new-fallen, 
Seems, when the first time visited, to one 
Who thither comes to find in it his home ? 
He walks about and looks upon the spot 
With cordial transport, moulds it and re- 
moulds, 150 
And is half-pleased with things that are 

amiss, 
'T will be such joy to see them disappear. 

An active partisan, I thus convoked 
From every object pleasant circumstance 
To suit my ends; I moved among mankind 
With genial feelings still predominant; 
When erring, erring on the better part, 
And in the kinder spirit; placable, 
Indulgent, as not uninformed that men 159 



204 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK XI 



See as they have been taught — Antiquity 
Gives rights to error; and aware, no less 
That throwing off oppression must be work 
As well of License as of Liberty; 
And above all — for this was more than 

all — 
Not caring if the wind did now and then 
Blow keen upon an eminence that gave 
Prospect so large hito futurity; 
In brief, a child of Nature, as at first, 
Diffusing only those affections wider 
That from the cradle had grown up with 

me, _ , 70 

And losing, in no other way than light 
Is lost in light, the weak in the more strong. 

In the main outline, such it might be 
said 
Was my condition, till with open war 
Britain opposed the liberties of France. 
This threw me first out of the pale of love; 
Soured and corrupted, upwards to the 

source, 
My sentiments; was not, as hitherto, 178 
A swallowing up of lesser things hi great, 
But change of them into their contraries; 
And thus a way was opened for mistakes 
And false conclusions, in degree as gross, 
In kind more dangerous. What had been 

a pride, 
Was now a shame ; my likings and my loves 
Ran in new channels, leaving old ones dry; 
And hence a blow that, hi maturer age, 
Would but have touched the judgment, 

struck more deep 
Into sensations near the heart: meantime, 
As from the first, wild theories were afloat, 
To whose pretensions, sedulously urged, 190 
I had but lent a careless ear, assured 
That time was ready to set all things right, 
And that the multitude, so long oppressed, 
Would be oppressed no more. 

But when events 
Brought less encouragement, and unto these 
The immediate proof of principles no more 
Could be entrusted, while the events them- 
selves, 
Worn out in greatness, stripped of novelty, 
Less occupied the mind, and sentiments 
Could through my understanding's natural 
growth 200 

No longer keep their ground, by faith main- 
tained 
Of inward consciousness, and hope that laid 
Her hand upon her object — evidence 



Safer, of universal application, such 
As could not be impeached, was sought else- 
where. 

But now, become oppressors in their turn, 
Frenchmen had changed a war of self- 
defence 
For one of conquest, losing sight of all 
Which they had struggled for : up mounted 

now, 
Openly in the eye of earth and heaven, 210 
The scale of liberty. I read her doom. 
With anger vexed, with disappointment 

sore, 
But not dismayed, nor taking to the shame 
Of a false prophet. While resentment rose, 
Striving to hide, what nought could heal, 

the wounds 
Of mortified presumption, I adhered 
More firmly to old tenets, and, to prove 
Their temper, strained them more; and 

thus, in heat 
Of contest, did opinions every day 
Grow into consequence, till round my 

mind 220 

They clung, as if they were its Life, nay 

more, 
The very being of the immortal soul. 

This was the time, when, all things tend- 
ing fast 
To depravation, speculative schemes — 
That promised to abstract the hopes of 

Man 
Out of his feelings, to be fixed thenceforth 
For ever in a purer element — 
Found ready welcome. Tempting region 

that 
For Zeal to enter and refresh herself, 
Where passions had the privilege to work, 
And never hear the sound of their own 
names. 23 1 

But, speaking more in charity, the dream 
Flattered the young, pleased with ex- 
tremes, nor least 
With that which makes our Reason's naked 

self 
The object of its fervour. What delight ! 
How glorious ! in self-knowledge and self- 
rule, 
To look through all the frailties of the 

world, 
And, with a resolute mastery shakhig off 
Infirmities of nature, time, and place, 
Build social upon personal Liberty, 240 



BOOK XI 



THE PRELUDE 



205 



Which, to the blind restraints of general 

laws, 
Superior, magisterially adopts 
One guide, the light of circumstances, 

flashed 
Upon an independent intellect. 
Thus expectation rose again; thus hope, 
From her first ground expelled, grew proud 

once more. 
Oft, as my thoughts were turned to human 

kind, 
I scorned indifference; but, inflamed with 

thirst 
Of a secure intelligence, and sick 249 

Of other longing, I pursued what seemed 
A more exalted nature; wished that Man 
.Should start out of his earthy, worm-like 

state, 
And spread abroad the wings of Liberty, 
Lord of himself, hi undisturbed delight — 
A noble aspiration ! yet I feel 
(Sustained by worthier as by wiser 

thoughts) 
The aspiration, nor shall ever cease 
To feel it; — but return we to our course. 

Enough, 't is true — could such a plea 

excuse 
Those aberrations — had the clamorous 

friends 260 

Of ancient Institutions said and done 
To bring disgrace upon their very names; 
Disgrace, of which, custom and written law, 
And sundry moral sentiments as props 
Or emanations of those institutes, 
Too justly bore a part. A veil had been 
Uplifted; why deceive ourselves? in 

sooth, 
'T was even so ; and sorrow for the man 
Who either had not eyes wherewith to 

see, 
Or, seeing, had forgotten ! A strong 

shock 270 

Was given to old opinions; all men's minds 
Had felt its power, and mine was both let 

loose, 
Let loose and goaded. After what hath 

been 
Already said of patriotic love, 
Suffice it here to add, that, somewhat stern 
In temperament, withal a happy man, 
And therefore bold to look on painful 

things, 
Free likewise of the world, and thence 

more bold, 



I summoned my best skill, and toiled, in- 
tent 
To anatomise the frame of social life ; 280 
Yea, the whole body of society 
Searched to its heart. Share with me, 

Friend ! the wish 
That some dramatic tale, endued with 

shapes 
Livelier, and flinging out less guarded 

words 
Than suit the work we fashion, might set 

forth 
What then I learned, or think I learned, of 

truth, 
And the errors into which I fell, betrayed 
By present objects, and by reJisonhigs false 
From their beginnings, inasmuch as drawn 
Out of a heart that had been turned aside 
From Nature's way by outward accidents, 
And which was thus confounded, more and 

more 292 

Misguided, and misguiding. So I fared, 
Dragging all precepts, judgments, maxims, 

creeds, 
Like culprits to the bar; calling the mind, 
Suspiciously, to establish in plain day 
Her titles and her honours; now believing, 
Now disbelieving; endlessly perplexed 
With hnpulse, motive, right and wrong, 

the ground 
Of obligation, what the ride and whence 
The sanction ; till, demanding formal proof, 
And seeking it in every thing, I lost 302 
All feeling of conviction, and, in fine, 
Sick, wearied out with contrarieties, 
Yielded up moral questions hi despair. 

This was the crisis of that strong disease, 
This the soul's last and lowest ebb; I 

drooped, 
Deeming our blessed reason of least use 
Where wanted most: "The lordly attri- 
butes 
Of will and choice," I bitterly exclaimed, 
" What are they but a mockery of a Being 
Who hath in no concerns of his a test 312 
Of good and evil; knows not what to fear 
Or hope for, what to covet or to shun; 
And who, if those could be discerned, 

would yet 
Be little profited, would see, and ask 
Where is the obligation to enforce ? 
And, to acknowledged law rebellious, still, 
As selfish passion urged, would act amiss; 
The dupe of folly, or the slave of crime." 



2o6 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK XI 



Depressed, bewildered thus, I did not 
walk 32' 

With scoffers, seeking light and gay re- 
venge 
From indiscriminate laughter, nor sate 

down 
In reconcilement with an utter waste 
Of intellect; such sloth I could not brook, 
(Too well I loved, in that my spring of 

life, 
Pains-taking thoughts, and truth, their dear 

reward) 
But turned to abstract science, and there 

sought 
Work for the reasoning faculty enthroned 
Where the 'disturbances of space and 
time — 33° 

Whether in matters various, properties 
Inherent, or from human will and power 
Derived — find no admission. Then it 

was — 
Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all 

good ! — 
That the beloved Sister in whose sight 
Those days were passed, now speaking in 

a voice 
Of sudden admonition — like a brook 
That did but cross a lonely road, and now 
Is seen, heard, felt, and caught at every 

turn, 
Companion never lost through many a 
league — 34° 

Maintained for me a saving intercourse 
With my true self; for, though bedimmed 

and changed 
Much, as it seemed, I was no further 

changed 
Than as a clouded and a waning moon: 
She whispered still that brightness would 

return ; 
She, in the midst of all, preserved me still 
A Poet, made me seek beneath that name, 
And that alone, my office upon earth; 
And, lastly, as hereafter will be shown, 
If willing audience fail not, Nature's self, 
By all varieties of human love 35 1 

Assisted, led me back through opening day 
To those sweet counsels between head and 

heart 
Whence grew that genuine knowledge, 

fraught with peace, 
Which, through the later sinkings of this 

cause, 
Hath still upheld me, and upholds me now 
In the catastrophe (for so they dream, 



And nothing less), when, finally to close 
And seal up all the gains of France, a 

Pope 
Is summoned in, to crown an Emperor — 
This last opprobrium, when we see a peo- 
ple, 361 
That once looked up in faith, as if to Heaven 
For manna, take a lesson from the dog 
Returning to his vomit; when the sun 
That rose in splendour, was alive, and 

moved 
In exultation with a living pomp 
Of clouds — his glory's natural retinue — 
Hath dropped all functions by the gods 

bestowed, 
And, turned into a gewgaw, a machine, 
Sets like an Opera phantom. 

Thus, O Friend ! 
Through times of honour and through times 

of shame 37' 

Descending, have I faithfully retraced 
The perturbations of a youthful mind 
Under a long-lived storm of great events — 
A story destined for thy ear, who now, 
Among the fallen of nations, dost abide 
Where Etna, over hill and valley, casts 
His shadow stretching towards Syracuse, 
The city of Timoleon ! Righteous Heaven ! 
How are the mighty prostrated ! They 

first, 
They first of all' that breathe should have 

awaked 3S1 

When the great voice was heard from out 

the tombs 
Of ancient heroes. If I suffered grief 
For ill-requited France, by many deemed 
A trifler only in her proudest day ; 
Have been distressed to think of what she 

once 
Promised, now is; a far more sober cause 
Thine eyes must see of sorrow in a land, 
To the reanimating influence lost 
Of memory, to virtue lost and hope, 390 
Though with the wreck of loftier years 

bestrewn. 

But indignation works where hope is not, 
And thou, O Friend ! wilt be refreshed. 

There is 
One great society alone on earth: 
The noble Living and the noble Dead. 

Thine be such converse strong and 
sanative, 
A ladder for thy spirit to reascend 



BOOK XII 



THE PRELUDE 



207 



To health and joy and pure eontentedness; 
To me the grief confined, that thou art 

gone 
From this last spot of earth, where Freedom 

now 4°o 

Stands single in her only sanctuary; 
A lonely wanderer, art gone, by pain 
Compelled and sickness, at this latter day, 
This sorrowful reverse for all mankind. 
I feel for thee, must utter what I feel: 
The sympathies erewhile in part discharged, 
Gather afresh, and will have vent again: 
My own delights do scarcely seem to me 
My own delights; the lordly Alps them- 
selves, 
Those rosy peaks, from which the Morning 

looks 410 

Abroad on many nations, are no more 
For me that image of pure gladsomeness 
Which they were wont to be. Through 

kindred scenes, 
For pxirpose, at a time, how different ! 
Thou tak'st thy way, carrying the heart and 

soul 
That Nature gives to Poets, now by thought 
Matured, and in the summer of their 

strength. 
Oh ! wrap him in your shades, ye giant 

woods, 
On Etna's side; and thou, O flowery field 
Of Enna ! is there not some nook of thine, 
From the first play-time of the infant world 
Kept sacred to restorative delight, 422 

When from afar invoked by anxious love ? 

Child of the mountains, among shepherds 

reared, 
Ere yet familiar with the classic page, 
I learnt to dream of Sicily; and lo, 
The gloom, that, but a moment past,, was 

deepened 
At thy command, at her command gives 

way; 
A pleasant promise, wafted from her shores, 
Comes o'er my heart: in fancy I behold 430 
Her seas yet smiling, her once happy vales; 
Nor can my tongue give utterance to a 

name 
Of note belonging to that honoured isle, 
Philosopher or Bard, Empedocles, 
Or Archimedes, pure abstracted soul ! 
That doth not yield a solace to my grief: 
And, O Theocritus, so far have some 
Prevailed among the powers of heaven and 

earth, 



By their endowments, good or great, that 

they 
Have had, as thou reportest, miracles 440 
Wrought for them in old time: yea, not 

unmoved, 
When thinking on my own beloved friend, 
I hear thee tell how bees with honey fed 
Divine Comates, by his impious lord 
Within a chest imprisoned; how they came 
Laden from blooming grove or flowery field, 
And fed him there, alive, month after 

month, 
Because the goatherd, blessed man ! had 

lips 
Wet with the Muses' nectar. 

Thus I soothe 
The pensive moments by this calm fire-side, 
And find a thousand bounteous images 451 
To cheer the thoughts of those I love, and 

mine. 
Our prayers have been accepted; thou wilt 

stand 
On Etna's summit, above earth and sea, 
Triumphant, winning from the invaded 

heavens 
Thoughts without bound, magnificent de- 
signs, 
Worthy of poets who attuned their harps 
In wood or echoing cave, for discipline 
Of heroes; or, in reverence to the gods, 
'Mid temples, served by sapient priests, and 

choirs 460 

Of virgins crowned with roses. Not in vain 
Those temples, where they in their ruins yet 
Survive for inspiration, shall attract 
Thy solitary steps: and on the brink 
Thou wilt recline of pastoral Arethuse; 
Or, if that fountain be in truth no more, 
Then, near some other spring — which, by 

the name 
Thou gratulatest, willingly deceived — 
I see thee linger a glad votary, 
And not a captive pining for his home. 470 



BOOK TWELFTH 

IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED 
AND RESTORED 

Long time have human ignorance and guilt 
Detained us, on what spectacles of woe 
Compelled to look, and inwardly oppressed 
With sorrow, disappointment, vexing 

thoughts, 
Confusion of the judgment, zeal decayed, 



208 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK XII 



And, lastly, utter loss of hope itself 

And things to hope for ! Not with these 

began 
Our song, and not with these our song 

must end. 
Ye motions of delight, that haunt the sides 
Of the green hills; ye breezes and soft 

airs, 10 

Whose subtle intercourse with breathing 

flowers, 
Feelingly watched, might teach Man's 

haughty race 
How without injury to take, to give 
Without offence; ye who, as if to show 
The wondrous influence of power gently 

used, 
Bend the complying heads of lordly pines, 
And, with a touch, shift the stupendous 

clouds 
Through the whole compass of the sky; ye 

brooks, 
Muttering along the stones, a busy noise 
By day, a quiet sound hi silent night; 20 
Ye waves, that out of the great deep steal 

forth 
In a calm hour to kiss the pebbly shore, 
Not mute, and then retire, fearing no 

storm ; 
And you, ye groves, whose ministry it is 
To interpose the covert of your shades, 
Even as a sleep, between the heart of 

man 
And outward troubles, between man him- 
self, 
Not seldom, and his own uneasy heart: 
Oh ! that I had a music and a voice 
Harmonious as your own, that I might tell 
What ye have done for me. The morning 

shines, 3 1 

Nor heedeth Man's perverseness; Sprmg 

returns, — 
I saw the Sprmg return, and could rejoice, 
In common with the children of her love, 
Piping on boughs, or sporting on fresh 

fields, 
Or boldly seeking pleasure nearer heaven 
On wings that navigate cerulean skies. 
So neither were complacency, nor peace, 
Nor tender yearnings, wanting for my good 
Through these distracted times; in Nature 

still 40 

Glorying, I found a counterpoise in her, 
Which, when the spirit of evil reached its 

height, 
Maintained for me a secret happiness. 



This narrative, my Friend ! hath chiefly 

told 
Of intellectual power, fostering love, 
Dispensing truth, and, over men and things, 
Where reason yet might hesitate, diffusing 
Prophetic sympathies of genial faith: 
So was I favoured — such my happy lot — 
Until that natural graciousness of mind 50 
Gave way to overpressure from the times 
And their disastrous issues. What availed, 
When spells forbade the voyager to land, 
That fragrant notice of a pleasant shore 
Wafted, at intervals, from many a bower 
Of blissful gratitude and fearless love ? 
Dare I avow that wish was mine to see, 
And hope that future times would surely 

see, 
The man to come, parted, as by a gulph, 
From him who had been; that I could no 

more 60 

Trust the elevation which had made me one 
With the great family that still survives 
To illuminate the abyss of ages past, 
Sage, warrior, patriot, hero; for it seemed 
That their best virtues were not free from 

taint 
Of something false and weak, that could 

not stand 
The open eye of Reason. Then I said, 
" Go to the Poets, they will speak to thee 
More perfectly of purer creatures; — yet 
If reason be nobility in man, 70 

Can aught be more ignoble than the man 
Whom they delight in, blinded as he is 
By prejudice, the miserable slave 
Of low ambition or distempered love ? " 

In such strange passion, if I may once 

more 
Review the past, I warred against myself — 
A bigot to a new idolatry — 
Like a cowled monk who hath forsworn 

the world, 
Zealously laboured to cut off my heart 
From all the sources of her former strength; 
And as, by simple waving of a wand, 8t 
The wizard instantaneously dissolves 
Palace or grove, even so could I unsoul 
As readily by syllogistic words 
Those mysteries of being which have made, 
And shall continue evermore to make, 
Of the whole human race one brotherhood. 

What wonder, then, if, to a mind so far 
Perverted, even the visible Universe 



BOOK XII 



THE PRELUDE 



209 



Fell under the dominion of a taste 90 

Less spiritual, with microscopic view 
Was scanned, as I had scanned the moral 
world ? 

O Soul of Nature ! excellent and fair ! 
That didst rejoice with me, with whom I, 

too, 
Rejoiced through early youth, before the 

winds 
And roaring waters, and in lights and 

shades 
That marched and countermarched about 

the hills 
In glorious apparition, Powers on whom 
I daily waited, now all eye and now 99 

All ear; but never long without the heart 
Employed, and man's unfolding intellect: 

Soul of Nature ! that, by laws divine 
Sustained and governed, still dost overflow 
With an impassioned life, what feeble ones 
Walk on this earth ! how feeble have I 

been 
When thou wert in thy strength ! Nor this 

through stroke 
Of human suffering, such as justifies 
Remissness and inaptitude of mind, 
But through presumption; even in pleasure 

pleased 
Unworthily, disliking here, and there no 
Liking; by rules of mimic art transferred 
To things above all art; but more, — for 

this, 
Although a strong infection of the age, 
Was never much my habit — giving way 
To a comparison of scene with scene, 
Bent overmuch on superficial things, 
Pampering myself with meagre novelties 
Of colour and proportion; to the moods 
Of time and season, to the moral power, 
The affections and the spirit of the place, 
Insensible. Nor only did the love 121 

Of sitting thus in judgment interrupt 
My deeper feelings, but another cause, 
More subtle and less easfly explained, 
That almost seems inherent in the creature, 
A twofold frame of body and of mind. 

1 speak hi recollection of a time 

When the bodily eye, in every stage of life 
The most despotic of our senses, gained 
Such strength in me as often held my mind 
In absolute dominion. Gladly here, 13 1 

Entering upon abstruser argument, 
Could I endeavour to unfold the means 
Which Nature studiously employs to thwart 



This tyranny, summons all the senses each 
To counteract the other, and themselves, 
And makes them all, and the objects with 

which all 
Are conversant, subservient in their turn 
To the great ends of Liberty and Power. 
But leave we this: enough that my de- 
lights 140 
(Such as they were) were sought insatiably. 
Vivid the transport, vivid though not pro- 
found; 
I roamed from hill to hill, from rock to 

rock, 
Still craving combmations of new forms, 
New pleasure, wider empire for the sight, 
Proud of her own endowments, and re- 
joiced 
To lay the inner faculties asleep. 
Amid the turns and counterturns, the strife 
And various trials of our complex being, 
As we grow up, such thraldom of that sense 
Seems hard to shim. And yet I knew a 
maid, 151 

A young enthusiast, who escaped these 

bonds ; 
Her eye was not the mistress of her heart; 
Far less did rules prescribed by passive 

taste, 
Or barren intermeddling subtleties, 
Perplex her mind; but, wise as women are 
When genial circumstance hath favoured 

them, 
She welcomed what was given, and craved 

no more; 
Whate'er the scene presented to her view 
That was the best, to that she was attuned 
By her benign simplicity of life, 161 

And through a perfect happiness of soul, 
Whose variegated feelings were in this 
Sisters, that they were each some new de- 

light. 
Birds in the bower, and lambs in the green 

field, 
Could they have known her, would have 

loved ; methought 
Her very presence such a sweetness breathed, 
That flowers, and trees, and even the silent 

hills, 
And everything she looked on, should have 

had 
An intimation how she bore herself 170 

Towards them and to all creatures. God 

delights 
In such a being; for, her common thoughts 
Are piety, her life is gratitude. 



210 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK XII 



Even like this maid, before I was called 

forth 
From the retirement of my native hills, 
I loved whate'er I saw: nor lightly loved, 
But most intensely ; never dreamt of aught 
More grand, more fair, more exquisitely 

framed 
Than those few nooks to which my happy 

feet 
Were limited. I had not at that time iSo 
Lived long enough, nor in the least sur- 
vived 
The first diviner influence of this world, 
As it appears to unaccustomed eyes. 
Worshipping them among the depth of 

things, 
As piety ordained, could I submit 
To measured admiration, or to aught 
That should preclude humility and love ? 
I felt, observed, and pondered; did not 

judge, 
Yea, never thought of judging; with the gift 
Of all this glory filled and satisfied. igo 

And afterwards, when through the gorgeous 

Alps 
Roaming, I carried with me the same heart : 
In truth, the degradation — howsoe'er 
Induced, effect, in whatsoe'er degree, 
Of custom that prepares a partial scale 
In which the little oft outweighs the great; 
Or any other cause that hath been named ; 
Or lastly, aggravated by the times 
And their impassioned sounds, which well 

might make 
The milder minstrelsies of rural scenes 200 
Inaudible — was transient ; I had known 
Too forcibly, too early in my life, 
Visitings of imaginative power 
For this to last: I shook the habit off 
Entirely and for ever, and again 
In Nature's presence stood, as now I stand, 
A sensitive being, a creative soul. 

There are in our existence spots of time, 
That with distinct pre-eminence retain 209 
A renovating virtue, whence — depressed 
By false opinion and contentious thought, 
Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight, 
In trivial occupations, and the round 
Of ordinary intercourse — our minds 
Are nourished and invisibly repaired; 
A virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced, 
That penetrates, enables us to mount, 
When high, more high, and lifts us up 
when fallen. 



This efficacious spirit chiefly lurks 
Among those passages of life that give 220 
Profoundest knowledge to what point, and 

how, 
The mind is lord and master — outward 

sense 
The obedient servant of her will. Such 

moments 
Are scattered everywhere, taking their date 
From our first childhood. I remember well, 
That once, while yet my inexperienced 

hand 
Could scarcely hold a bridle, with proud 

hopes 
I mounted, and we journeyed towards the 

hills: 
An ancient servant of my father's house 
Was with me, my encourager and guide : 
We had not travelled long, ere some mis- 
chance 231 
Disjoined me from my comrade; and, 

through fear 
Dismounting, down the rough and stony 

moor 
I led my horse, and, stumbling on, at length 
Came to a bottom, where in former times 
A murderer had been hmig hi iron chains. 
The gibbet-mast had mouldered down, the 

bones 
And iron case were gone ; but on the turf, 
Hard by, soon after that fell deed was 

wrought, 
Some unknown hand had carved the mur- 
derer's name. 2^0 
The monumental letters were inscribed 
In times long past; but still, from year to 

year 
By superstition of the neighbourhood, 
The grass is cleared away, and to this hour 
The characters are fresh and visible: 
A casual glance had shown them, and I fled, 
Faltering and faint, and ignorant of the 

road : 
Then, reascending the bare common, saw 
A naked pool that lay beneath the hills, 
The beacon on the summit, and, more near, 
A girl, who bore a pitcher on her head, 2s 1 
And seemed with difficult steps to force 

her way 
Against the blowing wind. It was, in truth, 
An ordinary sight; but I should need 
Colours and words that are unknown to man, 
To paint the visionary dreariness 
Which, while I looked all round for my 

lost guide, 



BOOK XII 



THE PRELUDE 



Invested moorland waste and naked pool, 
The beacon crowning the lone eminence, 
The female and her garments vexed and 

tossed 260 

By the strong wind. When, in the blessed 

hours 
Of early love, the loved one at my side, 
I roamed, in daily presence of this scene, 
Upon the naked pool and dreary crags, 
And on the melancholy beacon, fell 
A spirit of pleasure and youth's golden 

gleam ; 
And think ye not with radiance more sub- 
lime 
For these remembrances, and for the power 
They had left behind ? So feeling comes 

in aid 
Of feeling, and diversity of strength 270 
Attends us, if but once we have been 

strong. 
Oh ! mystery of man, from what a depth 
Proceed thy honours. I am lost, but see 
In simple childhood sdmething of the base 
On which thy greatness stands; but this I 

feel, 
That from thyself it comes, that thou must 

give, 
Else never canst receive. The days gone by 
Return upon me almost from the dawn 
Of life: the hiding-places of man's power 
Open; I would approach them, but they 

close. 2S0 

I see by glimpses now; Avhen age comes on, 

: May scarcely see at all; and I would give, 

While yet we may, as far as words can 

give, 
Substance and life to what I feel, enshrin- 

Such is my hope, the spirit of the Past 
I For f uture restoration. — Yet another 

Of these memorials : — 

One Christmas-time, 

On the glad eve of its dear holidays, 

Feverish, and tired, and restless, I went 
forth 

Into the fields, impatient for the sight 290 

Of those led palfreys that should bear us 
home ; 

My brothers and myself. There rose a 
crag, 

That, from the meeting-point of two high- 
ways 

Ascending, overlooked them both, far 
stretched ; 

Thither, uncertain on which road to fix 



My expectation, thither I repaired, 
Scout-like, and gamed the summit; 'twas 

a day 
Tempestuous, dark, and wild, and on the 

grass 
I sate half-sheltered by a naked wall; 
Upon my right hand couched a single 

sheep, 300 

Upon my left a blasted hawthorn stood ; 
With those companions at my side, I 

watched, 
Straining my eyes intensely, as the mist 
Gave intermitting prospect of the copse 
And plain beneath. Ere we to school re- 
turned, — 
That dreary time, — ere we had been ten 

days 
Sojourners in my father's house, he died ; 
And I and my three brothers, orphans then, 
Followed his body to the grave. The 

event, 
With all the sorrow that it brought, ap- 
peared 310 
A chastisement; and when I called to mind 
That day so lately past, when from the 

crag 
I looked in such anxiety of hope ; 
With trite reflections of morality, 
Yet in the deepest passion, I bowed low 
To God, Who thus corrected my desires; 
And, afterwards, the wind and sleety rain, 
And all the business of the elements, 
The single sheep, and the one blasted tree, 
And the bleak music from that old stone 

wall, 320 

The noise of wood and water, and the mist 
That on the line of each of those two roads 
Advanced in such indisputable shapes; 
All these were kindred spectacles and 

sounds 
To which I oft repaired, and thence would 

drink, 
As at a fountain; and on winter nights, 
Down to this very time, when storm and 

rain 
Beat on my roof, or, haply, at noon-day, 
While in a grove I walk, whose lofty trees, 
Laden with summer's thickest foliage, rock 
In a strong wind, some working of the 

spirit, 33, 

Some inward agitations thence are brought, 
Whate'er their office, whether to beguile 
Thoughts over busy in the course they 

took, 
Or animate an hour of vacant ease. 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK XIII 



BOOK THIRTEENTH 

IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED 
AND RESTORED (concluded) 

From Nature doth emotion come, and 

moods 
Of calmness equally are Nature's gift: 
This is her glory ; these two attributes 
Are sister horns that constitute her strength. 
Hence Genius, born to thrive by inter- 
change 
Of peace and excitation, finds in her 
His best and purest friend; from her re- 
ceives 
That energy by which he seeks the truth, 
From her that happy stillness of the mind 
Which fits him to receive it when unsought. 

Such benefit the humblest intellects n 
Partake of, each in their degree ; 't is mine 
To speak, what I myself have known and 

felt; 
Smooth task ! for words find easy way, in- 
spired 
By gratitude, and confidence in truth. 
Long time hi search of knowledge did I 

range 
The field of human life, hi heart and mind 
Benighted; but, the dawn beginning now 
To re-appear, 't was proved that not hi vain 
I had been taught to reverence a Power 20 
That is the visible quality and shape 
And image of right reason ; that matures 
Her processes by steadfast laws ; gives birth 
To no impatient or fallacious hopes, 
No heat of passion or excessive zeal, 
No vain conceits; provokes to no quick 

turns 
Of self -applauding intellect; but trains 
To meekness, and exalts by humble faith; 
Holds up before the mind intoxicate 
With present objects, and the busy dance 30 
Of things that pass away, a temperate show 
Of objects that endure; and by this course 
Disposes her, when over-fondly set 
On throwhig off incumbrances, to seek 
In man, and in the frame of social life, 
Whate'er there is desirable and good 
Of kindred permanence, unchanged in form 
And function, or, through strict vicissitude 
Of life and death, revolving. Above all 
Were re-established now those watchful 
thoughts 40 

Which, seeing little worthy or sublime 
In what the Historian's pen so much delights 



To blazon — power and energy detached 
From moral purpose — early tutored me 
To look with feelings of fraternal love 
Upon the unassuming things that hold 
A sdent station in this beauteous world. 

Thus moderated, thus composed, I found 
Once more in Man an object of delight, 
Of pure imagination, and of love; 50 

And, as the horizon of my mind enlarged, 
Again I took the intellectual eye 
For my instructor, studious more to see 
Great truths, than touch and handle little 

ones. 
Knowledge was given accordingly ; my trust 
Became more firm in f eelings that had stood 
The test of such a trial; clearer far 
My sense of excellence — of right and 

wrong: 
The promise of the present time retired 59 
Into its true proportion ; sanguine schemes, 
Ambitious projects, pleased me less; I sought 
For present good in life's familiar face, 
And built thereon my hopes of good to come. 

With settling judgments now of what 
would last 
And what would disappear; prepared to 

find 
Presumption, folly, madness, in the men 
Who thrust themselves upon the passive 

world 
As Rulers of the world; to see in these, 
Even when the public welfare is their aim, 
Plans without thought, or built on theories 
Vague and unsound; and having brought 
the books 71 

Of modern statists to their proper test, 
Life, human life, with all its sacred claims 
Of sex and age, and heaven - descended 

rights, 
Mortal, or those beyond the reach of death; 
And having thus discerned how dire a thing 
Is worshipped in that idol proudly named 
" The Wealth of Nations," where alone that 

wealth 
Is lodged, and how increased; and having 

gamed 
A more judicious knowledge of the worth 
And dignity of individual man, Si 

No composition of the brain, but man 
Of whom we read, the man whom we be- 
hold 
With our own eyes — I could not but en- 
quire — 



BOOK XIII 



THE PRELUDE 



213 



Not with less interest than heretofore, 
But greater, though in spirit more sub- 
clued — 
Why is this glorious creature to be found 
One only in ten thousand ? What one is, 
Why may not millions be ? What bars are 

thrown 
By Nature in the way of such a hope ? 90 
Our animal appetites and daily wants, 
Are these obstructions insurmountable ? 
If not, then others vanish into air. 
" Inspect the basis of the social pile: 
Enquire," said I, " how much of mental 

power 
And genuine virtue they possess who live 
By bodily toil, labour exceeding far 
Their due proportion, under all the weight 
Of that injustice which upon ourselves 99 
Ourselves entail." Such estimate to frame 
I chiefly looked (what need to look beyond ?) 
Among the natural abodes of men, 
Fields with their rural works; recalled to 

mind 
My earliest notices; with these compared 
The observations made in later youth, 
And to that day continued. — For, the time 
Had never been when throes of mighty 

Nations 
And the world's tumult unto me could yield, 
How far soe'er transported and possessed, 
Full measm*e of content ; but still I craved 
An intermingling of distinct regards m 
And truths of individual sympathy 
Nearer ourselves. Such often might be 

gleaned 
From the great City, else it must have 

proved 
To me a heart-depressing wilderness ; 
But much was wanting: therefore did I turn 
To you, ye pathways, and ye lonely roads; 
Sought you enriched with everything I 

prized, 
With human kindnesses and simple joys. 

Oh ! next to one dear state of bliss, 
vouchsafed, 120 

Alas ! to few in this untoward world, 
The bliss of walking daily in life's prime 
Through field or forest with the maid we 

love, 
While yet our hearts are young, while yet 

we breathe 
Nothing but happiness, in some lone nook, 
Deep vale, or anywhere, the home of both, 
From which it would be misery to stir: 



Oh ! next to such enjoyment of our youth, 
In my esteem, next to such dear delight, 
Was that of wandering on from day to day 
Where I could meditate ha peace, and cull 
Knowledge that step by step might lead 
me on 132 

To wisdom; or, as lightsome as a bird 
Wafted upon the whid from distant lands, 
Sing notes of greeting to strange fields or 

groves, 
Which lacked not voice to welcome me in 

turn ; 
And, when that pleasant toil had ceased to 

please, 
Converse with men, where if we meet a face 
We almost meet a friend, on naked heaths 
With long long ways before, by cottage 
bench, 140 

Or well-spring where the weary traveller- 
rests. 

Who doth not love to follow with his eye 
The windings of a public way ? the sight, 
Familiar object as it is, hath wrought 
On my imagination since the morn 
Of childhood, when a disappearing line, 
One daily present to my eyes, that crossed 
The naked summit of a far-off hill 
Beyond the limits that my feet had trod, 
Was like an invitation into space 150 

Boundless, or guide into eternity. 
Yes, something of the grandeur which in- 
vests 
The mariner, who sails the roaring sea 
Through storm and darkness, early in my 

mind 
Surrounded, too, the wanderers of the earth; 
Grandeur as much, and loveliness far more. 
Awed have I been by strolling Bedlamites ; 
From many other uncouth vagrants (passed 
In fear) have walked with quicker step ; but 

why 
Take note of this ? When I began to en- 
quire, 160 
To watch and question those I met, and 

speak 
Without reserve to them, the lonely roads 
Were open schools in which I daily read 
With most delight the passions of mankind, 
Whether by words, looks, sighs, or tears, 

revealed ; 
There saw into the depth of human souls, 
Souls that appear to have no depth at all 
To careless eyes. And — now convinced at 
heart 



214 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK XIII 



How little those formalities, to which 
With overweening trust alone we give 170 
The name of Education, have to do 
With real feeling and just sense; how vain 
A correspondence with the talking world 
Proves to the most ; and called to make good 

search 
If man's estate, by doom of Nature yoked 
With toil, be therefore yoked with igno- 
rance ; 
If virtue be indeed so hard to rear, 
And intellectual strength so rare a boon — 
I prized such walks still more, for there I 

found 
Hope to my hope, and to my pleasure peace 
And steadiness, and healing and repose 181 
To every angry passion. There I heard, 
From mouths of men obscure and lowly, 

truths 
Replete with honour; sounds in unison 
With loftiest promises of good and fair. 

There are who think that strong affection, 

love 
Known by whatever name, is falsely deemed 
A gift, to use a term which they would use, 
Of vulgar nature ; that its growth requires 
Retirement, leisure, language purified 190 
By manners studied and elaborate; 
That whoso feels such passion in its strength 
Must live within the very light and air 
Of courteous usages refined by art. 
True is it, where oppression worse than 

death 
Salutes the being at his birth, where grace 
Of culture hath been utterly unknown, 
And poverty and labour in excess 
From day to day pre-occupy the ground 
Of the affections, and to Nature's self 200 
Oppose a deeper nature; there, indeed, 
Love cannot be ; nor does it thrive with ease 
Among the close and overcrowded haunts 
Of cities, where the human heart is sick, 
And the eye feeds it not, and cannot feed. 
— Yes, in those wanderings deeply did I 

feel 
How we mislead each other; above all, 
How books mislead us, seeking their reward 
From judgments of the wealthy Few, who 

see 
By artificial lights; how they debase 210 
The Many for the pleasure of those Few; 
Effeminately level down the truth 
To certain general notions, for the sake 
Of being understood at once, or else 



Through want of better knowledge in the 

heads 
That framed them; flattering self-conceit 

with words, 
That, while they most ambitiously set forth 
Extrinsic differences, the outward marks 
Whereby society has parted man 
From man, neglect the universal heart. 220 

Here, calling up to inind what then I 

saw, 
A youthful traveller, and see daily now 
In the familiar circuit of my home, 
Here might I pause, and bend in reverence 
To Nature, and the power of human minds, 
To men as they are men within themselves. 
/How oft high service is performed within, 
When all the external man is rude in 

show, — 
Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold, 
But a mere mountain chapel, that pro- 
tects 230 
Its simple worshippers from sim and 

shower. 
[£)f these, said I, shall be my song; of these,_j. 
If future years mature me for the task, 
Will I record the praises, making verse 
Deal boldly with substantial thmgs; in 

truth 
And sanctity of passion, speak of these, 
That justice may be done, obeisance paid 
Where it is due: thus haply shall I teach, 
Inspire; through unadulterated ears 
Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope, — my 

theme 240 

No other than the very heart of man, 
As found among the best of those who 

live — 
Not unexalted by religious faith, 
Nor uninformed by books, good books, 

though few — 
In Nature's presence: thence may I select 
Sorrow, that is not sorrow, but delight; 
And miserable love, that is not pain 
To hear of, for the glory that redounds 
Therefrom to human kind, and what we 

are. 
Be mine to follow with no timid step 250 
Where knowledge leads me : it shall be my 

pride 
That I have dared to tread this holy 

ground, 
Speaking no dream, but things oracular; 
Matter not lightly to be heard by those 
Who to the letter of the outward promise 



BOOK XIII 



THE PRELUDE 



215 



Do read the invisible soul; by men adroit 
In speech, and for communion with the 

world 
Accomplished; minds whose faculties are 

then 
Most active when they are most eloquent, 
And elevated most when most admired. 260 
Men may be found of other mould than 

these, 
Who are their own upholders, to them- 
selves 
Encouragement, and energy, and will, 
Expressing liveliest thoughts hi lively 

words 
As native passion dictates. Others, too, 
There are among the walks of homely life 
Still higher, men for contemplation framed, 
Shy, and unpractised in the strife of 

phrase ; 
Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would 

sink 
Beneath them, summoned to such inter- 
course: 270 
Theirs is the language of the heavens, the 

power, 
The thought, the image, and the silent 

joy: 
Words are but under-agents in their souls; 
When they are grasping with their greatest 

strength, 
They do not breathe among them: this I 

speak 
In gratitude to God, Who feeds our hearts 
For His own service ; knoweth, loveth us, 
When we are unregarded by the world. 

Also, about this time did I receive 
Convictions still more strong than hereto- 
fore, 2 So 
Not only that the inner frame is good, 
And graciously composed, but that, no less, 
Nature for all conditions wants not power 
To consecrate, if we have eyes to see, 
The outside of her creatures, and to breathe 
Grandeur upon the very humblest face 
Of human life. I felt that the array 
Of act and circumstance, and visible form, 
Is mainly to the pleasure of the mind 
What passion makes them ; that meanwhile 
the forms 290 
Of Nature have a passion in themselves, 
That intermingles with those works of man 
To which she summons him; although the 

works 
Be mean, have nothing lofty of their own; 



And that the Genius of the Poet hence 
May boldly take his way among mankind 
Wherever Nature leads; that he hath 

stood 
By Nature's side among the men of old, 
And so shall stand for ever. Dearest 

Friend ! 
If thou partake the animating faith 300 

That Poets, even as Prophets, each with 

each 
Connected in a mighty scheme of truth, 
Have each his own peculiar faculty, 
Heaven's gift, a sense that fits him to per- 
ceive 
Objects unseen before, thou wilt not blame 
The humblest of this band who dares to 

hope 
That unto him hath also been vouchsafed 
An insight that hi some sort he possesses, 
A privilege whereby a work of his, 
Proceeding from a source of untaught 
_ things, 3 10 

Creative and enduring, may become 
A power like one of Nature's. To a hope 
Not less ambitious once among the wilds 
Of Sarum's Plain, my youthful spirit was 

raised ; 
There, as I ranged at will the pastoral 

downs 
Trackless and smooth, or paced the bare 

white roads 
Lengthening in solitude their dreary line, 
Time with his retinue of ages fled 
Backwards, nor checked his ilight until I 

saw 
Our dim ancestral Past in vision clear; 320 
Saw multitudes of men, and, here and 

there, 
A single Briton clothed in wolf-skin vest, 
With shield and stone-axe, stride across the 

wold; 
The voice of spears was heard, the rattling 

spear 
Shaken by arms of mighty bone, in 

strength, 
Long mouldered, of barbaric majesty. 
I called on Darkness — but before the word 
Was uttered, midnight darkness seemed to 

take 
All objects from my sight; and lo ! again 
The Desert visible by dismal flames; 330 
It is the sacrificial altar, fed 
With living men — how deep the groans J 

the voice 
Of those that crowd the giant wicker thrills 



2l6 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK XIV 



The monumental hillocks, and the pomp 
Is for both worlds, the living and the dead. 
At other moments — (for through that 

wide waste 
Three summer days I roamed) where'er 

the Plain 
Was figured o'er with circles, lines, or 

mounds, 
That yet survive, a work, as some divine, 
Shaped by the Druids, so to represent 340 
Their knowledge of the heavens, and image 

forth 
The constellations — gently was I charmed 
Into a waking dream, a reverie 
That, with believing eyes, where'er I 

turned, 
Beheld long-bearded teachers, with white 

wands 
Uplifted, pointing to the starry sky, 
Alternately, and plain below, while breath 
Of music swayed their motions, and the 

waste 
Rejoiced with them and me in those sweet 

sounds. 

This for the past, and things that may 

be viewed 35° 

Or fancied in the obscurity of years 
From monumental hints: and thou, O 

Friend ! 
Pleased with some unpremeditated strains 
That served those wanderings to beguile, 

hast said 
That then and there my mind had exercised 
Upon the vulgar forms of present things, 
The actual world of our familiar days, 
Yet higher power; had caught from them 

a tone, 
An image, and a character, by books 
Not hitherto reflected. Call we this 360 
A partial judgment — and yet why? for 

then 
We were as strangers; and I may not 

speak 
Thus wrongfully of verse, however rude, 
Which on thy yoxmg imagination, trained 
In the great City, broke like light from 

far. 
Moreover, each man's Mind is to herself 
Witness and judge ; and I remember well 
That in life's every-day appearances 
I seemed about this time to gain clear sight 
Of a new world — a world, too, that was fit 
To be transmitted, and to other eyes 371 
Made visible ; as ruled by those fixed laws 



Whence spiritual dignity originates, 
Which do both give it being and maintain 
A balance, an ennobling interchange 
Of action from without and from within; 
The excellence, pure function, and best 

power 
Both of the objects seen, and eye that sees. 



BOOK FOURTEENTH 

CONCLUSION 

In one of those excursions (may they ne'er 
Fade from remembrance !) through the 

Northern tracts 
Of Cambria ranging with a youthful friend, 
I left Bethgelert's huts at couching-time, 
And westward took my way, to see the sun 
Rise, from the top of Snowdon. To the 

door 
Of a rude cottage at the mountain's base 
We came, and roused the shepherd who 

attends 
The adventurous stranger's steps, a trusty 

guide; 
Then, cheered by short refreshment, sallied 

forth. 10 

It was a close, warm, breezeless summer 

night, 
Wan, dull, and glaring, with a dripping fog 
Low-hung and thick that covered all the 

sky; 
But, undiscouraged, we began to climb 
The mountain-side. The mist soon girt us 

round, 
And, after ordinary travellers' talk 
With our conductor, pensively we sank 
Each into commerce with his private 

thoughts: 
Thus did we breast the ascent, and by my- 
self 
Was nothing either seen or heard that 

checked 20 

Those musings or diverted, save that once 
The shepherd's lurcher, who, among the 

crags, 
Had to his joy unearthed a hedgehog, teased 
His coiled-up prey with barkings turbident. 
This small adventure, for even such it 

seemed 
In that wild place and at the dead of night, 
Being over and forgotten, on we wound 
In silence as before. With forehead bent 
Earthward, as if in opposition set 



BOOK XIV 



THE PRELUDE 



217 



Against an enemy, I panted np 30 

With eager pace, and no less eager thoughts. 
Thus might we wear a midnight hour away, 
Ascending at loose distance each from each, 
And I, as chanced, the foremost of the 

band; 
When at my feet the ground appeared to 

brighten, 
And with a step or two seemed brighter 

still; 
Nor was time given to ask or learn the 

cause, 
For instantly a light upon the turf 
Fell like a flash, and lo ! as I looked up 
The Moon hung naked in a firmament 40 
Of azure without cloud, and at my feet 
Rested a silent sea of hoary mist. 
A hundred hills their dusky backs upheaved 
All over this still ocean; and beyond, 
Far, far beyond, the solid vapours stretched, 
In headlands, tongues, and promontory 

shapes, 
Into the main Atlantic, that appeared 
To dwindle, and give up his majesty, 
Usurped upon far as the sight could reach. 
Not so the ethereal vault; encroachment 

none 50 

Was there, nor loss; only the inferior stars 
Had disappeared, or shed a fainter light 
In the clear presence of the full-orbed Moon, 
Who, from her sovereign elevation, gazed 
Upon the billowy ocean, as it lay 
All meek and silent, save that through a 

rift — 
Not distant from the shore whereon we 

stood, 
A fixed, abysmal, gloomy, breathing- 
place — 
Moimted the roar of waters, torrents, 

streams 
Innumerable, roaring with one voice ! 60 
Heard over earth and sea, and, in that hour, 
For so it seemed, felt by the starry heavens. 

When into air had partially dissolved 
That vision, given to spirits of the night 
And three chance human wanderers, in cairn 

thought 
Reflected, it appeared to me the type 
Of a majestic intellect, its acts 
And its possessions, what it has and craves, 
What in itself it is, and would become. 
There I beheld the emblem of a miiid 70 
That feeds upon infinity, that broods 
Over the dark abyss, intent to hear 



Its voices issuing forth to silent light 
In one continuous stream ; a mind sustained 
By recognitions of transcendent power, 
In sense conducting to ideal form, 
In soul of more than mortal privilege. 
One function, above all, of such a mind 
Had Nature shadowed there, by putting 

forth, 
'Mid circumstances awful and sublime, 80 
That mutual domination which she loves 
To exert upon the face of outward things, 
So moulded, joined, abstracted, so endowed 
With interchangeable supremacy, 
That men, least sensitive, see, hear, per- 
ceive, 
And cannot choose but feel. The power, 

which all 
Acknowledge when thus moved, which Na- 
ture thus 
To bodily sense exhibits, is the express 
Resemblance of that glorious faculty 
That higher minds bear with them as their 
own. 90 

This is the very spirit in which they deal 
With the whole compass of the universe: 
They from their native selves can send 

abroad 
Kindred mutations; for themselves create 
A like existence; and, whene'er it dawns 
Created for them, catch it, or are caught 
By its inevitable mastery, 
Like angels stopped upon the wing by sound 
Of harmony from Heaven's remotest 

spheres. 
Them the enduring and the transient both 
Serve to exalt; they build up greatest 
things 10 1 

From least suggestions; ever on the watch, 
Willing to work and to be wrought upon, 
They need not extraordinary calls 
To rouse them; in a world of life they 

live, 
By sensible impressions not enthralled, 
But by their quickening impulse made more 

prompt 
To hold fit converse with the spiritual world, 
And with the generations of mankind 
Spread over time, past, present, and to 
come, no 

Age after age, till Time shall be no more. 
Such minds are truly from the Deity, 
For they are Powers; and hence the high- 
est bliss 
That flesh can know is theirs — the con- 
sciousness 



2l8 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK XIV 



Of Whom they are, habitually infused 
Through every image and through every 

thought, 
And all affections by communion raised 
From earth to heaven, from human to di- 
vine ; 
Hence endless occupation for the Soul, 
Whether discursive or intuitive; 120 

Hence cheerfulness for acts of daily life, 
Emotions which best foresight need not fear, 
Most worthy then of trust when most in- 
tense. 
Hence, amid ills that vex and wrongs that 

crush 
Our hearts — if here the words of Holy Writ 
May with fit reverence be applied — that 

peace 
Which passeth understanding, that repose 
In moral judgments which from this pure 

source 
Must come, or will by man be sought in vain. 

Oh ! who is he that hath his whole life 
long 130 

Preserved, enlarged, this freedom in him- 
self ? 
For this alone is genuine liberty : 
Where is the favoured being who hath held 
That course unchecked, unerring, and un- 

tired, 
In one perpetual progress smooth and 

bright ? — 
A humbler destiny have we retraced, 
And told of lapse and hesitating choice, 
And backward wanderings along thorny 

ways: 
Yet — compassed round by mountain soli- 
tudes, 
Within whose solemn temple I received 140 
My earliest visitations, careless then 
Of what was given me; and which now I 

range, 
A meditative, oft a suffering, man — 
Do I declare — in accents which, from 

truth 
Deriving cheerfid confidence, shall blend 
Their modulation with these vocal streams — 
That, whatsoever falls my better mind, 
Revolving with the accidents of life, 
May have sustained, that, howsoe'er mis- 
led, 
Never did I, in quest of right and wrong, 150 
Tamper with conscience from a private 

aim; 
Nor was in any public hope the dupe 



Of selfish passions ; nor did ever yield 
Wilfully to mean cares or low pursuits, 
But shrunk with apprehensive jealousy " 
From every combination which might aid 
The tendency, too potent in itself, 
Of use and custom to bow down the soid 
Under a growing weight of vulgar sense, 
And substitute a universe of death 160 

For that which moves with light and life 

informed, 
Actual, divine, and true. To fear and love, 
To love as prime and chief, for there fear 

ends, 
Be this ascribed; to early intercourse, 
In presence of sublime or beautiful forms, 
With the adverse principles of pain and 

joy — 
Evil as one is rashly named by men 
Who know not what they speak. By love 

subsists 
All lasting grandeur, by pervading love; 
That gone, we are as dust. — Behold the 

fields 170 

In balmy spring-time full of rising flowers 
And joyous creatures; see that pair, the 

lamb 
And the lamb's mother, and their tender 

ways 
Shall touch thee to the heart; thou callest 

this love, 
And not inaptly so, for love it is, 
Far as it carries thee. In some green 

bower 
Rest, and be not alone, but have thou there 
The One who is thy choice of all the world : 
There linger, listening, gazing, with delight 
Impassioned, but delight how pitiable ! 180 
Unless this love by a still higher love 
Be hallowed, love that breathes not without 

awe; 
Love that adores, but on the knees of 

prayer, 
By heaven inspired; that frees from chains 

the soul, 
Lifted, in union with the purest, best, 
Of earth-born passions, on the wings of 

praise 
Bearing a tribute to the Almighty's Throne. 

This spiritual Love acts not nor can exist 
Without Imagination, which, in truth, 
Is but another name for absolute power 190 
And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, 
And Reason in her most exalted mood. 
This faculty hath been the feeding source 



BOOK XIV 



THE PRELUDE 



219 



Of our long labour: we have traced the 

stream 
From the blind cavern whence is faintly 

heard 
Its natal murmur; followed it to light 
And open day; accompanied its course 
Among the ways of Nature, for a time 
Lost sight of it bewildered and engulphed; 
Then given it greeting as it rose once 

more 200 

In strength, reflecting from its placid breast 
The works of man and face of human life; 
And lastly, from its progress have we 

drawn 
Faith in life endless, the sustaining thought 
Of human Being, Eternity, and God. 

Imagination having been our theme, 
So also hath that intellectual Love, 
For they are each in each, and cannot stand 
Dividually. — Here must thou be, O Man ! 
Power to thyself; no Helper hast thou 

here; 210 

Here keepest thou in singleness thy state: 
No other can divide with thee this work: 
No secondary hand can intervene 
To fashion this ability; 'tis thine, 
The prime and vital principle is thine 
In the recesses of thy nature, far 
From any reach of outward fellowship, 
Else is not thine at all. But joy to him, 
Oh, joy to him who here hath sown, hath 

laid 
Here, the foundation of his future years ! 220 
For all that friendship, all that love can do, 
All that a darling countenance can look 
Or dear voice utter, to complete the man, 
Perfect him, made imperfect in himself, 
All shall be his: and he whose soul hath 

risen 
Up to the height of feeling intellect 
Shall want no humbler tenderness; his 

heart 
Be tender as a nursing mother's heart; 
Of female softness shall his life be full, 
Of humble cares and delicate desires, 230 
Mild interests and gentlest sympathies. 

Child of my parents ! Sister of my soul ! 
Thanks in sincerest verse have been else- 
where 
Poured out for all the early tenderness 
Which I from thee imbibed: and 'tis most 

true 
That later seasons owed to thee no less; 



For, spite of thy sweet influence and the 

touch 
Of kindred hands that opened out the 

springs 
Of genial thought in childhood, and in spite 
Of all that unassisted I had marked 240 
In life or nature of those charms minute 
That win their way into the heart by 

stealth 
(Still to the very going-out of youth) 
I too exclusively esteemed that love, 
And sought that beauty, which, as Milton 

sings, 
Hath terror hi it. Thou didst soften down 
This over-sternness; but for thee, dear 

Friend ! 
My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had 

stood 
In her original self too confident, 
Retained too long a countenance severe; 250 
A rock with torrents roaring, with the 

clouds 
Familiar, and a favourite of the stars: 
But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers, 
Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the 

breeze, 
And teach the little birds to build their 

nests 
And warble in its chambers. At a time 
When Nature, destined to remain so long 
Foremost in my affections, had fallen back 
Into a second place, pleased to become 
A handmaid to a nobler than herself, 260 
When every day brought with it some new 

sense 
Of exquisite regard for common things, 
And all the earth was budding with these 

gifts 
Of more refined humanity, thy breath, 
Dear Sister ! was a kind of gentler spring 
That went before my steps. Thereafter 

came 
One whom with thee friendship had early 

paired ; 
She came, no more a phantom to adorn 
A moment, but an inmate of the heart, 
And yet a spirit, there for me enshrined 270 
To penetrate the lofty and the low; 
Even as one essence of pervading light 
Shines, in the brightest of ten thousand stars 
And the meek worm that feeds her lonely 

lamp 
Couched in the dewy grass. 

With such a theme, 
Coleridge ! with this my argument, of thee 



220 



THE PRELUDE 



BOOK XIV 



Shall I be silent ? O capacious Soul ! 
Placed on this earth to love and understand, 
And from thy presence shed the light of 

love, 
Shall I be mute, ere thou be spoken of ? 2S0 
Thy kindred influence to my heart of hearts 
Did also find its way. Thus fear relaxed 
Her overweening grasp; thus thoughts and 

things 
In the self -haunting spirit learned to take 
More rational proportions; mystery, 
The incumbent mystery of sense and soul, 
Of life and death, time and eternity, 
Admitted more habitually a mild 
Interposition ■ — a serene delight 
In closelier gathering cares, such as become 
A human creature, howsoe'er endowed, 291 
Poet, or destined for a humbler name; 
And so the deep enthusiastic joy, 
The rapture of the hallelujah sent 
From all that breathes and is, was chastened, 

stemmed 
And balanced by pathetic truth, by trust 
In hopeful reason, leaning on the stay 
Of Providence ; and in reverence for duty, 
Here, if need be, struggling with storms, 

and there 
Strewing in peace life's humblest ground 

with herbs, 300 

At every season green, sweet at all hours. 

And now, O Friend ! this history is 

brought 
To its appointed close: the discipline 
And consummation of a Poet's mind, 
In everything that stood most prominent, 
Have faithfully been pictured; we have 

reached 
The time (our guiding object from the first) 
When we may, not presumptuously, I hope, 
Suppose my powers so far confirmed, and 

such 
My knowledge, as to make me capable 310 
Of building up a Work that shall endure. 
Yet much hath been omitted, as need was; 
Of books how much ! and even of the other 

wealth 
That is collected among woods and fields, 
Far more: for Nature's secondary grace 
Hath hitherto been barely touched upon, 
The charm more superficial that attends 
Her works, as they present to Fancy's choice 
Apt illustrations of the moral world, 
Caught at a glance, or traced with curious 

pains. 320 



Finally, and above all, Friend ! (1 

speak 
With due regret) how much is overlooked 
In human nature and her subtle ways, 
As studied first in our own hearts, and then 
In life among the passions of mankind, 
Varying their composition and their hue, 
Where'er we move, under the diverse shapes 
That individual character presents 
To an attentive eye. For progress meet, 
Along this intricate and difficult path, 330 
Whate'er was wanting, something had 1 

gained, 
As one of many schoolfellows compelled, 
In hardy independence, to stand up 
Amid conflicting interests, and the shock 
Of various tempers; to endure and note 
What was not understood, though known 

to be; 
Among the mysteries of love and hate, 
Honour and shame, looking to right and 

left, 
Unchecked by innocence too delicate, 
And moral notions too intolerant, 340 

Sympathies too contracted. Hence, when 

called 
To take a station among men, the step 
Was easier, the transition more secure, 
More profitable also; for, the mind 
Learns from such timely exercise to keep 
In wholesome separation the two natures, 
The one that feels, the other that observes. 

Yet one word more of personal concern; — ■ 
Since I withdrew unwillingly from France, 
I led an undomestic wanderer's life 350 

In London chiefly harboured, whence I 

roamed, 
Tarrying at will in many a pleasant spot 
Of rural England's cultivated vales 
Or Cambrian solitudes. A youth — (he 

bore 
The name of Calvert — it shall live, if 

words 
Of mine can give it life,) in firm belief 
That by endowments not from me withheld 
Good might be furthered — in his last decay 
By a bequest sufficient for my needs 
Enabled me to pause for choice, and walk 
At large and unrestrained ; nor damped too 

soon 361 

By mortal cares. Himself no Poet, yet 
Far less a common follower of the world, 
He deemed that my pursuits and labourc 

lay 



BOOK XIV 



THE PRELUDE 



221 



Apart from all that leads to wealth, or 

even 
A necessary maintenance insures, 
Without some hazard to the finer sense; 
He cleared a passage for me, and the stream 
Flowed in the bent of Nature. 

Having now 
Told what best merits mention, further 

pains 370 

Our present purpose seems not to require, 
And I have other tasks. Recall to mind 
The mood in which this labour was begun, 

Friend ! The termination of my course 
Is nearer now, much nearer; yet even then, 
In that distraction and intense desire, 

1 said unto the life which I had lived, 
Where art thou ? Hear I not a voice from 

thee 
Which 't is reproach to hear ? Anon I rose 
As if on wings, and saw beneath me 

stretched 3S0 

Vast prospect of the world which I had 

been 
And was; and hence this Song, which, like 

a lark, 
I have protracted, in the unwearied heavens 
Singing, and often with more plaintive 

voice 
To earth attempered and her deep-drawn 

sighs, 
Yet centring all in love, and in the end 
All gratulant, if rightly understood. 

Whether to me shall be allotted life, 
And, with life, power to accomplish aught 

of worth, 
That will be deemed no insufficient plea 390 
For having given the story of myself, 
Is all uncertain: but, beloved Friend ! 
When, looking back, thou seest, in clearer 

view 
Than any liveliest sight of yesterday, 
That summer, under whose indulgent skies, 
Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we 

roved 
Unchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan 

combs, 
Thou in bewitching words, with happy 

heart, 
Didst chaunt the vision of that Ancient 

Man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner, and rueful woes 
Didst utter of the Lady Christabel; 401 
And I, associate with such labour, steeped 
In soft forgetfulness the livelong hours, 



Murmuring of him who, joyous hap, was 

found, 
After the perils of his moonlight ride, 
Near the loud waterfall; or her who sate 
In misery near the miserable Thorn — 
When thou dost to that summer turn thy 

thoughts, 
And hast before thee all which then we 

were, 
To thee, in memory of that happiness, 410 
It will be known, by thee at least, my 

Friend ! 
Felt, that the history of a Poet's mind 
Is labour not unworthy of regard; 
To thee the work shall justify itself. 

The last and later portions of this gift 
Have been prepared, not with the buoyant 

spirits 
That were our daily portion when we first 
Together wantoned in wild Poesy, 
But, under pressure of a private grief, 
Keen and enduring, which the mind and 

heart, 420 

That in this meditative history 
Have been laid open, needs must make me 

feel 
More deeply, yet enable me to bear 
More firmly; and a comfort now hath risen 
From hope that thou art near, and wilt be 

soon 
Restored to us in renovated health; 
When, after the first mingling of our tears, 
'Mong other consolations, we may draw 
Some pleasure from this offering of my love. 

Oh ! yet a few short years of useful life, 
And all will be complete, thy race he run, 
Thy monument of glory will be raised; 432 
Then, though (too weak to tread the ways 

of truth) 
This age fall back to old idolatry, 
Though men return to servitude as fast 
As the tide ebbs, to ignominy and shame, 
By nations, sink together, we shall still 
Find solace — knowing what we have learnt 

to know, 
Rich in true happiness if allowed to be 
Faithful alike in forwarding a day 44 o 

Of firmer trust, joint labourers in the work 
(Should Providence such grace to us vouch- 
safe) 
Of their deliverance, surely yet to come. 
Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak 
A lasting inspiration, sanctified 



THE RECLUSE 



By reason, blest by faith: what we have 

loved, 
Others will love, and we will teach them 

how; 
Instruct them how the mind of man becomes 
A thousand times more beautiful than the 

earth 



On which he dwells, above this frame of 
things 45 o 

(Which, 'mid all revolution hi the hopes 
And fears of men, doth still remain un- 
changed) 
In beauty exalted, as it is itself 
Of quality and fabric more divine. 



THE RECLUSE 
1800 (?). 1888 



PART FIRST 



BOOK FIRST — HOME AT GRASMERE 

Once to the verge of yon steep barrier 

came 
A roving school-boy ; what the adventurer's 

age 
Hath now escaped his memory — but the 

hour, 
One of a golden summer holiday, 
He well remembers, though the year be 

gone — 
Alone and devious from afar he came; 
And, with a sudden influx overpowered 
At sight of this seclusion, he forgot 
His haste, for hasty had his footsteps been 
As boyish his pursuits; and sighing said, 10 
" What happy fortune were it here to live ! 
And, if a thought of dying, if a thought 
Of mortal separation, could intrude 
With paradise before him, here to die ! " 
No Prophet was he, had not even a hope, 
Scarcely a wish, but one bright pleasing 

thought, 
A fancy in the heart of what might be 
The lot of others, never could be his. 

The station whence he looked was soft 

and green, 
Not giddy yet aerial, with a depth 20 

Of vale below, a height of hills above. 
For rest of body perfect was the spot, 
All that luxurious nature could desire ; 
But stirring to the spirit; who could gaze 
And not feel motions there ? He thought 

of clouds 
That sail on winds: of breezes that delight 
To play on water, or in endless chase 
Pursue each other through the yielding 

plain 
Of grass or corn, over and through and 

through, 



In billow after billow, evermore 30 

Disporting — nor unmindful was the boy 
Of sunbeams, shadows, butterflies and birds; 
Of fluttering sylphs and softly-gliding Fays, 
Genii, and winged angels that are Lords 
Without restraint of all which they behold. 
The illusion strengthening as he gazed, he 

felt 
That such unfettered liberty was his, 
Such power and joy; but only for this end, 
To flit from field to rock, from rock to field, 
From shore to island, and from isle to 

shore, 40 

From open ground to covert, from a bed 
Of meadow-flowers into a tuft of wood; 
From high to low, from low to high, yet 

still 
Within the bound of this huge concave; 

here 
Must be his home, this valley be his world. 
Since that day forth the Place to him — 

to me 
(For I who live to register the truth 
Was that same young and happy Being) 

became 
As beautiful to thought, as it had been 
When present, to the bodily sense ; a haunt 
Of pure affections, shedding upon joy 51 
A brighter joy; and through such damp 

and gloom 
Of the gay mind, as of ttimes splenetic youth 
Mistakes for sorrow, darting beams of light 
That no self-cherished sadness could with- 
stand ; 
And now 't is mine, perchance for life, dear 

Vale, 
Beloved Grasmere (let the wandering 

streams 
Take up, the cloud-capt hills repeat, the 

Name) 
One of thy lowly Dwellings is my Home. 



THE RECLUSE 



223 



And was the cost so great ? and could it 
seem 60 

An act of courage, and the thing itself 
A conquest ? who must bear the blame ? 

Sage man 
Thy prudence, thy experience, thy desires, 
Thy apprehensions — blush thou for them 
all. 
Yes the realities of life so cold, 
So cowardly, so ready to betray, 
So stinted in the measure of their grace 
As we pronounce them, doing them much 

wrong, 
Have been to me more bountiful than hope, 
Less timid than desire — but that is past. 70 

On Nature's invitation do I come, 
By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice mis- 
lead, 
That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth 
With all its unappropriated good 
My own; and not mine only, for with me 
Entrenched, say rather peacefully embow- 
ered, 
Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot, 
A younger Orphan of a home extinct, 
The only Daughter of my Parents dwells. 
Ay, think on that, my heart, and cease to 
stir, 80 

Pause upon that and let the breathing frame 
No longer breathe, but all be satisfied. 
— Oh, if such silence be not thanks to God 
For what hath been bestowed, then where, 

where then 
Shall gratitude find rest ? Mine eyes did 

ne'er 
Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind 
Take pleasure in the midst of happy 

thoughts, 
But either She whom now I have, who now 
Divides with me this loved abode, was 

there 
Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps 
turned, 90 

Her voice was like a hidden Bird that sang. 
The thought of her was like a flash of light, 
Or an unseen companionship, a breath 
Of fragrance independent of the Wind. 
In all my goings, in the new and old 
Of all my meditations, and in this 
Favourite of all, in this the most of all. 
— What being, therefore, since the birth of 

Man 
Had ever more abundant cause to speak 
Thanks, and if favours of the Heavenly 
Muse 100 



Make him more thankful, then to call on 

Verse 
To aid him and in song resound his joy ? 
The boon is absolute ; surpassing grace 
To me hath been vouchsafed; among the 

bowers 
Of blissful Eden this was neither given 
Nor could be given, possession of the good 
Which had been sighed for, ancient thought 

fulfilled, 
And dear Imaginations realised, 
Up to their highest measure, yea and more. 
Embrace me then, ye Hills, and close me 

in; no 

Now in the clear and open day 1 feel 
Your guardianship; I take it to my heart; 
'T is like the solemn shelter of the night. 
But I would call thee beautiful, for mild, 
And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art, 
Dear Valley, having in thy face a smile, 
Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou 

art pleased, 
Pleased with thy crags and woody steeps, 

thy Lake, 
Its one green island and its winding shores ; 
The multitude of little rocky hills, 120 

Thy Church and cottages of mountain stone 
Clustered like stars some few, but single 

most, 
And lurking dimly hi their shy retreats, 
Or glancing at each other cheerful looks 
Like separated stars with clouds between. 
What want we ? have we not perpetual 

streams, 
Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh 

green fields, 
And mountains not less green, and flocks 

and herds, 
And thickets full of songsters, and the voice 
Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound 130 
Heard now and then from morn to latest eve, 
Admonishing the man who walks below 
Of solitude and silence in the sky ? 
These have we, and a thousand nooks of 

earth 
Have also these, but nowhere else is found, 
Nowhere (or is it fancy ?) can be found 
The one sensation that is here ; 't is here, 
Here as it found its way into my heart 
In childhood, here as it abides by day, 
By night, here only ; or in chosen minds 140 
That take it with them hence, where'er they 

go. 
— 'T is, but I cannot name it, 't is the sense 
Of majesty, and beauty, and repose, 



224 



THE RECLUSE 



A blended holiness of earth and sky, 
Something that makes this individual spot, 
This small abiding-place of many men, 
A termination, and a last retreat, 
A centre, come from wheresoe'er you will, 
A whole without dependence or defect, 
Made for itself, and happy in itself, 150 

Perfect contentment, Unity entire. 

Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak, 
When hitherward we journeyed side by side 
Through burst of sunshine and through dy- 
ing showers; 
Faced the long vales — how long they were 

— and yet 
How fast that length of way was left be- 
hind, 
Wensley's rich Vale, and Sedbergh's naked 

heights. 
The frosty wind, as if to make amends 
For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps, 
And drove us onward like two ships at sea, 
Or like two birds, companions in mid-air, 
Parted and reunited by the blast. 162 

Stern was the face of nature; we rejoiced 
In that stern countenance, for our souls 

thence drew 
A feeling of their strength. The naked 

trees, 
The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared 
To question us. " Whence come ye, to 

what end ? " 
They seemed to say. " What would ye," 

said the shower, 
" Wild Wanderers, whither through my 

dark domain ? " 
The sunbeam said, " Be happy." When 
this vale 170 

We entered, bright and solemn was the sky 
That faced us with a passionate welcoming, 
And led us to our threshold. Daylight 

failed 
Insensibty, and round us gently fell 
Composing darkness, with a quiet load 
Of full contentment, in a little shed 
Disturbed, \measy in itself as seemed, 
And wondering at its new inhabitants. 
It loves us now, this Vale so beautiful 
Begins to love us ! by a sullen storm, 180 
Two months unwearied of severest storm, 
It put the temper of our minds to proof, 
And found us faithful through the gloom, 

and heard 
The poet mutter his prelusive songs 
With cheerful heart, an unknown voice of 



Among the silence of the woods and hills; 
Silent to any gladsomeness of sound 
With all their shepherds. 

But the gates of Spring 
Are opened; churlish winter hath given 

leave 
That she should entertain for this one day, 
Perhaps for many genial days to come, 191 
His guests, and make them jocund. — They 

are pleased, 
But most of all the birds that haunt the 

flood, 
With the mild summons; inmates though 

they be 
Of Winter's household, they keep festival 
This day, who drooped, or seemed to droop, 

so long; 
They show their pleasure, and shall I do 

less? 
Happier of happy though I be, like them 
I cannot take possession of the sky, 
Mount with a thoughtless impulse, and 

wheel there 200 

One of a mighty multitude, whose way 
Is a perpetual harmony and dance 
Magnificent. Behold how with a grace 
Of ceaseless motion, that might scarcely 

seem 
Inferior to angelical, they prolong 
Their curious pastime, shaping in mid-air, 
And sometimes with ambitious wing that 

soars 
High as the level of the mountain tops, 
A circuit ampler than the lake beneath, 209 
Their own domain; — but ever, while intent 
On tracing and retracing that large round, 
Their jubilant activity evolves 
Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro, 
Upwards and downwards ; progress intricate 
Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed 
Their indefatigable flight. 'T is done, 
Ten times and more I fancied it had ceased, 
But lo ! the vanished company again 
Ascending, they approach. I hear their 

wings 2 19 

Faint, faint at first ; and then an eager sound 
Passed in a moment — and as f aint again ! 
They tempt the sun to sport among their 

plumes ; 
Tempt the smooth water, or the gleaming 

ice, 
To show them a fair image, — 't is them- 
selves, 
Their own fair forms upon the glimmering 

plain 



THE RECLUSE 



225 



Painted more soft and fair as they descend, 
Almost to touch, — then up again aloft, 
Up with a sally and a flash of speed, 
As if they scorned both resting-place and 

rest ! 
— This day is a thanksgiving, 't is a day 230 
Of glad emotion and deep quietness; 
Not upon me alone hath been bestowed, 
Me rich in many onward-looking thoughts, 
The penetrating bliss; oh surely these 
Have felt it, not the happy choirs of spring, 
Her own peculiar family of love 
That sport among green leaves, a blither 

train ! 
But two are missing, two, a lonely pair 
Of milk-white Swans; wherefore are they 

not seen 
Partaking this day's pleasure ? From afar 
They came, to sojourn here in solitude, 241 
Choosing this Valley, they who had the 

choice 
Of the whole world. We saw them day by 

day, 
Through those two months of unrelenting 

storm, 
Conspicuous at the centre of the Lake 
Their safe retreat, we knew them well, I 

guess 
That the whole valley knew them; but to us 
They were more dear than may be well be- 
lieved, 
Not only for their beauty, and their still 
And placid way of life, and constant love 
Inseparable, not for these alone, 251 

But that their state so much resembled ours, 
They having also chosen this abode; 
They strangers, and we strangers, they a 

pair, 
And we a solitary pair like them. 
They should not have departed; many days 
Did I look forth in vain, nor on the wing 
Could see them, nor in that small open 

space 
Of blue unfrozen water, where they lodged 
And lived so long in quiet, side by side. 260 
Shall we behold them consecrated friends, 
Faithful companions, yet another year 
Surviving, they for us, and we for them, 
And neither pair be broken ? nay perchance 
It is too late already for such hope ; 
The Dalesmen may have aimed the deadly 

tube, 
And parted them ; or haply both are gone 
One death, and that were mercy given to 

both. 



Recall, my song, the ungenerous thought; 

forgive, 
Thrice favoured Region, the conjecture harsh 
Of such inhospitable penalty 271 

Inflicted upon confidence so pure. 
Ah ! if I wished to follow where the sight 
Of all that is before my eyes, the voice 
Which speaks from a presiding spirit here, 
Would lead me, I should whisper to myself: 
They who are dwellers in this holy place 
Must needs themselves be hallowed, they 

require 
No benediction from the stranger's lips, 
For they are blessed already; none would 

give 2S0 

The greeting " peace be with you " unto 

them, 
For peace they have ; it cannot but be theirs, 
And mercy, and forbearance — nay — not 

these — 
Their healing offices a pure good-will 
Precludes, and charity beyond the bounds 
Of charity — an overflowing love; 
Not for the creature only, but for all 
That is around them; love for everything 
Which in their happy Region they behold ! 
Thus do we soothe ourselves, and wheu 

the thought 290 

Is passed, we blame it not for having come. 
— What if I floated down a pleasant stream, 
And now am landed, and the motion gone, 
Shall I reprove myself ? Ah no, the stream 
Is flowing, and will never cease to flow, 
And I shall float upon that stream again. 
By such forgetfulness the soul becomes, 
Words cannot say how beautiful : then hail, 
Hail to the visible Presence, hail to thee, 
Delightful Valley, habitation fair ! 300 

And to whatever else of outward form 
Can give an inward help, can purify, 
And elevate, and harmonise, and soothe, 
And steal away, and for a while deceive 
And lap in pleasing rest, and bear us on 
Without desire in full complacency, 
Contemplating perfection absolute, 
And entertained as in a placid sleep. 

But not betrayed by tenderness of mind 
That feared, or wholly overlooked the truth, 
Did we come hither, with romantic hope 311 
To find in midst of so much loveliness 
Love, perfect love: of so much majesty 
A like majestic frame of mind in those 
Who here abide, the persons like the place. 
Not from such hope, or aught of such be- 
lief, 



226 



THE RECLUSE 



Hath issued any portion of the joy 
Which I have felt this clay. An awful voice 
'T is true hath in my walks been often heard, 
Sent from the mountains or the sheltered 

fields, 320 

Shout after shout -*- reiterated whoop, 
In manner of a bird that takes delight 
In answering to itself: or like a hound 
Single at chase among the lonely woods, 
His yell repeating; yet it was in truth 
A human voice — a spirit of coming night; 
How solemn when the skj^ is dark, and earth 
Not dark, nor yet enlightened, but by snow 
Made visible, amid a noise of winds 
And bleatings manifold of mountain sheep, 
Which hi that iteration recognise 33 1 

Their summons, and are gathering round 

for food, 
Devoured with keenness, ere to grove or 

bank 
Or rocky bield with patience they retire. 
That very voice, which, hi some timid 

mood 
Of superstitious fancy, might have seemed 
Awful as ever stray demoniac uttered, 
His steps to govern in the wilderness ; 
Or as the Norman Curfew's regular beat 
To hearths when first they darkened at the 

knell: 340 

That shepherd's voice, it may have reached 

mine ear 
Debased and under profanation, made 
The ready organ of articulate sounds 
From ribaldry, impiety, or wrath, 
Issuing when shame hath ceased to check 

the brawls 
Of some abused Festivity — so be it. 
I came not dreaming of unruffled life, 
Untainted manners; born among the hills, 
Bred also there, I wanted not a scale 
To regulate my hopes; pleased with the 

good 350 

I shrink not from the evil with disgust, 
Or with immoderate pain. I look for Man, 
The common creature of the brotherhood, 
Differing but little from the Man elsewhere, 
For selfishness and envy and revenge, 
111 neighbourhood — pity that this should 

be — 
Flattery and double-dealing, strife and 

wrong. 
Yet is it something gained, it is in truth 
A mighty gain, that Labour here preserves 
His rosy face, a servant only here 360 

Of the fireside or of the open field, 



A Freeman therefore sound and unimpaired: 
That extreme penury is here unknown, 
And cold and hunger's abject wretchedness 
Mortal to body and the heaven-born mind: 
That they who want are not too great a 

weight 
For those who can rebieve; here may the 

heart 
Breathe in the air of fellow-suffering 
Dreadless, as in a kind of fresher breeze 
Of her own native element, the hand 370 
Be ready and unwearied without plea, 
From tasks too frequent or beyond its 

power, 
For languor or indifference or despair. 
And as these lofty barriers break the force 
Of winds, — this deep Vale, as it doth in 

part 
Conceal us from the storm, so here abides 
A power and a protection for the mind, 
Dispensed indeed to other solitudes 
Favoured by noble privilege like this, 
Where kindred independence of estate 380 
Is prevalent, where he who tills the field, 
He, happy man ! is master of the field, 
And treads the mountains which his Fathers 

trod. 
Not less than halfway up yon mountain's 

side, 
Behold a dusky spot, a grove of Firs 
That seems still smaller than it is; this 

grove 
Is haunted — by what ghost ? a gentle spirit 
Of memory faithful to the call of love; 
For, as reports the Dame, whose fire sends 

up 
Yon curling smoke from the grey cot below, 
The trees ( her first-born child being then a 

babe) 391 

Were planted by her husband and herself, 
That ranging o'er the high and houseless 

ground 
Their sheep might neither want from peril- 
ous storm 
Of winter, nor from summer's sultry heat, 
A friendly covert; " and they knew it well," 
Said she, " for thither as the trees grew up 
We to the patient creatures carried food 
In times of heavy snow." She then began 
In fond obedience to her private thoughts 
To speak of her dead husband; is there not 
An art, a music, and a strain of words 402 
That shall be life, the acknowledged voice 

of life, 
Shall speak of what is done among the fields, 



THE RECLUSE 



227 



Done truly there, or felt, of solid good 

And real evil, yet be sweet withal, 

More grateful, more harmonious than the 

breath, 
The idle breath of softest pipe attuned 
To pastoral fancies ? Is there such a stream 
Pure and unsullied flowing from the heart 
With motions of true dignity and grace ? 
Or must we seek that stream where Man 
is not ? 4'2 

Methinks I could repeat in tuneful verse, 
Delicious as the gentlest breeze that sounds 
Through that aerial fir-grove — could pre- 
serve 
Some portion of its human history 
As gathered from the Matron's lips, and tell 
Of tears that have been shed at sight of it, 
And moving dialogues between this Pair 
Who in their prime of wedlock, with joint 
hands 420 

Did plant the grove, now flourishing, while 

they 
No longer flourish, he entirely gone, 
She withering in her loneliness. Be this 
A task above my skill — the silent mind 
Has her own treasures, and I think of these, 
Love what I see, and honour humankind. 
No, we are not alone, we do not stand, 
My sister here misplaced and desolate, 
Loving what no one cares for but ourselves. 
We shall not scatter through the plains and 
rocks 430 

Of this fair Vale, and o'er its spacious 

heights, 
Unprofitable kindliness, bestowed 
On objects unaccustomed to the gifts 
Of feeling, which were cheerless and for- 
lorn 
But few weeks past, and would be so again 
Were we not here; we do not tend a lamp 
Whose lustre we alone participate, 
Which shines dependent upon us alone, 
Mortal though bright, a dying, dying flame. 
Look where we will, some human hand has 
been 440 

Before us with its offering; not a tree 
Sprinkles these little pastures, but the same 
Hath furnished matter for a thought; per- 
chance 
For some one serves as a familiar friend. 
Joy spreads, and sorrow spreads; and this 

whole Vale, 
Home of untutored shepherds as it is, 
Swarms with sensation, as with gleams of 
sunshine, 



Shadows or breezes, scents or sounds. Nor 

deem 
These feelings, though subservient more 

than ours 
To every day's demand for daily bread, 450 
And borrowing more their spirit and their 

shape 
From self-respecting interests; deem them 

not 
Unworthy therefore, and unhallowed — no, 
They lift the animal being, do themselves 
By nature's kind and ever-present aid 
Refine the selfishness from which they 

spring, 
Redeem by love the individual sense 
Of anxiousness, with which they are com- 
bined. 
And thus it is that fitly they become 
Associates in the joy of purest minds: 460 
They blend therewith congenially: mean- 
while 
Calmly they breathe their own undying life 
Through this their mountain sanctuary; long 
Oh long may it remain inviolate, 
Diffusing health and sober cheerfulness, 
And giving to the moments as they pass 
Their little boons of animating thought 
That sweeten labour, make it seen and felt 
To be no arbitrary weight imposed, 
But a glad function natural to man. 470 
Fair proof of this, newcomer though I be, 
Already have I gained; the inward frame, 
Though slowly opening, opens every day 
With process not unlike to that which cheers 
A pensive stranger journeying at his leisure 
Through some Helvetian Dell; when low- 
hung mists 
Break up and are beginning to recede; 
How pleased he is where thin and thinner 

grows 
The veil, or where it parts at once, to spy 
The dark pines thrusting forth their spiky 
heads; 480 

To watch the spreading lawns with cattle 

grazed ; 
Then to be greeted by the scattered huts 
As they shine out; and see the streams whose 

murmur 
Had soothed his ear while they were hidden; 

how pleased 
To have about him which way e'er he goes 
Something on every side concealed from 

view, 
In every quarter something visible 
Half seen or wholly, lost and found again, 



228 



THE RECLUSE 



Alternate progress and impediment, 
And yet a growing prospect in the main. 49 o 
Such pleasure now is mine, albeit forced, 
Herein less happy than the Traveller, 
To cast from time to time a painful look 
Upon unwelcome things which unawares 
Reveal themselves, not therefore is my heart 
Depressed, nor does it fear what is to come; 
But confident, enriched at every glance, 
The more I see the more delight my mind 
Receives, or by reflection can create: 
Truth justifies herself, and as she dwells 
With Hope, who would not follow where 

she leads ? 501 

Nor let me pass unheeded other loves 
Where no fear is, and humbler sympathies. 
Already hath sprung up within my heart 
A liking for the small grey horse that bears 
The paralytic man, and for the brute 
In Scripture sanctified — the patient brute 
On which the cripple, in the quarry maimed, 
Rides to and fro: I know them and their 

ways. 
The famous sheep-dog, first in all the 

vale, 510 

Though yet to me a stranger, will not be 
A stranger long; nor will the blind man's 

guide, 
Meek and neglected thing, of no renown ! 
Soon will peep forth the primrose, ere it 

fades 
Friends shall I have at dawn, blackbird 

and thrush 
To rouse me, and a hundred warblers 

more ! 
And if those Eagles to their ancient hold 
Return, Helvellyn's Eagles ! with the Pair 
From my own door I shall be free to claim 
Acquaintance, as they sweep from cloud to 

cloud. 520 

The owl that gives the name to Owlet-Crag 
Have I heard whooping, and he soon will 

be 
A chosen one of my regards. See there 
The heifer in yon little croft belongs 
To one who holds it dear; with duteous 

care 
She reared it, and in speaking of her charge 
I heard her scatter some endearing words 
Domestic, and in spirit motherly, 
She being herself a mother; happy Beast, 
If the caresses of a human voice 530 

Can make it so, and care of human hands. 

And ye as happy under Nature's care, 
Strangers to me and all men, or at least 



Strangers to all particular amity, 
All intercourse of knowledge or of love 
That parts the individual from his kind. 
Whether in large communities ye keep 
From year to year, not shunning man's 

abode, 
A settled residence, or be from far 
Wild creatures, and of many homes, that 

come 540 

The gift of winds, and whom the winds 

again 
Take from us at your pleasure ; yet shall ye 
Not want for this yoiu- own subordinate 

place 
In my affections. Witness the delight 
With which erewhile I saw that multitude 
Wheel through the sky, and see them now 

at rest, 
Yet not at rest upon the glassy lake: 
They cannot rest — they gambol like young 

whelps; 
Active as lambs, and overcome with joy 
They try all frolic motions; flutter, plunge, 
And beat the passive water with their 

wings. 551 

Too distant are they for plain a iew, but lo ! 
Those little fountains, sparkling in the sun, 
Betray their occupation, rising up 
First one and then another silver spout, 
As one or other takes the fit of glee, 
Fountains and spouts, yet somewhat in the 

guise 
Of plaything fireworks, that on festal nights 
Sparkle about the feet of wanton boys. 
— How vast the compass of this theatre, 560 
Yet nothing to be seen but lovely pomp 
And silent majesty; the birch-tree woods 
Are hung with thousand thousand diamond 

drops 
Of melted hoar-frost, every tiny knot 
In the bare twigs, each little budding-place 
Cased with its several beads; what myriads 

these 
Upon one tree, while all the distant grove, 
That rises to the summit of the steep, 
Shows like a mountain built of silver light: 
See yonder the same pageant, and again 570 
Behold the universal imagery 
Inverted, all its sun-bright features touched 
As with the varnish and the gloss of 

dreams. 
Dreamlike the blending also of the whole 
Harmonious landscape: all along the shore 
The boundary lost — the line invisible 
That parts the image from reality; 



THE RECLUSE 



229 



And the clear hills, as high as they ascend 
Heavenward, so deep piercing the lake be- 
low. 
Admonished of the days of love to come 580 
The raven croaks, and fills the upper air 
With a strange sound of genial harmony ; 
And in and all about that playful band, 
Incapable although they be of rest, 
And in their fashion very rioters, 
There is a stillness; and they seem to make 
Calm revelry in that their calm abode. 
Them leaving to then" joyous hours I pass, 
Pass with a thought the life of the whole 

year 
That is to come: the throng of woodland 

flowers 590 

And lilies tbat will dance upon the waves. 

Say boldly then that solitude is not 
Where these things are: he truly is alone, 
He of the multitude whose eyes are doomed 
To hold a vacant commerce day by day 
With Objects wanting life — repelling love; 
He by the vast metropolis immured, 
Where pity shrinks from unremitting calls, 
Where numbers overwhelm humanity, 
And neighbourhood serves rather to divide 
Than to unite — what sighs more deep than 

his, to 1 

Whose nobler will hath long been sacrificed; 
Who must inhabit under a black sky 
A city, where, if indifference to disgust 
Yield not to scorn or sorrow, living men 
Are ofttimes to their fellow-men no more 
Than to the forest Hermit are the leaves 
That hang aloft in myriads; nay, far less, 
For they protect his walk from sun and 

shower, 
Swell his devotion with their voice in 

storms, 610 

And whisper while the stars twinkle among 

them 
His lullaby. From crowded streets remote, 
Far from the living and dead Wilderness 
Of the thronged world, Society is here 
A true community — a genuine frame 
Of many into one incorporate. 
That must be looked for here: paternal 

sway, 
One household, under God, for high and 

low, 
One family and one mansion ; to themselves 
Appropriate, and divided from the world, 
As if it were a cave, a multitude 621 

Human and brute, possessors undisturbed 
Of this Recess — their legislative Hall, 



Their Temple, and their glorious Dwelling- 
place. 
Dismissing therefore all Arcadian dreams, 
All golden fancies of the golden age, 
The bright array of shadowy thoughts from 

times 
That were before all time, or are to be 
Ere time expire, the pageantry that stirs 
Or will be stirring, when our eyes are fixed 
On lovely objects, and we wish to part 631 
With all remembrance of a jarring world, 

— Take we at once this one sufficient hope, 
What need of more ? that we shall neither 

droop 
Nor pine for want of pleasure in the life 
Scattered about us, nor through want of 

aught 
That keeps in health the insatiable mind. 

— That we shall have for knowledge and 

for love 
Abundance, and that feeling as we do 
How goodly, how exceeding fair, how pure 
From all reproach is yon ethereal vault, 641 
And this deep Vale, its earthly counterpart, 
By which and under which we are enclosed 
To breathe in peace ; we shall moreover find 
(If sound, and what we ought to be our- 
selves, 
If rightly we observe and justly weigh) 
The inmates not unworthy of their home, 
The Dwellers of their Dwelling. 

And if this 
Were otherwise, we have within ourselves 
Enough to fill the present day with joy, 650 
And overspread the future years with hope, 
Our beautiful and quiet home, enriched 
Already with a stranger whom we love 
Deeply, a stranger of our Father's house, 
A never-resting Pilgrim of the Sea, 
Who finds at last an hour to his content 
Beneath our roof. And others whom we 

love 
Will seek us also, Sisters of our hearts, 
And one, like them, a Brother of our hearts, 
Philosopher and Poet, in whose sight 660 
These mountains will rejoice with open joy. 

— Such is our wealth ! O Vale of Peace 

we are 
And must be, with God's will, a happy 

Band. 
Yet 't is not to enjoy that we exist, 
For that end only ; something must be done : 
I must not walk in unreproved delight 
These narrow bounds, and think of nothing 

more, 



230 



THE RECLUSE 



No duty that looks further, and no care. 
Each Being has his office, lowly some 
And common, yet all worthy if fulfilled 670 
With zeal, acknowledgment that with the 

gift 
Keeps pace a harvest answering to the seed. 
Of ill-advised Ambition and of Pride 
I would stand clear, but yet to me I feel 
That an internal brightness is vouchsafed 
That must not die, that must not pass 

away. 
Why does this inward lustre fondly seen. 
And gladly blend with outward fellowship ? 
Why do they shine around me whom I love ? 
Why do they teach me, whom I thus revere ? 
Strange question, yet it answers not itself. 
That humble Roof embowered among the 

trees, 682 

That calm fireside, it is not even in them, 
Blest as they are, to furnish a reply 
That satisfies and ends in perfect rest. 
Possessions have I that are solely mine, 
Something within which yet is shared by 

none, 
Not even the nearest to me and most dear, 
Something which power and effort may im- 
part; 
I would impart it, I would spread it wide: 
Immortal in the world which is to come — 
Forgive me if I add another claim — 692 
And would not wholly perish even hi this, 
Lie down and be forgotten in the dust, 
I and the modest Partners of my days 
Making a silent company in death; 
Love, knowledge, all my manifold delights, 
All buried with me without monument 
Or profit unto any but ourselves ! 
It must not be, if I, divinely taught, 700 
Be privileged to speak as I have felt 
Of what in man is human or divine. 

While yet an innocent little one, with a 

heart 
That doubtless wanted not its tender moods, 
I breathed (for this I better recollect) 
Among wild appetites and blind desires, 
Motions of savage instinct my delight 
And exaltation. Nothing at that time 
So welcome, no temptation half so dear 
As that which urged me to a daring feat, 
Deep pools, tall trees, black chasms, and 

dizzy crags, 711 

And tottering towers: I loved to stand and 

read 
Their looks forbidding, read and disobey, 
Sometimes in act and evermore in thought. 



With impulses, that scarcely were by these 
Surpassed in strength, I heard of danger 

met 
Or sought with courage; enterprise forlorn 
By one, sole keeper of his own intent, 
Or by a resolute few, who for the sake 
Of glory fronted multitudes in arms. 720 
Yea, to this hour I cannot read a Tale 
Of two brave vessels matched in deadly 

fight, 
And fighting to the death, but I am pleased 
More than a wise man ought to be ; I wish, 
Fret, born, and struggle, and in soul am 

there. 
But me hath Nature tamed, and bade to 

seek 
For other agitations, or be calm; 
Hath dealt with me as with a turbulent 

stream, 
Some nursling of the mountains which she 

leads 
Through quiet meadows, after he has learnt 
His strength, and had his triumph and his 

j°y> 73. 

His desperate course of tumult and of glee. 
That which in stealth by Nature was per- 
formed 
Hath Reason sanctioned: her deliberate 

Voice 
Hath said; be mild, and cleave to gentle 

things, 
Thy glory and thy happiness be there. 
Nor fear, though thou confide in me, a want 
Of aspirations that have been — of foes 
To wrestle with, and victory to complete, 
Bounds to be leapt, darkness to be explored ; 
All that inflamed thy infant heart, the love, 
The longing, the contempt, the undaunted 
quest, 742 

All shall survive, though changed their of- 
fice, all 
Shall live, it is not hi their power to die. 
Then farewell to the Warrior's Schemes, 
farewell 
The forwardness of soid which looks that 

way 
Upon a less incitement than the Cause 
Of Liberty endangered, and farewell 
That other hope, long mine, the hope to fill 
The heroic trumpet with the Muse's breath ! 
Yet in this peaceful Vale we will not spend 
Unheard-of days, though loving peaceful 
thought, 752 

A voice shall speak, and what will be the 
theme ? 



THE RECLUSE 



231 



On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, 
Musing in solitude, I oft perceive 
Fair trains of imagery before me rise, 
Accompanied by feelings of delight 
Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed ; 
And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
And dear remembrances, whose presence 
soothes 760 

Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh 
The good and evil of our mortal state. 

— To these emotions, whencesoe'er they 

come, 
Whether from breath of outward circum- 
stance, 
Or from the Soul — an impulse to herself — 
I would give utterance in numerous verse. 
Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and 

Hope, 
And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith; 
Of blessed consolations in distress; 
Of moral strength, and intellectual Power; 
Of joy in widest commonalty spread; 77 i 
Of the individual Mind that keeps her own 
Inviolate retirement, subject there 
To Conscience only, and the law supreme 
Of that Intelligence which governs all — 
I sing: — " fit audience let me find though 

few ! " 
So prayed, more gaining than he asked, 

the Bard — 
In holiest mood. Urania, I shall need 
Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
Descend to earth or dwell hi highest heaven ! 
For I must tread on shadowy ground, must 

sink 7S1 

Deep — and, aloft ascending, breathe in 

worlds 
To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. 
All strength — all terror, single or in bands, 
That ever was put forth in personal form — 
Jehovah — with his thunder, and the choir 
Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal 

thrones — 
I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not 
The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out 
By help of dreams — can breed such f ear 

and awe 791 

As fall upon us often when we look 
Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man — 
My haunt, and the main region of my song 

— Beauty — a living Presence of the earth, 
Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms 
Which craft of delicate Spirits hath com- 
posed 



From earth's materials — waits upon my 

steps; 
Pitches her tents before me as I move, 
An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves 
Elysian, Fortunate Fields — like those of 

old 80 i 

Sought hi the Atlantic Main — why should 

they be 
A history only of departed things, 
Or a mere fiction of what never was ? 
For the discerning intellect of Man, 
When wedded to this goodly universe 
In love and holy passion, shall find these 
A simple produce of the common day. 

— I, long before the blissful hour arrives, 
Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal 

verse 8 10 

Of this great consummation : — and, by 

words 
Which speak of nothing more than what we 

are, 
Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep 
Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain 
To noble raptures; while my voice proclaims 
How exquisitely the individual Mind 
(And the progressive powers perhaps no less 
Of the whole species) to the external World 
Is fitted: — and how exquisitely, too — S19 
Theme this but little heard of among men — 
The external World is fitted to the Mind; 
And the creation (by no lower name 
Can it be called) which they with blended 

might 
Accomplish: — this is our high argument. 

— Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft 
Must turn elsewhere — to travel near the 

tribes 
And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 
Of madding passions mutually inflamed; 
Must hear Humanity in fields and groves 
Pipe solitary anguish; or must hang 830 
Brooding above the fierce confederate storm 
Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore 
Within the walls of cities — may these 

sounds 
Have their authentic comment; that even 

these 
Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn ! — 
Descend, prophetic Spirit I that inspir'st 
The human Soul of universal earth, 
Dreaming on things to come; and dost pos- 
sess 
A metropolitan temple hi the hearts 
Of mighty Poets; upon me bestow 840 

A gift of genuine insight; that my Song 



232 



THE BROTHERS 



With star-like virtue in its place may shine, 
Shedding benignant influence; and secure 
Itself from all malevolent effect 
Of those mutations that extend their sway 
Throughout the nether sphere ! — And if 

with this 
I mix more lowly matter; with the thing 
Contemplated, describe the mind and Man 
Contemplating; and who, and what he 

was — 
The transitory Being that beheld S50 

This Vision; — when and where, and how 

he lived; 



Be not this labour useless. If such theme 
May sort with highest objects, then — dread 

Power ! 
Whose gracious favour is the primal source 
Of all illumination — may my Life 
Express the image of a better time, 
More wise desires, and simpler manners; — 

nurse 
My Heart in genuine freedom : — all pure 

thoughts 
Be with me ; — so shall thy unfailing love 
Guide, and support, and cheer me to the 

end ! 860 



THE BROTHERS 

1800. 1800 

This poem was composed in a grove at the 
north-eastern end of Grasmere lake, which 
grove was in a great measure destroyed by 
turning the high-road along the side of the 
water. The few trees that are left were spared 
at my intercession. The poem arose out of the 
fact, mentioned to me at Ennerdale, that a 
shepherd had fallen asleep upon the top of the 
rock called The Pillar, and perished as here 
described, his staff being left midway on the 



roc* 



" These Tourists, heaven preserve us ! 

needs must live 
A profitable life: some glance along, 
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, 
And they were butterflies to wheel about 
Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise, 
Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, 
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, 
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, 
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, 
Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. 10 
But, for that moping Son of Idleness, 
Why can he tarry yonder ? — In our church- 
yard 
Is neither epitaph nor monument, 
Tombstone nor name — only the turf we 

tread 
And a few natural graves." 

To Jane, his wife, 
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. 
It was a July evening; and he sate 
Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves 
Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that day, 
Employed in winter's work. Upon the 
stone 20 



His wife sate near him, teasing matted 

wool, 
While, from the twin cards toothed with 

glittering wire, 
He fed the spindle of his youngest child, 
Who, in the open air, with due accord 
Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps 
Her large round wheel was turning. To- 
wards the field 
In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, 
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, 
While half an hour went by, the Priest had 

sent 
Many a long look of wonder: and at last, 30 
Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white 

ridge 
Of carded wool which the old man had piled 
He laid his implements with gentle care, 
Each in the other locked; and, down the 

path 
That from his cottage to the church-yard 

led, 
He took his way, impatient to accost 
The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering 

there. 
'T was one well known to him in former 

days, 
A Shepherd-lad ; who ere his sixteenth year 
Had left that calling, tempted to entrust 40 
His expectations to the fickle winds 
And perilous waters; with the mariners 
A f ellow-mariner ; — and so had fared 
Through twenty seasons; but he had been 

reared 
Among the mountains, and he in his heart 
Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. 
Oft hi the piping shrouds had Leonard 

heard 
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 



THE BROTHERS 



233 



Of caves and trees : — and, when the regular 

wind 
Between the tropics filled the steady sail, 50 
And blew with the same breath through 

days and weeks, 
Lengthening invisibly its weary line 
Along the cloudless Mam, he, in those hours 
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze ; 
And, while the broad blue wave and spar- 
kling foam 
Flashed round him images and hues that 

wrought 
In union with the employment of his heart, 
He, thus by feverish passion overcome, 
Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 60 
Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 
Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep 

that grazed 
On verdant hills — with dwellings among 

trees, 
And shepherds clad in the same country 

grey 
Which he himself had worn. 

And now, at last, 
From perils manifold, with some small 

wealth 
Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, 
To his paternal home he is returned, 
With a determined purpose to resume 
The life he had lived there; both for the 

sake 70 

Of many darling pleasures, and the love 
Which to an only brother he has borne 
In all his hardships, since that happy time 
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two 
Were brother-shepherds on their native 

hills. 
— They were the last of all their race : and 

now, 
When Leonard had approached his home, 

his heart 
Failed in him ; and, not venturing to enquire 
Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, 
He to the solitary churchyard turned ; 80 
That, as he knew in what particular spot 
His family were laid, he thence might learn 
If still his Brother lived, or to the file 
Another grave was added. — He had found 
Another grave, — near which a full half- 
hour 
He had remained; but, as he gazed, there 

grew 
Such a confusion in his memory, 
That he began to doubt; and even to hope 



That he had seen this heap of turf before, — 
That it was not another grave ; but one 90 
He had forgotten. He had lost his path, 
As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked 
Through fields which once had been well 

known to him: 
And oh what joy this recollection now 
Sent to his heart ! he lifted up his eyes, 
And, looking round, imagined that he saw 
Strange alteration wrought on every side 
Among the woods and fields, and that the 

rocks, 
And everlasting hills themselves were 

changed. 
By this the Priest, who down the field 

had come, 100 

Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate 
Stopped short, — and thence, at leisure, 

limb by limb 
Perused him with a gay complacency. 
Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 
'T is one of those who needs must leave the 

path 
Of the world's business to go wild alone: 
His arms have a perpetual holiday; 
The happy man will creep about the fields, 
Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 
Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles 1 10 
Into his face, until the setting sun 
Write fool upon his forehead. — Planted 

thus 
Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate 
Of this rude churchyard, till the stars ap- 
peared 
The good Man might have communed with 

himself, 
But that the Stranger, who had left the 

grave, 
Approached; he recognised the Priest at 

once, 
And, after greetings interchanged, and 

given 
By Leonard to the Vicar as to one 
Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. 120 
Leonard. You live, Sir, in these dales, a 

quiet life: 
Your years make up one peaceful family; 
And who would grieve and fret, if, wel- 
come come 
And welcome gone, they are so like each 

other, 
They cannot be remembered ? Scarce a 

funeral 
Comes to this churchyard once in eighteen 

months ; 



234 



THE BROTHERS 



And yet, some changes must take place 

among you: 
And you, who dwell here, even among these 

rocks, 
Can trace the finger of mortality, 
And see, that with our threescore years 

and ten 130 

We are not all that perish. I remember, 

( For many years ago I passed this road ) 
There was a foot-way all along the fields 
By the brook-side — 'tis gone — and that 

dark cleft ! 
To me it does not seem to wear the face 
Which then it had ! 

Priest. Nay, Sir, for aught I know, 

That chasm is much the same — 

Leonard. But, surely, yonder — 

Priest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory 

is a friend 
That does not play you false. — On that 

tall pike 
(It is the loneliest place of all these hills) 
There were two springs which bubbled side 

by side, 141 

As if they had been made that they might 

be 
Companions for each other: the huge crag 
Was rent with lightning — one hath dis- 
appeared ; 
The other, left behind, is flowing still. 
For accidents and changes such as these, 
We want not store of them; — a water- 
spout 
Will bring down half a mountain; what a 

feast 
For folks that wander up and down like 

you 149 

To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff 
One roaring cataract ! a sharp May-storm 
Will come with loads of January snow, 
And in one night send twenty score of 

sheep 
To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies 
By some untoward death among the rocks: 
The ice breaks up and sweeps away a 

bridge ; 
A wood is felled : — and then for our own 

homes ! 
A child is born or christened, a field 

ploughed, 
A daughter sent to service, a web spun, 
The old house-clock is decked with a new 

face; 160 

And hence, so far from wanting facts or 

dates 



To chronicle the time, we all have here 
A pair of diaries, — one serving, Sir, 
For the whole dale, and one for each fire- 
side — 
Yours was a stranger's judgment: for 

historians, 
Commend me to these valleys ! 

Leonard. Yet your Churchyard 

Seems, if such freedom may be used with 

you, 

To say that you are heedless of the past: 
An orphan could not find his mother's 

grave : 
Here 's neither head nor foot stone, plate of 

brass, 170 

Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly 

state 
Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's 

home 
Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. 

Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought 

that 's new to me ! 
The stone-cutters, 't is true, might beg their 

bread 
If every English churchyard were like ours ; 
Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth : 
We have no need of names and epitaphs; 
We talk about the dead by our firesides. 
And then, for our immortal part ! we want 
No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain 

tale: 181 

The thought of death sits easy on the man 
Who has been born and dies among the 

moun tains. 
Leonard. Your Dalesmen, then, do in 

each other's thoughts 
Possess a kind of second life: no doubt 
You, Sir, could help me to the history 
Of half these graves ? 

Priest. For eight-score winters past, 

With what I 've witnessed, and with what 

I 've heard, 
Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening, 
If you were seated at my chimney's 

nook, 190 

By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, 
We two could travel, Sir, through a strange 

round ; 
Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 
Now there 's a grave — your foot is half 

upon it, — 
It looks just like the rest; and yet that man 
Died broken-hearted. 

Leonard. 'T is a common case. 

We '11 take another: who is he that lies 



THE BROTHERS 



235 



Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three 

graves ? 
It touches on that piece of native rock 199 
Left in the church-yard wall. 

Priest. That 's Walter Ewbank. 

He had as white a head and fresh a cheek 
As ever were produced by youth and age 
Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. 
Through five long generations had the 

heart 
Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the 

bounds 
Of their inheritance, that single cottage — 
You see it yonder ! and those few green 

fields. 
They toiled and wrought, and still, from 

sire to son, 
Each struggled, and each yielded as before 
A little — yet a little, — and old Walter, 210 
They left to him the family heart, and land 
With other burthens than the crop it bore. 
Year after year the old man still kept up 
A cheerful mind, — and buffeted with bond, 
Interest, and mortgages; at last lie sank, 
And went into his grave before his time. 
Poor Walter ! whether it was care that 

spurred him 
God only knows, but to the very last 
He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale: 
His pace was never that of an old man: 220 
I almost see him tripping down the path 
With his two grandsons after him: — but 

you, 
Unless our Landlord be your host to-night, 
Have far to travel, — and on these rough 

paths 
Even in the longest day of midsummer — 
Leonard. But those two Orphans ! 
Priest. Orphans ! — Such they were — 
Yet not while Walter lived: for, though 

their parents 
Lay buried side by side as now they lie, 
The old man was a father to the boys, 
Two fathers in one father: and if tears, 230 
Shed when he talked of them where they 

were not, 
And hauntings from the infirmity of love, 
Are aught of what makes up a mother's 

heart, 
This old Man, in the day of his old age, 
Was half a mother to them. — If you weep, 

Sir, 
To hear a stranger talking about strangers, 
Heaven bless you when you are among 

your kindred ! 



Ay — you may turn that way — it is a grave 
Which will bear looking at. 

Leonard. These boys — I hope 

They loved this good old Man ? — 

Priest. They did — and truly : 240 

But that was what we almost overlooked, 
They were such darlings of each other. 

Yes, 
Though from the cradle they had lived with 

Walter, 
The only kinsman near them, and though 

he 
Inclined to both by reason of his age, 
With a more fond, familiar, tenderness; 
They, notwithstanding, had much love to 

spare, 
And it all went into each other's hearts. 
Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, 
Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see, 
To hear, to meet them ! — From their house 
the school 251 

Is distant three short miles, and in the time 
Of storm and thaw, when every watercourse 
And unbridged stream, such as you may 

have noticed 
Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, 
Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, 
Would Leonard then, when elder boys re- 
mained 
At home, go staggering through the slippery 

fords, 
Bearing his brother on his back. I have 

seen him, 
On windy days, in one of those stray 
brooks, 260 

Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid- 
leg deep, 
Their two books lying both on a dry stone, 
Upon the hither side: and once I said, 
As I remember, looking round these rocks 
And hills on which we all of us were born, 
That God who made the great book of the 

world 
Would bless such piety — 

Leonard. It may be then — 

Priest. Never did worthier lads break 

English bread: 

The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw 

With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, 270 

Coidd never keep those boys away from 

church, 
Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath 

breach. 
Leonard and James ! I warrant, every cor- 
ner 



236 



THE BROTHERS 



Among these rocks, and every hollow place 
That venturous foot could reach, to one or 

both 
Was known as well as to the flowers that 

grow there. 
Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the 

hills; 
They played like two young ravens on the 

crags : 
Then they could write, ay and speak too, 

as well 
As many of their betters — and for Leonard ! 
The very night before he went away, 281 
In my own house I put into his hand 
A Bible, and I 'd wager house and field 
That, if he be alive, he has it yet. 

Leonard. It seems, these Brothers have 

not lived to be 
A comfort to each other — 

Priest. That they might 

Live to such end is what both old and young 
In this our valley all of us have wished, 
And what, for my part, I have often prayed: 
But Leonard — 

Leonard. Then James still is left among 

you ! 290 

Priest. 'T is of the elder brother I am 

speaking: 
They had an uncle ; — he was at that time 
A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas: 
And, but for that same uncle, to this hour 
Leonard had never handled rope or shroud : 
For the boy loved the life which we lead 

here ; 
And though of unripe years, a stripling only, 
His soul was knit to this his native soil. 
But, as I said, old Walter was too weak 
To strive with such a torrent; when he 

died, 300 

The estate and house were sold; and all 

their sheep, 
A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, 
Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand 

years : — 
Well — all was gone, and they were desti- 
tute, 
And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake, 
Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. 
Twelve years are past since we had tidings 

from him. 
If there were one among us who had heard 
That Leonard Ewbank was come home 

again, 
From the Great Gavel, down by Leeza's 

banks, 3 10 



And down the Enna, far as Egremont, 
The day would be a joyous festival; , 
And those two bells of ours, which there 

you see — 
Hanging in the open air — but, O good Sir ! 
This is sad talk — they '11 never sound for 

him — 
Living or dead. — When last we heard of 

him, 
He was in slavery among the Moors 
Upon the Barbary coast. — 'T was not a 

little 
That would bring down his spirit; and no 

doubt, 
Before it ended in his death, the Youth 320 
Was sadly crossed. — Poor Leonard ! when 

we parted, 
He took me by the hand, and said to me, 
If e'er he should grow rich, he woidd return, 
To live in peace upon his father's land, 
And lay his bones among us. 

Leonard. If that day 

Should come, 't would needs be a glad day 

for him; 
He would himself, no doubt, be happy then 
As any that should meet him — 

Priest. Happy ! Sir — 

Leonard. You said his kindred all were 

in their graves, 329 

And that he had one Brother — 

Priest. That is but 

A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth 
James, though not sickly, yet was delicate; 
And Leonard being always by his side 
Had done so many offices about him, 
That, though he was not of a timid nature, 
Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy 
In him was somewhat checked; and, when 

his Brother 
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, 
The little colour that he had was soon 
Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and 

pined, and pined — 340 

Leonard. But these are all the graves of 

full-grown men ! 
Priest. Ay, Sir, that passed away: we 

took him to us; 
He was the child of all the dale — he lived 
Three months with one, and six months with 

another, 
And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor 

love : 
And many, many happy days were his. 
But, whether blithe or sad, 't is my belief 
His absent Brother still was at his heart. 



THE BROTHERS 



2 37 



And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we 

found 
(A practice till this time unknown to him) 
That often, rising from his bed at night, 351 
He in his sleep would walk about, and sleep- 
ing 
He sought his brother Leonard. — You are 

moved ! 
Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you, 
I judged you most unkindly. 

Leonard. But this Youth, 

How did he die at last ? 

Priest. One sweet May-morning, 

(It will be twelve years since when Spring 

returns) 
He had gone forth among the new-dropped 

lambs, 
With two or three companions, whom their 

course 
Of occupation led from height to height 360 
Under a cloudless sun — till he, at length, 
Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge 
The humour of the moment, lagged behind. 
You see yon precipice ; — it wears the shape 
Of a vast building made of many crags; 
And in the midst is one particular rock 
That rises like a column from the vale, 
Whence by our shepherds it is called, The 

Pillar. 
Upon its aery summit crowned with heath, 
The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, 
Lay stretched at ease; but, passing by the 

place 371 

On their return, they found that he was gone. 
No ill was feared ; till one of them by chance 
Entering, when evening was far spent, the 

house 
Which at that time was James's home, there 

learned 
That nobody had seen him all that day: 
The morning came, and still he was unheard 

of: 
The neighbours were alarmed, and to the 

brook 
Some hastened; some ran to the lake: ere 

noon 
They found him at the foot of that same 

rock 380 

Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third 

day after 
I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies ! 
Leonard. And that then is his grave ! — 

Before his death 
You say that he saw many happy years ? 
Priest. Ay, that he did — 



Leonard. And all went well with him ? — 
Priest. If he had one, the Youth had 

twenty homes. 
Leonard. And you believe, then, that his 

mind was easy ? — 
Priest. Yes, long before he died, he found 

that time 
Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless 
His thoughts were turned on Leonard's 

luckless fortune, 390 

He talked about him with a cheerful love. 
Leonard. He could not come to an un- 
hallowed end ! 
Priest. Nay, God forbid ! — You recollect 

I mentioned 
A habit which disquietude and grief 
Had brought upon him; and we all con- 
jectured 
That, as the day was warm, he had lain 

down 
On the soft heath, — and, waiting for his 

comrades, 
He there had fallen asleep ; that in his sleep 
He to the margin of the precipice 
Had walked, and from the summit had 

fallen headlong: 400 

And so no doubt he perished. When the 

Youth 
Fell, in his hand he must have grasped, we 

think, 
His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of 

rock 
It had been caught mid- way; and there for 

years 
It hung; — and moiddered there. 

The Priest here ended — 
The Stranger would have thanked him, but 

he felt 
A gushing from his heart, that took away 
The power of speech. Both left the spot in 

silence ; 
And Leonard, when they reached the 

churchyard gate, 
As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned 

round, — 410 

And, looking at the grave, he said, " My 

Brother ! " 
The Vicar did not hear the words : and now, 
He pointed towards his dwelling-place, en- 

treating 
That Leonard would partake his homely 

fare: 
The other thanked him with an earnest 

voice ; 
But added, that, the evening being calm, 



2 3 8 



MICHAEL 



He would pursue his journey. So they 
parted. 
It was not long ere Leonard reached a 
grove 
That overhung the road: he there stopped 

short, 
And, sitting down beneath the trees, re- 
viewed A-o 
All that the Priest had said: his early years 
Were with him: — his long absence, cher- 
ished hopes, 
And thoughts which had been his an hour 

before, 
All pressed on him with such a weight, that 

now, 
This vale, where he had been so happy, 

seemed 
A place hi which he could not bear to live: 
So he relinquished all his purposes. 
He travelled back to Egremont: and thence, 
That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, 
Reminding him of what had passed between 
them ; 43° 

And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, 
That it was from the weakness of his heart 
He had not dared to tell him who he was. 
This done, he went on shipboard, and is now 
A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner. 



MICHAEL 

A PASTORAL POEM 

l800. 1800 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere, about the 
same time as " The Brothers." The Sheepfold, 
on which so much of the poem turns, remains, 
or rather the ruins of it. The character and 
circumstances of Lnke were taken from a 
family to whom had belonged, many years be- 
fore, the house we lived in at Town-end, along 
with some fields and woodlands on the eastern 
shore of Grasmere. The name of the Evening- 
Star was not in fact given to this house, but to 
another on the same side of the valley, more to 
the north. 

If from the public way you turn your steps 
Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead 

Ghyll, 
You will suppose that with an upright path 
Your feet must struggle ; in such bold as- 
cent 
The pastoral mountains front you, face to 
face. 



But, courage ! for around that boisterous 
brook 

The mountains have all opened out them- 
selves, 

And made a hidden valley of their own. 

No habitation can be seen; but they 

Who journey thither find themselves alone 

With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, 
and kites " 

That overhead are sailing in the sky. 

It is in truth an utter solitude; 

Nor should I have made mention of this 
Dell 

But for one object which you might pass 

Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn 

stones ! 
And to that simple object appertains 
A story — unenriched with strange events, 
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 20 
Or for the summer shade. It was the first 
Of those domestic tales that spake to me 
Of shepherds, dwellers hi the valleys, men 
Whom I already loved; not verily 
For their own sakes, but for the fields and 

hills 
Where was their occupation and abode. 
And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy 
Careless of books, yet having felt the power 
Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
Of natural objects, led me on to feel 30 
For passions that were not my own, and 

think 
(At random and imperfectly indeed) 
On man, the heart of man, and human life. 
Therefore, although it be a history 
Homely and rude, I will relate the same 
For the delight of a few natural hearts; 
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 
Of youthful Poets, who among these hills 
Will be my second self when I am gone. 

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 40 
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his 

name; 
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of 

limb. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to 

age 
Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen, 
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, 
And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt 
And watchful more than ordinary men. 
Hence had he learned the meaning of all 

winds, 



MICHAEL 



239 



Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, 
When others heeded not, He heard the 
South 50 

Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his Hock 
Bethouglit him, and he to himself would 

say, 
" The winds are now devising work for 

me ! " 
And, truly, at all times, the storm, that 

drives 
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 
Up to the mountains: he had been alone 
Amid the heart of many thousand mists, 
That came to him, and left him, on the 
heights. 60 

So lived he till his eightieth year was past. 
And grossly that man errs, who should 

suppose 
That the green valleys, and the streams 

and rocks, 
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's 

thoughts. 
Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had 

breathed 
The common air; hills, which with vigorous 

step 
He had so often climbed; which had im- 
pressed 
So many incidents upon his mind 6S 

Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; 
Which, like a book, preserved the memory 
Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, 
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts 
The certainty of honourable gam; 
Those fields, those hills — what could they 

less ? had laid 
Strong hold on his affections, were to him 
A pleasurable feeling of blind love, 
The pleasure which there is in life itself. 
His days had not been passed in single- 
ness. 
His Helpmate was a comely matron, old — 
Though younger than himself full twenty 
years. So 

She was a woman of a stirring life, 
Whose heart was hi her house : two wheels 

she had 
Of antique form; this large, for spinning 

wool; 
That small, for flax; and if one wheel had 

rest 
It was because the other was at work. 
The Pair had but one inmate in their house, 



An only Child, who had been born to them 
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began 
To deem that he was old, — in shepherd's 

phrase, 
With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a 
storm, Q t 

The one of an inestimable worth, 
Made all their household. I may truly say, 
That they were as a proverb in the vale 
For endless industry. When day was gone, 
And from their occupations out of doors 
The Son and Father were come home, even 

then, 
Their labour did not cease ; unless when all 
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and 

there, 

Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed 

milk, 100 

Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, 

And their plain home-made cheese. Yet 

when the meal 
Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was 

named) 
And his old Father both betook themselves 
To such convenient work as might employ 
Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to 

card 
Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 
Or other implement of house or field. 
Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's 
_ edge, IIO 

That in our ancient uncouth country style 
With huge and black projection overbrowed 
Large space beneath, as duly as the light 
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a 

lamp ; 
An aged utensil, which had performed 
Service beyond all others of its kind. 
Early at evening did it burn — and late, 
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, 
Which, going by from year to year, had 

found, 
And left, the couple neither gay perhaps 
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with 
hopes, i 2 x 

Living a life of eager industry. 
And now, when Luke had reached his 

eighteenth year, 
There by the light of this old lamp they 

sate, 
Father and Son, while far into the night 
The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, 
Making the cottage through the silent hours 



240 



MICHAEL 



Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 
This light was famous in its neighbourhood, 
And was a public symbol of the life 130 
That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it 

chanced, 
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 
Stood single, with large prospect, north 

and south, 
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, 
And westward to the village near the lake ; 
And from this constant light, so regular 
And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, 
Both old and young, was named The 

Evening Star. 
Thus living on through such a length of 

years, 14° 

The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must 

needs 
Have loved his Helpmate ; but to Michael's 

heart 
This son of his old age was yet more dear — 
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
Fond spirit that blindlv works in the blood 

of all — 
Than that a child, more than all other gifts 
That earth can offer to declining man, 
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking 

thoughts, 
And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
By tendency of nature needs must fail. 150 
Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 
His heart and his heart's joy ! For often- 
times 
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
Had done him female service, not alone 
For pastime and delight, as is the use 
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked 
His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. 

And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 
Albeit of a stern unbending mind, 161 

To have the Young-one in his sight, when 

he 
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's 

stool 
Sate with a fettered sheep before him 

stretched 
Under the large old oak, that near his door 
Stood single, and, from matchless depth of 

shade, 
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the 

sun, 
Thence in our rustic dialect was called 



The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it 

bears. 
There, while they two were sitting in the 

shade, 170 

With others round them, earnest all and 

blithe, 
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep 
By catching at their legs, or with his 

shouts 
Scared them, while they lay still beneath 

the shears. 
And when by Heaven's good grace the 

boy grew up 
A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek 
Two steady roses that were five years old; 
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 1S0 
With his own hand a sapling, which he 

hooped 
With iron, making it throughout in all 
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, 
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt 
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; 
And, to his office prematurely called, 
There stood the urchin, as you will divine, 
Something between a hindrance and a help ; 
And for this cause not always, I believe, 190 
Receiving from his Father hire of praise; 
Though nought was left undone which 

staff, or voice, 
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could 

perform. 
But soon as Luke, full ten years old, 

could stand 
Against the mountain blasts; and to the 

heights, 
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 
He with his Father daily went, and they 
Were as companions, why should I relate 
That objects which the Shepherd loved 

before 
Were dearer now ? that from the Boy there 

came 200 

Feelings and emanations — things which 

were 
Light to the sun and music to the wind; 
And that the old Man's heart seemed born 

again ? 
Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew 

up: 
And now, when he had reached his eight- 
eenth year, 
He was his comfort and his daily hope. 



MICHAEL 



241 



While in this sort the simple household 

lived 
From day to day, to Michael's ear there 

came 
Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been 

bound 210 

In surety for his brother's son, a man 
Of an industrious life, and ample means; 
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
Had prest upon him; and old Michael now 
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 
A grievous penalty, but little less 
Than half his substance. This unlooked-for 

claim, 
At the first hearing, for a moment took 
More hope out of his life than he supposed 
That any old man ever could bave lost. 220 
As soon as he had armed himself with 

strength 
To look his trouble hi the face, it seemed 
The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once 
A portion of his patrimonial fields. 
Such was his first resolve; he thought again, 
And his heart failed him. " Isabel," said he, 
Two evenings after he had heard the news, 
" I have been toding more than seventy 

years, 
And in the open sunshine of God's love 229 
Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours 
Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 
That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself 
Has scarcely been more diligent than I; 
And I have lived to be a fool at last 
To my own family. An evil man 
That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
Were false to us; and if he were not false, 
There are ten thousand to whom loss like 

this 239 

Had been no sorrow. I forgive him ; — but 
'T were better to be dumb than to talk thus. 
When I began, my purpose was to speak 
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land 
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; 
He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, 
Another kinsman — he will be our friend 
In this distress. He is a prosperous man, 
Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall 

gO, _ 250 

And with his kinsman's help and his own 

thrift 
He quickly will repair this loss, and then 



He may return to us. If here he stay, 
What can be done ? Where every one is 

poor, 
What can be gamed ? " 

At this the old Man paused, 
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
Was busy, looking back into past times. 
There 's Richard Batemau, thought she to 

herself, 
He was a parish-boy — at the church-door 
They made a gathering for him, shillings, 

pence 260 

And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours 

bought 
A basket, which they filled with pedlar's 

wares ; 
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad 
Went up to London, found a master there, 
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 
To go and overlook his merchandise 
Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous 

rich, 
And left estates and monies to the poor. 
And, at his birth-place, built a chapel, 

floored 
With marble which he sent from foreign 

lands. 2 ;o 

These thoughts, and many others of like 

sort, 
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
And her face brightened. The old Man 

was glad, 
And thus resumed: — " Well, Isabel ! this 

scheme 
These two days, has been meat and drink 

to me. 
Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 

— We have enough — I wish indeed that I 
Were younger; — but this hope is a good 

hope. 

— Make ready Luke's best garments, of 

the best 
Buy for him more, and let us send him 

forth 280 

To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: 

— If he could go, the Boy should go to- 

night." 
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields 
went forth 

With a light heart. The Housewife for 
five days 

Was restless morn and night, and all day 
long 

Wrought on with her best fingers to pre- 
pare 



242 



MICHAEL 



Things needful for the journey of her son. 
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
To stop her in her work: for, when she 

lay 
By Michael's side, she through the last two 
nights 290 

Heard him, how he was troubled in his 

sleep: 
And when they rose at morning she could 

see 
That all his hopes were gone. That day 

at noon 
She said to Luke, while they two by them- 
selves 
Were sitting at the door, " Thou must not 

go: 
We have no other Child but thee to lose — 
None to remember — do not go away, 
For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
The Youth made answer with a jocund 

voice ; 
And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 
Recovered heart. That evening her best 
fare 301 

Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 
With daylight Isabel resumed her work ; 
And all the ensuing week the house ap- 
peared 
As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length 
The expected letter from their kinsman 

came, 
With kind assurances that he would do 
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; 
To which, requests were added, that forth- 
with 3 10 
He might be sent to him. Ten times or 

more 
The letter was .read over ; Isabel 
Went forth to show it to the neighbours 

round ; 
Nor was there at that time on English land 
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 
Had to her house returned, the old Man 

said, 
" He shall depart to-morrow." To this 

word 
The Housewife answered, talking much of 

things 
Which, if at such short notice he should 



g°> 



319 
But at length 



Would surely be forgotten 
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 
Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead 
Ghyll, 



In that deep valley, Michael had designed 
To build a Sheepf old ; and, before he heard 
The tidings of his melancholy loss, 
For this same purpose he had gathered up 
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's 

edge 
Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
With Luke that evening thitherward he 

walked : 
And soon as they had reached the place he 

stopped, 330 

And thus the old Man spake to him: — 

" My Son, 
To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full 

heart 
I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 
And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 
I will relate to thee some little part 
Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good 
When thou art from me, even if I should 

touch 
On things thou canst not know of. 

After thou 
First cam'st into the world — as oft befalls 
To new-born infants — thou didst sleep 

away 34 1 

Two days, and blessings from thy Father's 

tongue 
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed 

on, 
And still I loved thee with increasing love. 
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 
Than when I heard thee by our own fireside 
First uttering, without words, a natural 

time ; 
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 
Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month fol- 
lowed month, 
And in the open fields my life was passed 
And on the mountains; else I think that 

thou 351 

Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's 

knees. 
But we were playmates, Luke: among 

these hills, 
As well thou knowest, in us the old and 

young 
Have played together, nor with me didst 

thou 
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 
Luke had a manly heart; but at these 

words 
He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped 

his hand, 



MICHAEL 



243 



And said, " Nay, do not take it so — I see 
That these are things of which I need not 
speak. 360 

— Even to the utmost I have heen to thee 
A kind and a good Father: and herein 

I but repay a gift which I myself 
Received at others' hands; for, though now 

old 
Beyond the common life of man, I still 
Remember them who loved me in my youth. 
Both of them sleep together: here they 

lived, 
As all their Forefathers had done; and 

when 
At length their time was come, they were 

not loth 
To give then- bodies to the family mould. 
I wished that thou should'st live the life 

they lived: 371 

But, 't is a long time to look back, my Son, 
And see so little gain from threescore years. 
These fields were burthened when they 

came to me; 
Till I was forty years of age, not more 
Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
I toiled and toiled; God blessed me hi my 

work, 
And till these three weeks past the land 

was free. 

— It looks as if it never could endure 
Another Master. Heaven forgive me, 

Luke, 3S0 

If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 
That thou should'st go." 

At this the old Man paused ; 
Then, pointing to the stones near which 

they stood, 
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: 
" This was a work for us; and now, my Son, 
It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — 
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own 

hands. 
Nay, Boy, be of good hope ; — we both 

may live 
To see a better day. At eighty-four 
I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy 

part; 39 o 

I will do mine. — I will begin again 
With many tasks that were resigned to 

thee : 
Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 
Will I without thee go again, and do 
All works which I was wont to do alone, 
Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless 

thee, Boy ! 



Thy heart these two weeks has been beat- 
ing fast 
With many hopes ; it should be so — yes — 

yes — 
I knew that thou could'st never have a wish 
To leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound 

to me 400 

Only by links of love: when thou art gone, 
What will be left to us ! — But, I forget 
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, 
As I recpuested; and hereafter, Luke, 
When thou art gone away, should evil men 
Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 
And of this moment; hither turn thy 

thoughts, 
And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear 
And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 
May'st bear hi mind the life thy Fathers 

lived, 410 

Who, being innocent, did for that cause 
Bestir them hi good deeds. Now, fare thee 

well — ■ 
When thou return'st, thou hi this place wilt 

see 
A work which is not here : a covenant 
'T will be between us ; but, whatever fate 
Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, 
And bear thy memory with me to the 

grave." 
The Shepherd ended here; and Luke 

stooped down, 
And, as his Father had requested, laid 
The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the 

sight 420 

The old Man's grief broke from him; to 

his heart 
He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept ; 
And to the house together they returned. 
— Hushed was that House in peace, or 

seeming peace, 
Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn 

the Bo} r 
Began his journey, and when lie had reached 
The public way, he put on a bold face; 
And all the neighbours, as he passed their 

doors, 
Came forth with wishes and with farewell 

prayers, 
That followed him till he was out of sight. 
A good report did from their Kinsman 

come, 431 

Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy 
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were 

throughout 



244 



THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS 



" The prettiest letters that were ever seen." 
Both parents read them with rejoicing 

hearts. 
So, many months passed on: and once again 
The Shepherd went about his daily work 
With confident and cheerful thoughts; and 
now 439 

Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 
He to that valley took his way, and there 
Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke 

began 
To slacken hi his duty; and, at length, 
He in the dissolute city gave himself 
To evil courses: ignominy and shame 
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 

There is a comfort hi the strength of love ; 
'T will make a thing endurable, which else 
Would overset the brain, or break the heart: 
I have conversed with more than one who 
well 45 1 

Remember the old Man, and what he was 
Years after he had heard this heavy news. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
He went, and still looked up to sun and 

cloud, 
And listened to the wind; and, as before, 
Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, 
And for the land, his small inheritance. 459 
And to that hollow dell from time to time 
Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
His flock had need. 'T is not forgotten yet 
The pity which was then in every heart 
For the old Man — and 't is believed by all 
That many and many a day he thither went, 
And never lifted up a single stone. 

There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was 
he seen 
Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
The length of full seven years, from time to 
time, 470 

He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought, 
And left the work unfinished when he died. 
Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
Survive her Husband: at her death the es- 
tate 
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 
The Cottage which was named the Even- 
ing Star 
Is gone — the ploughshare has been through 

the ground 
On which it stood; great changes have been 
wrought 



In all the neighbourhood : — yet the oak is 
left 

That grew beside their door; and the re- 
mains 4S0 

Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen 

Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead 
Ghyll. 



THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS 

OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE 
A PASTORAL 

1800. 1S00 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. I will only 
add a little monitory anecdote concerning- this 
subject. When Coleridge and Southey were 
walking together upon the Fells, Southey 
observed that, if I wished to be considered a 
faithful painter of rural manners, I ought not 
to have said that my Shepherd-boys trimmed 
their rustic hats as described in the poem. Just 
as the words had passed his lips two boys ap- 
peared with the very plant entwined round 
their hats. I have often wondered that Southey, 
who rambled so much about the mountains, 
should have fallen into this mistake, and 1 re- 
cord it as a warning for others who, with far 
less opportunity than my dear friend had of 
knowing what things are. and far less sagacity, 
give way to presumptuous criticism, from 
which he was free, though in this matter mis- 
taken. In describing a tarn under Helvellyn, 
I say — 

" There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer." 

This was branded by a critic of these days, in 
a review ascribed to Mrs. Barbauld, as unnatu- 
ral and absurd. I admire the genius of Mrs. 
Barbauld, and am certain that, had her educa- 
tion been favourable to imaginative influences, 
no female of her day would have been more 
likely to sympathise with that image, and to 
acknowledge the truth of the sentiment. 

The valley rings with mirth and joy; 

Among the hills the echoes play 

A never never ending song, 

To welcome in the May. 

The magpie chatters with delight; 

The mountain raven's youngling brood 

Have left the mother and the nest; 

And they go rambling east and west 

In search of their own food; 

Or through the glittering vapours dart 10 

In very wantonness of heart. 



THE PET-LAMB 



! 45 



Beneath a rock, upon the grass, 

Two boys are sitting hi the sun; 

Their work, if any work they have, 

Is out of mind — or done. 

On pipes of sycamore they play 

The fragments of a Christinas hymn; 

Or with that plant which in our dale 

We call stag-horn, or fox's tail, 

Their rusty hats they trim: 20 

And thus, as happy as the day, 

Those Shepherds wear the time away. 

Along the river's stony marge 

The sand-lark chants a joyous song; 

The thrush is busy hi the wood, 

And carols loud and strong. 

A thousand lambs are on the rocks, 

All newly born ! both earth and sky 

Keep jubilee, and more than all, 

Those boys with their green coronal; 30 

They never hear the cry, 

That plaintive cry ! which up the hill 

Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. 

Said Walter, leaping from the ground, 
" Down to the stump of yon old yew 
We '11 for our whistles run a race." 

Away the shepherds flew; 

They leapt — they ran — and when they 

came 
Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, 
Seehig that he should lose the prize, 40 

" Stop ! " to his comrade Walter cries — 
James stopped with no good will: 
Said Walter then, exulting; " Here 
You '11 find a task for half a year. 

" Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross — 

Come on, and tread where I shall tread." 

The other took him at his word, 

And followed as he led. 

It was a spot which you may see 

If ever you to Langdale go; 5 o 

Into a chasm a mighty block 

Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock: 

The gulf is deep below; 

And, hi a basin black and small, 

Receives a lofty waterfall. 

With staff hi hand across the cleft 

The challenger pursued his march; 

And now, all eyes and feet, hath gamed 

The middle of the arch. 

When list ! he hears a piteous moan — 60 

Again ! — his heart within him dies — 



His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, 

He totters, pallid as a ghost, 

And, looking down, espies 

A lamb, that in the pool is pent 

Withhi that black and frightful rent. 

The lamb had slipped into the stream, 

And safe without a bruise or wound 

The cataract had borne him down 

Into the gulf profound. 7 o 

His dam had seen him when he fell, 

She saw him down the torrent borne; 

And, while with all a mother's love 

She from the lofty rocks above 

Sent forth a cry forlorn, 

The lamb, still swimming round and round, 

Made answer to that plaintive sound. 

When he had learnt what thing it was, 

That sent this rueful cry; I ween 

The Boy recovered heart, and told 80 

The sight which he had seen. 

Both gladly now deferred their task; 

Nor was there wanting other aid — 

A Poet, one who loves the brooks 

Far better than the sages' books, 

By chance had thither strayed; 

And there the helpless lamb he found 

By those huge rocks encompassed round. 

He drew it from the troubled pool, 

And brought it forth into the light: go 

The Shepherds met him with his charge, 

An unexpected sight ! 

Into their arms the lamb they took, 

Whose life and limbs the flood had spared; 

Then up the steep ascent they hied, 

And placed him at his mother's side; 

And gently did the Bard 

Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid, 

And bade them better mind their trade. 



THE PET-LAMB 

A PASTORAL 

1800. 1800 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Barbara 
Lewthwaite, now living at Ainbleside (1843), 
though much changed as to beauty, was one of 
two most lovely sisters. Almost the first words 
my poor brother John said, when he visited us 
for the first time at Grasmere, were, '' Were 
those two Angels that I have just seen ? " and 
from his description 1 have no doubt they were 
those two sisters. The mother died in childbed ; 



246 



THE PET-LAMB 



and one of our neighbours at Grasmere told me 
that the loveliest sight she had ever seen was 
that mother as she lay in her coffin with her 
babe in her arm. I mention this to notice what 
I cannot but think a salutary custom once uni- 
versal in these vales. Every attendant on a 
funeral made it a duty to look at the corpse in 
the coffin before the lid was closed, which was 
never done (nor I believe is now) till a minute 
or two before the corpse was removed. Barbara 
Lewthwaite was not in fact the child whom I 
had seen and overheard as described in the 
poem. I chose the name for reasons implied in 
the above ; and will here add a caution ag'ainst 
the use of names of living- persons. Within a 
few months after the publication of this poem, 
I was much surprised, and more hurt, to find it 
in a child's school-book which, having- been 
compiled by Lindley Murray, had come into 
use at Grasmere School where Barbara was a 
pupil ; and, alas ! I had the mortification of 
hearing that she was very vain of being thus 
distinguished; and, in after-life, she used to say 
that she remembered the incident and what I 
said to her upon the occasion. 

The clew was falling fast, the stars began 

to blink; 
I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty 

creature, drink ! " 
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I 

espied 
A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden 

at its side. 

Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb 

was all alone, 
And by a slender cord was tethered to a 

stone ; 
With one knee on the grass did the little 

Maiden kneel, 
While to that mountain-lamb she gave its 

evening meal. 

The lamb, while from her hand he thus his 

supper took, 
Seemed to feast with head and ears; and 

his tail with pleasure shook. 10 

" Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said 

in such a tone 
That I almost received her heart into my 

own. 

'T was little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of 

beauty rare ! 
I watched them with delight, they were a 

lovely pair. 



Now with her empty can the Maiden turned 

away : 
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps 

did she stay. 

Right towards the lamb she looked; and 

from a shady place 
I unobserved could see the workings of her 

face: 
If Nature to her tongue could measured 

numbers bring, 
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little 

Maid might sing: 20 

" What ails thee, young One ? what ? Why 

pull so at thy cord ? 
Is it not well with thee ? well both for bed 

and board ? 
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass 

can be; 
Best, little young One, rest ; what is 't that 

aileth thee ? 

" W'hat is it thou wouldst seek ? What is 
wanting to thy heart ? 

Thy limbs are they not strong ? And beau- 
tiful thou art: 

This grass is tender grass; these flowers 
they have no peers; 

And that green corn all day is rustling in 
thy ears ! 

" If the svin be shining hot, do but stretch 

thy woollen chain, 
This beech is standing by, its covert thou 

canst gain; 30 

For ram and mountain-storms ! the like 

thou need'st not fear, 
The rain and storm are things that scarcely 

can come here. 

" Rest, little young One, rest ; thou hast for- 
got the day 

When my father found thee first in places 
far away; 

Many flocks were on the hills, but thou 
wert owned by none, 

And thy mother from thy side for evermore 
was gone. 

" He took thee in his arms, and in pity 

brought thee home: 
A blessed day for thee ! then whither 

wouldst thou roam ? 



POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES 



247 



A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that 

did thee yean 
Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could 

have been. 40 

" Thou know'st that twice a day I have 

brought thee hi this can 
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever 

ran ; 
And twice in the day, when the ground is 

wet with dew, 
I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk 

it is and new. 

" Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout 

as they are now, 
Then I '11 yoke thee to my cart like a pony 

in the plough; 
My playmate thou shalt be ; and when the 

wind is cold 
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall 

be thy fold. 

" It will not, will not rest ! — Poor creature, 
can it be 

That 't is thy mother's heart which is work- 
ing so in thee ? 50 

Things that I know not of belike to thee are 
dear, 

And dreams of things which thou canst 
neither see nor hear. 

" Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green 

and fair ! 
I 've heard of fearful winds and darkness 

that come there; 
The little brooks that seem all pastime and 

all play, 
When they are angry, roar like lions for 

their prey. 

" Here thou need'st not dread the raven hi 

the sky; 
Night and day thou art safe, — our cottage 

is hard by. 
Why bleat so after me ? Why pull so at 

thy chain ? 
Sleep — and at break of day I will come to 

thee again ! " 60 

— As homeward through the lane I went 
with lazy feet, 

This song to myself did I oftentimes re- 
peat; 



And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line 

by line, 
That but half of it was hers, and one half 

of it was mine. 

Again, and once again, did I repeat the 

song ; 
" Nay," said I, " more than half to the 

damsel must belong, 
For she looked with such a look and she 

spake with such a tone, 
That I almost received her heart into my 

own." 



POEMS ON THE NAMING OF 
PLACES 

1800. 1800 

ADVERTISEMENT 

By persons resident in the country and at- 
tached to rural objects, many places will be 
found unnamed or of unknown names, where 
little Incidents must have occurred, or feelings 
been experienced, which will have given to 
such places a private and peculiar interest. 
From a wish to give some sort of record to such 
Incidents, and renew the gratification of such 
feelings, Names have been given to Places by 
the Author and some of his Friends, and the 
following Poems written in consequence. 



Written at Grasmere. This poem was sug- 
gested on the banks of the brook that runs 
through Easedale, which is, in some parts of 
its course, as wild and beautiful as brook can 
be. I have composed thousands of verses by 
the side of it. 

It was an April morning: fresh and clear 
The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, 
Ran with a young man's speed ; and yet the 

voice 
Of waters which the winter had supplied 
Was softened down into a vernal tone. 
The spirit of enjoyment and desire, 
And hopes and wishes, from all living things 
Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. 
The budding groves seemed eager to urge 

on 9 

The steps of June ; as if their various hues 
Were only hindrances that stood between 
Them and their object: but, meanwhile, 

prevailed 
Such an entire contentment in the air 



248 



POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES 



That every naked ash, and tardy tree 
Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance 
With which it looked on this delightful day 
Were native to the summer. — Up the brook 
I roamed in the confusion of my heart, 
Alive to all things and forgetting all. 
At length I to a sudden turning came 20 
In this continuous glen, where down a rock 
The Stream, so ardent in its course before, 
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that 

all 
Which I till then had heard, appeared the 

voice 
Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the 

lamb, 
The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the 

thrush 
Vied with this waterfall, and made a song, 
Which, while I listened, seemed like the 

wild growth 
Or like some natural produce of the air, 
That could not cease to be. Green leaves 
were here; 3° 

But 't was the foliage of the rocks — the 

birch, 
The yew, the holly, and the bright green 

thorn, 
With hanging islands of resplendent furze: 
And, on a summit, distant a short space, 
By any who should look beyond the dell, 
A single mountain-cottage might be seen. 
I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, 
" Our thoughts at least are ours ; and this 

wild nook, 
My Emma, I will dedicate to thee." 

Soon did the spot become my other 

home, 4° 

My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. 
And, of the Shepherds who have seen me 

there, 
To whom I sometimes in our idle talk 
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, 
Years after we are gone and in our graves, 
When they have cause to speak of this wild 

place, 
May call it by the name of Emma's Dell. 



TO JOANNA 

Written at Grasmere. The effect of her 
laugh is an extravagance ; though the effect 
of the reverberation of voices in some parts 
of the mountains is very striking. There is, in 
the " Excursion," an allusion to the bleat of a 



lamb thus re-echoed, and described without 
any exaggeration, as I heard it, on the side of 
Stickle Tarn, from the precipice that stretches 
on to Langdale Pikes. 

Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 
The time of early youth; and there you 

learned, 
From years of quiet industry, to love 
The living Beings by your own fireside, 
With such a strong devotion, that your 

heart 
Is slow to meet the sympathies of them 
Who look upon the hills with tenderness, 
And make dear friendships with the streams 

and groves. 
Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind, 
Dwelling retired in our simplicity 10 

Among the woods and fields, we love you 

well, 
Joanna ! and I guess, since you have been 
So distant from us now for two long years, 
That you will gladly listen to discourse, 
However trivial, if you thence be taught 
That they, with whom you once were happy, 

talk 
Familiarly of you and of old times. 

While I was seated, now some ten days 
past, 
Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop 
Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple- 
tower, 2 ° 
The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by 
Came forth to greet me; and when he had 

asked, 
"How fares Joanna, that wild -hearted 

Maid ! 
And when will she return to us ? " he 

paused ; 
And, after short exchange of village news, 
He with grave looks demanded, for what 

cause, 
Reviving obsolete idolatry, 
I, like a Runic Priest, in characters 
Of formidable size had chiselled out 
Some uncouth name upon the native rock, 
Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. 3 ■ 

— Now, by those dear immunities of heart 
Engendered between malice and true love, 
I was not loth to be so catechised, 

And this was my reply: — " As it befell, 
One summer morning we had walked abroad 
At break of day, Joanna and myself. 

— 'T was that delightful season when the 

broom, 



POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES 



249 



Full-flowered, and visible on every steep, 
Along the copses runs in veins of gold. 40 
Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks; 
And when we came hi front of that tall rock 
That eastward looks, I there stopped short 

— and stood 
Tracing the lofty barrier with niy eye 
From base to summit; such delight I found 
To note in shrub and tree, in stone and 

flower 
That intermixture of delicious hues, 
Along so vast a surface, all at once, 
In one impression, by connecting force 
Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. 

— When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' 

space, 5 1 

Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld 
That ravishment of mine, and laughed 

aloud. 
The Rock, like something starting from a 

sleep, 
Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed 

again ; 
That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag 
Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar, 
And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth 
A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg 

heard, 
And Fairfield answered with a mountain 

tone ; 60 

Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky 
Carried the Lady's voice, — old Skiddaw 

blew 
His speaking-trumpet; — back out of the 

clouds 
Of Glaramara southward came the voice; 
And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty 

head. 

— Now whether (said I to our cordial 

Friend, 
Who in the hey-day of astonishment 
Smiled hi my face) this were hi simple 

truth 
A work accomplished by the brotherhood 
Of ancient mountains, or my ear was 

touched 7 o 

With dreams and visionary impulses 
To me alone imparted, sure I am 
That there was a loud uproar in the hills. 
And, while we both were listening, to my 

side 
The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished 
To shelter from some object of her fear. 

— And hence, long afterwards, when eight- 

een moons 



Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone 
Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm 
And silent morning, I sat down, and there, 
In memory of affections old and true, 81 
I chiselled out in those rude characters 
Joanna's name deep hi the living stone: — 
And I, and all who dwell by my fireside, 
Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's 
Rock." 



It is not accurate that the Eminence here al- 
luded to could be seen from our orchard-seat. 
It rises above the road by the side of Gras- 
mere lake, towards Keswick, and its name is 
Stone-Arthur. 

There is an Eminence, — of these our 

hills 
The last that parleys with the setting sun; 
We can behold it from our orchard-seat; 
And, when at evening we pursue our walk 
Along the public way, this Peak, so high 
Above us, and so distant hi its height, 
Is visible; and often seems to send 
Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. 
The meteors make of it a favourite haunt: 
The star of Jove, so beautiful and large 
In the mid heavens, is never half so fair 
As when he shines above it. 'T is in truth 
The loneliest place we have among the 

clouds. 
And She who dwells with me, whom I have 

loved 
With such communion, that no place on 

earth 
Can ever be a solitude to me, 
Hath to this lonely Summit given my 

Name. 



IV 

The character of the eastern shore of Gras- 
mere lake is quite changed, since these verses 
were written, by the public road being carried 
along 1 its side. The friends spoken of were 
Coleridge and my Sister, and the facts oc- 
curred strictly as recorded. 

A narrow girdle of rough stones and 

crags, 
A rude and natural causeway, interposed 
Between the water and a winding slope 
Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern 

shore 
Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy: 



25° 



POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES 



And there myself and two beloved Friends, 
One calm September morning, ere the mist 
Had altogether yielded to the sun, 
Sauntered on this retired and difficult way. 
Ill suits the road with one in haste ; 

but we 10 

Played with our time; and, as we strolled 

along, 
It was our occupation to observe 
Such objects as the waves had tossed 

ashore — 
Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered 

bough, 
Each on the other heaped, along the line 
Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant 

mood, 
Not seldom did we stop to watch some 

tuft 
Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, 
That skimmed the surface of the dead calm 

lake, 
Suddenly halting now — a lifeless stand ! 20 
And starting off again with freak as sudden ; 
In all its sportive wanderings, all the while, 
Making report of an invisible breeze 
That was its wings, its chariot, and its 

horse, 
Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul. 

And often, trifling with a privilege 

Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now, 
And now the other, to point out, perchance 
To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too 

fair 
Either to be divided from the place 30 

On which it grew, or to be left alone 
To its own beauty. Many such there are, 
Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall 

fern, 
So stately, of the queen Osmunda named; 
Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode 
On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the 

side 
Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere, 
Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance. 
— So fared we that bright morning: from 

the fields 
Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy 

mirth 4° 

Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls. 
Delighted much to listen to those sounds, 
And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced 
Along the indented shore ; when suddenly, 
Through a thin veil of glittering haze was 

seen 
Before us, on a point of jutting land, 



The tall and upright figure of a Man 
Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone, 
Angling beside the margin of the lake. 
" Improvident and reckless," we exclaimed, 
" The Man must be, who thus can lose a 

day 51 

Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's 

hire 
Is ample, and some little might be stored 
Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time." 
Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached 
Close to the spot where with his rod and 

line 
He stood alone; whereat he turned his 

head 
To greet us — and we saw a Man worn 

down 
By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken 

cheeks 59 

And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean 
That for my single self I looked at them, 
Forgetful of the body they sustained. — 
Too weak to labour in the harvest field, 
The Man was using his best skill to gam 
A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake 
That knew not of his wants. I will not say 
What thoughts immediately were ours, nor 

how 
The happy idleness of that sweet morn, 
With all its lovely images, was changed 
To serious musing and to self-reproach. 70 
Nor did we fail to see within ourselves 
What need there is to be reserved in speech, 
And temper all our thoughts with charity. 
— Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, 
My Friend, Myself, and She who then re- 
ceived 
The same admonishment, have called the 

place 
By a memorial name, uncouth indeed 
As e'er by mariner was given to bay 
Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast; 
And Point Rash-Judgment is the name 

it bears. 



v 

TO M. H. 

The pool alluded to is in Rydal Upper Park. 

Our walk was far among the ancient trees : 
There was no road, nor any woodman's 

path; 
But a thick umbrage — checking the wild 

growth 



THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE 



2 5i 



Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf 
Beneath the branches — of itself had made 
A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn, 
And a small bed of water in the woods. 
All round this pool both flocks and herds 

might drink 
On its firm margi" v , even as from a well, 
Or some stone-basm which the herdsman's 

hand 
Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did 

sun, 
Or wind from any quarter, ever come, 
But as a blessing to this calm recess, 
This glade of water and this one green 

field. 
The spot was made by Nature for herself; 
The travellers know it not, and 't will re- 
main 
Unknown to them; but it is beautiful; 
And if a man should plant his cottage near, 
Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, 
And blend its waters with his daily meal, 
He would so love it, that in his death-hour 
Its image would survive among his thoughts : 
And therefore, my sweet Mary, this still 

Nook, 
With all its beeches, we have named from 

You ! 



THE WATERFALL AND THE 
EGLANTINE 

1800. 1S00 

Suggested nearer to Grasmere, on the same 
mountain track as that referred to in the fol- 
lowing Note. The Eglantine remained many 
years afterwards, but is now gone. 



"Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf," 

Exclaimed an angry Voice, 

I Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 

Between me and my choice ! " 

A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows 

Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, 

That, all bespattered with his foam, 

And dancing high and dancing low, 

Was living, as a child might know, 

In an unhappy home. , 



" Dost thou presume my course to block ? 
Off, off ! or, puny Thing ! 



I '11 hurl thee headlong with the rock 

To which thy fibres cling." 

The Flood was tyrannous and strong; 

The patient Briar suffered long, 

Nor did he utter groan or sigh, 

Hoping the danger would be past; 

But, seeing no relief, at last, 

He ventured to reply. 20 

III 

" Ah ! " said the Briar, " blame me not; 

Why should we dwell in strife ? 

We who in this sequestered spot 

Once lived a happy life ! 

You stirred me on my rocky bed — 

What pleasure through my veins you spread 

The summer long, from day to day, 

My leaves you freshened and bedewed; 

Nor was it common gratitude 

That did your cares repay. 30 



"When spring came on with bud and 

bell, 
Among these rocks did I 
Before you hang my wreaths to tell 
That gentle days were nigh ! 
And in the sultry summer hours, 
I sheltered you with leaves and flowers; 
And m my leaves — now shed and gene, 
The linnet lodged, and for us two 
Chanted his pretty songs, when you 
Had little voice or none. 40 



" But now proud thoughts are in your 

breast — 
What grief is mine you see, 
Ah ! would you think, even yet how blest 
Together we might be ! 
Though of both leaf and flower bereft, 
Some ornaments to me are left — 
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, 
With which I, in my humble way, 
Would deck you many a whiter day, 
A happy Eglantine ! " so 



What more he said I cannot tell, 
The Torrent down the rocky dell 
Came thundering loud and fast; 
I listened, nor aught else could hear; 
The Briar quaked — and much I fear 
Those accents were his last. 



252 



THE OAK AND THE BROOM 



THE OAK AND THE BROOM 

A PASTORAL 

l800. l800 

Suggested upon the mountain pathway that 
leads from Upper Rydal to Grasmere. The 
ponderous block of stone which is mentioned 
in the poem remains, I believe, to this day, a 
good way up Nab-Scar. Broom grows under 
it, and in many places on the side of the 
precipice. 

I 

His simple truths did Andrew glean 

Beside the babbling rills; 

A careful student he had been 

Among the woods and hills. 

One winter's night, when through the trees 

The wind was roaring, on his knees 

His youngest born did Andrew hold: 

And while the rest, a ruddy quire, 

Were seated round their blazing fire, 

This Tale the Shepherd told. 10 



" I saw a crag, a lofty stone 

As ever tempest beat ! 

Out of its head an Oak had grown, 

A Broom out of its feet. 

The time was March, a cheerful noon — 

The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, 

Breathed gently from the warm south-west: 

When, in a voice sedate with age, 

This Oak, a giant and a sage, 

His neighbour thus addressed: — 2c 



"'Eight weary weeks, through rock and 

clay, 
Along this mountain's edge, 
The Frost hath wrought both night and day, 
Wedge driving after wedge. 
Look up ! and think, above your head 
What trouble, surely, will be bred; 
Last night I heard a crash — 't is true, 
The splinters took another road — 
I see them yonder — what a load 
For such a Thing as you ! 3° 

IV 

" ' You are preparing as before, 
To deck your slender shape; 



And yet, just three years back ■ 
You had a strange escape: 



• no more — 



Down from yon cliff a fragment broke; 

It thundered down, with fire and smoke, 

And hitherward pursued its way; 

This ponderous block was caught by me, 

And o'er your head, as you may see, 

'T is hanging to this day ! 40 



" ' If breeze or bird to this rough steep 

Your kind's first seed did bear; 

The breeze had better been asleep, 

The bird caught in a snare: 

For you and your green twigs decoy 

The little witless shepherd-boy 

To come and slumber in your bower; 

And, trust me, on some sultry noon, 

Both you and lie, Heaven knows how soon ! 

Will perish in one hour. 50 



" ' From me this friendly warning take ' — 

The Broom began to doze, 

And thus, to keep herself awake, 

Did gently interpose: 

' My thanks for yoiu' discourse are due ; 

That more than what you say is true, 

I know, and I have known it long; 

Frail is the bond by which we hold 

Our being, whether young or old, 

Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. 60 



" ' Disasters, do the best we can, 

Will reach both great and small; 

And he is oft the wisest man, 

Who is not wise at all. 

For me, why should I wish to roam ? 

This spot is my paternal home, 

It is my pleasant heritage; 

My father many a happy year, 

Spread here his careless blossoms, here 

Attained a good old age. 7c 



" ' Even such as his may be my lot. 

What cause have I to haunt 

My heart with terrors ? Am I not 

In truth a favoured plant ! 

On me such bounty Summer pours, 

That I am covered o'er with flowers; 

And, when the Frost is in the sky, 

My branches are so fresh and gay 

That you might look at me and say, 

This Plant can never die. 80 



HART-LEAP WELL 



253 



" ' The butterfly, all green and gold, 

To me hath often flown, 

Here in my blossoms to behold 

Whigs lovely as his own. 

When grass is chill with ram or dew, 

Beneath my shade, the mother-ewe 

Lies with her infant lamb; I see 

The love they to each other make, 

And the sweet joy which they partake, 

It is a joy to me.' 90 



" Her voice was blithe, her heart was light : 
The Broom might have pursued 
Her speech, until the stars of night 
Their journey had renewed; 
But in the branches of the oak 
Two ravens now began to croak 
Their nuptial song, a gladsome air; 
And to her own green bower the breeze 
That instant brought two stripling bees 
To rest, or murmur there. 100 



" One night, my Children ! from the north 

There came a furious blast; 

At break of day I ventured forth, 

And near the cliff I passed. 

The storm had fallen upon the Oak, 

And struck him with a mighty stroke, 

And whirled, and whirled him far away; 

And, in one hospitable cleft, 

The little careless Broom was left 

To live for many a day." no 

HART-LEAP WELL 

1800. 1800 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The first 
eight stanzas were composed extempore one 
winter evening in the cottage ; when, after hav- 
ing tired myself with labouring at an awkward 
passage in ''The Brothers," I started with a 
sudden impulse to this to get rid of the other, 
and finished it in a day or two. My Sister and 
I had past the place a few weeks before in our 
wild winter journey from Sockburn on the 
banks of the Tees to Grasmere. A peasant 
whom we met near the spot told us the story so 
far as concerned the name of the Well, and the 
Hart, and pointed out the Stones. Both the 
Stones and the Well are objects that may easily 
be missed ; the tradition by this time may be 
extinct in the neighbourhood : the man who 
-elated it to us was very old. 



Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, 
about five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, 
and near the side of the road that leads from 
Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived 
from a remarkable Chase, the memory of which 
is preserved by the monuments spoken of in 
the second Part of the following Poem, which 
monuments do now exist as I have there de- 
scribed them. 

PART FIRST 

The Knight had ridden down from Wensley 

Moor 
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud, 
And now, as he approached a vassal's door, 
" Bring forth another horse ! " he cried 

aloud. 

" Another horse ! " — That shout the vassal 

heard 
And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey; 
Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third 
Which he had mounted on that glorious day. 

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes ; 
The horse and horseman are a happy 
pair; 10 

But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, 
There is a doleful silence in the air. 

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, 
That as they galloped made the echoes roar ; 
But horse and man are vanished, one and 

all; 
Such race, I think, was never seen before. 

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, 
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain : 
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their 

kind, 
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 20 

The knight hallooed, he cheered and chid 

them on 
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings 

stern ; 
But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by 

one, 
The dogs are stretched among the mountain 

fern. 

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race ? 
The bugles that so joyfully were blown ? 
— This chase it looks not like an earthly 

chase ; 
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 



254 



HART-LEAP WELL 



The poor Hart toils along the mountain- 
side; 

I will not stop to tell how far he fled, 30 
Nor will I mention by what death he died ; 
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead. 

Dismounting, then, he leaned against a 

thorn; 
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy : 
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his 

horn, 
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter 

leaned, 
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat; 
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned ; 
And white with foam as if with cleaving 

sleet. 40 

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched : 
His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill, 
And with the last deep groan his breath had 

fetched 
The waters of the spring were trembling 

still. 

And now, too happy for repose or rest, 
(Never had living man such joyful lot !) 
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, 

and west, 
And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. 

And climbing up the hill — (it was at least 
Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter 

found s° 

Three several hoof-marks which the hunted 

Beast 
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till 

now 
Such sight was never seen by human eyes : 
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty 

brow, 
Down to the very fountain where he lies. 

" I '11 build a pleasure-house upon this spot, 
And a small arbour, made for rural joy; 
'T will be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's 
cot, 59 

A place of love for damsels that are coy. 

II A cunning artist will I have to frame 
A basin for that fountain in the dell ! 



And they who do make mention of the 
same, 

From this day forth, shall call it Hart- 
leap Well. 

" And, gallant Stag ! to make thy praises 

known, 
Another monument shall here be raised; 
Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn 

stone, 
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have 

grazed. 

" And, in the summer-time when days are 

long, 
I will come hither with my Paramour; 70 
And with the dancers and the minstrel's 

song 
We will make merry in that pleasant bower. 

" Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
My mansion with its arbour shall endure; — 
The joy of them who till the fields of 

Swale, 
And them who dwell among the woods of 

Ure ! " 

Then home he went, and left the Hart, 

stone-dead, 
With breathless nostrils stretched above the 

spring. 
— Soon did the Knight perform what he 

had said; 79 

And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. 

Ere thrice the Moon into her port had 

steered, 
A cup of stone received the living well; 
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter 

reared, 
And built a house of pleasure in the dell. 

And near the fountain, flowers of stature 
tall 

With trailing plants and trees were inter- 
twined, — 

Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, 

A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 

And thither, when the summer days were 

long, 
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour ; 90 
And with the dancers and the minstrel's 

song 
Made merriment within that pleasant bower 



HART-LEAP WELL 



255 



The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of 

time, 
And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — 
But there is matter for a second rhyme, 
And I to this would add another tale. 

PART SECOND 

The moving accident is not my trade ; 
To freeze the blood I have no ready aits: 
'T is my delight, alone in summer shade, 
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, 
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 
Three aspens at three corners of a square; 
And one, not four yards distant, near a well. 

What this imported I could ill divine: 
And, pulling now the rem my horse to stop, 
I saw three pillars standing in a line, — ti 
The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top. 

The trees were grey, with neither arms nor 

head ; 
Half wasted the square mound of tawny 

green; 
So that you just might say, as then I said, 
" Here hi old time the hand of man hath 

been." 

I looked upon the hill both far and near, 
More doleful place did never eye survey; 
It seemed as if the spring-tune came not 

here, 
And Nature here were willing to decay. 20 

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, 
When one, who was in shepherd's garb 

attired, 
Came up the hollow: — him did I accost, 
And what this place might be I then 

inquired. 

The Shepherd stopped, and that same story 
told 

Which in my former rhyme I have re- 
hearsed. 

" A jolly place," said he, " in times of old ! 

But something ails it now : the spot is curst. 

"You see these lifeless stumps of aspen 

wood — 
Some say that they are beeches, others 

elms — 30 



These were the bower; and here a mansion 

stood, 
The finest palace of a hundred realms ! 

" The arbour does its own condition tell; 
You see the stones, the fountain, and the 

stream ; 
But as to the great Lodge ! you might as 

well 
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 

" There 's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor 

sheep, 
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ; 
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, 39 
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. 

" Some say that here a murder has been 

done, 
And blood cries out for blood: but, for my 

part, 
I 've guessed, when I 've been sitting in the 

sun, 
That it was all for that unhappy Hart. 

" What thoughts must through the crea- 
ture's brain have past ! 

Even from the topmost stone, upon the 
steep, 

Are but three bounds — and look, Sir, at 
this last — 

O Master ! it has been a cruel leap. 

" For thirteen hours he ran a desperate 

race; 
And in my simple mind we cannot tell 50 
What cause the Hart might have to love 

this place, 
And come and make his deathbed near the 

well. 

" Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, 
Lulled by the fountain in the summer- 
tide ; 
This water was perhaps the first he drank 
When he had wandered from his mother's 
side. 

" In April here beneath the flowering thorn 
He heard the birds their morning carols 

sing; 
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was 

born 
Not half a furlong from that self-same 

spring. 60 



256 "'TIS SAID, THAT SOME HAVE DIED FOR LOVE" 



" Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant 

shade ; 
The sim on drearier hollow never shone; 
So will it be, as I have often said, 
Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are 

gone." 

" Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken 

well; 
Small difference lies between thy creed and 

mine: 
This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell; 
His death was mourned by sympathy divine. 

" The Being, that is in the clouds and air, 
That is in the green leaves among the 

groves, 70 

Maintains a deep and reverential care 
For the unoffending creatures whom he 

loves. 

" The pleasure-house is dust : — behind, 

before, 
This is no common waste, no common 

gloom ; 
But Nature, hi due course of time, once 

more 
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 

" She leaves these objects to a slow decay, 
That what we are, and have been, may be 

known ; 
But at the coming of the milder day, 
These monuments shall all be overgrown. 80 

" One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, 
Taught both by what she shows, and what 

conceals ; 
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
With sorrow of the meanest thing that 

feels." 



"'TIS SAID, THAT SOME HAVE 
DIED FOR LOVE" 

1S00. 1800 

'T is said, that some have died for love: 
And here and there a churchyard grave is 

found 
In the cold north's unhallowed ground, 
Because the wretched man himself had slain, 
His love was such a grievous pain. 
And there is one whom I five years have 

known; 



He dwells alone 

Upon Helvellyn's side: 

He loved — the pretty Barbara died; 

And thus he makes his moan: 10 

Three years had Barbara in her grave been 

laid 
When thus his moan he made: 

" Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind 

that oak ! 
Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, 
That in some other way yon smoke 
May mount into the sky ! 
The clouds pass on; they from the heavens 

depart. 
I look — the sky is empty space ; 
I know not what I trace; 
But when I cease to look, my hand is on 

my heart. 20 

" Oh ! what a weight is in these shades ! 

Ye leaves, 
That murmur once so dear, when will it 

cease ? 
Your sound my heart of rest bereaves, 
It robs my heart of peace. 
Thou Thrush, that singest loud — and loud 

and free, 
Into yon row of willows flit, 
Upon that alder sit; 
Or sing another song, or choose another 

tree. 

" Roll back, sweet Bill ! back to thy 

mountain-bounds, 
And there for ever be thy waters chained ! 
For thou dost haunt the air with sounds 31 
That cannot be sustained; 
If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged 

bough 
Headlong yon waterfall must come, 
Oh let it then be dumb ! 
Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which 

thou art now. 

" Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny 

showers, 
Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale, 
Thou one fair shrub, oh ! shed thy flowers, 
And stir not in the gale. 40 

For thus to see thee nodding in the air, 
To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, 
Thus rise and thus descend, — 
Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can 

bear." 



RURAL ARCHITECTURE 



2 57 



The Man who makes this feverish complaint 
Is one of giant stature, who could dance 
Equipped from head to foot in iron mail. 
Ah gentle Love ! if ever thought was thine 
To store up kindred hours for me, thy face 
Turn from me, gentle Love ! nor let me 

walk 50 

Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor 

know 
Such happiness as I have known to-day. 



THE CHILDLESS FATHER 

1800. 1S00 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. When I 
was a child at Oockermouth, no funeral took 
place without a basin filled with sprigs of box- 
wood being - placed upon a table covered with 
a white cloth in front of the house. The hunt- 
ings on foot, in which the old man is supposed 
to join as here described, were of common, al- 
most habitual, occurrence in our vales when I 
was a boy ; and the people took much delight in 
them. They are now less frequent. 

" Up, Timothy, up Avith your staff and away ! 
Not a soul in the village this morning will 

stay; 
The hare has just started from Hamilton's 

grounds, 
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the 

hounds." 

— Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and 

green, 
On the slopes of the pastures all colours 

were seen; 
With their comely blue aprons, and caps 

white as snow, 
The ghls on the hills made a holiday show. 

Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six 

months before, 
Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door; 
A coffin through Timothy's threshold had 

past ; 
One Child did it bear, and that Child was 

his last. 

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the 

fray, 
The horse and the horn, and the hark ! 

hark away ! 
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut 
With a leisurely motion the door of his hut. 



Perhaps to himself at that moment he said ; 
" The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead." 
But of this in my ears not a word did he 

speak ; 
And he went to the chase with a tear on his 

cheek. 

SONG 

FOR THE WANDERING JEW 

1S00. 1800 

Though the torrents from their fountains 
Roar down many a craggy steep, 
Yet they find among the mountains 
Resting-places calm and deep. 

Clouds that love through air to hasten, 
Ere the storm its fury stills, 
Helmet-like themselves will fasten 
On the heads of towering hills. 

What, if through the frozen centre 
Of the Alps the Chamois bound, 
Yet he has a home to enter 
In some nook of chosen ground: 

And the Sea-horse, though the ocean 
Yield him no domestic cave, 
Slumbers without sense of motion, 
Couched upon the rocking wave. 

If on windy days the Raven 
Gambol like a dancing skiff, 
Not the less she loves her haven 
In the bosom of the cliff. 

The fleet Ostrich, till day closes, 
Vagrant over desert sands, 
Brooding on her eggs reposes 
When chill night that care demands. 

Day and night my toils redouble, 
Never nearer to the goal; 
Night and day, I feel the trouble 
Of the Wanderer in my soul. 

RURAL ARCHITECTURE 

1S00. 1800 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. These 
structures, as every one knows, are common 
amongst our hills, being - built by shepherds, as 
conspicuous marks, and occasionally by boys in 
sport. 



2 5 8 



ELLEN IRWIN 



There 's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, 

and Reginald Shore, 
Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest 

not more 
Than the height of a counsellor's bag; 
To the top of Great How did it please 

them to climb: 
And there they built up, without mortar or 

lime, 
A Man on the peak of the crag. 

They built him of stones gathered up as 

they lay: 
They built him and christened him all in 

one day, 
An urchin both vigorous and hale; 
And so without scruple they called him 

Ralph Jones. 
Now Ralph is renowned for the length of 

his bones; 



Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth, 
And, in anger or merriment, out of the north, 
Coming on with a terrible pother, 
From the peak of the crag blew the giant 

away. 
And what did these school-boys ? — The 

very next day 
They went and they built up another. 

— Some little I 've seen of blind boisterous 
works 

By Christian disturbers more savage than 
Turks, 

Spirits busy to do and undo: 

At remembrance whereof my blood some- 
times will flag; 

Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the 
crag ! 

And I '11 build up a giant with you. 



ELLEN IRWIN 

OR, THE BRAES OF KIRTLE 

l8oo. 1800 

It may be worth while to observe that as 
there are Scotch Poems on this subject in 
simple ballad strain, I thought it would be 
both presumptuous and superfluous to attempt 
treating it in the same way ; and, accordingly, 
I chose a construction of stanza quite new in 
our language ; in fact, the same as that of 
Burger's Leonora, except that the first and 



third lines do not, in my stanzas, rhyme. At 
the outset I threw out a classical image to pre- 
pare the reader for the style iu which I meant 
to treat the story, and so to preclude all com- 
parison. 

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate 
Upon the braes of Kirtle, 
Was lovely as a Grecian maid 
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle; 
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay, 
And there did they beguile the day 
With love and gentle speeches, 
Beneath the budding beeches. 

From many knights and many squires 

The Bruce had been selected; 10 

And Gordon, fairest of them all, 

By Ellen was rejected. 

Sad tidings to that noble Youth ! 

For it may be proclaimed with truth, 

If Bruce hath loved sincerely, 

That Gordon loves as dearly. 

But what are Gordon's form and face, 

His shattered hopes and crosses, 

To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes, 

Reclined on flowers and mosses ? 20 

Alas that ever he was born ! 

The Gordon, couched behind a thorn, 

Sees them and their caressing; 

Beholds them blest and blessing. 

Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts 
That through his brain are travelling, 
Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce 
He launched a deadly javelin ! 
Fan Ellen saw it as it came, 
And, starting up to meet the same, 30 

Did with her body cover 
The Youth, her chosen lover. 

And, falling into Bruce's arms, 

Thus died the beauteous Ellen, 

Thus, from the heart of her True-love, 

The mortal spear repelling. 

And Bruce, as soon as he had slain 

The Gordon, sailed away to Spain; 

And fought with rage incessant 

Against the Moorish crescent. 40 

But many days, and many months, 
And many years ensuing, 
This wretched Knight did vainly seek 
The death that he was wooing. 



THE TWO THIEVES 



259 



So, coining his last help to crave, 
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave 
His body he extended, 
And there his sorrow ended. 

Now ye, who willingly have heard 
The tale I have been telling, 
May hi Kirkconnel churchyard view 
The grave of lovely Ellen: 
By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid; 
And, for the stone upon his head, 
May no rude hand deface it, 
And its forlorn l|ic facet ! 



ANDREW JONES 

1800. 1800 

I hate that Andrew Jones ; he '11 breed 
His children up to waste and pillage. 
I wish the press-gang or the drum 
With its tantara sound would come, 
And sweep him from the village ! 

I said not this, because he loves 

Through the long day to swear and tipple ; 

But for the poor dear sake of one 

To whom a foul deed he had done, 

A friendless man, a travelling cripple ! 10 

For this poor crawling helpless wretch, 
Some horseman who was passing by, 
A penny on the ground had thrown; 
But the poor cripple was alone 
And could not stoop — no help was nigh. 

Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground 
For it had long been droughty weather; 
So with his staff the cripple wrought 
Among the dust till lie had brought 
The half-pennies together. 20 

It chanced that Andrew passed that way 
Just at the time ; and there he found 
The cripple hi the mid-day heat 
Standing alone, and at his feet 
He saw the penny on the ground. 

He stopped and took the penny up: 

And when the cripple nearer drew, 

Quoth Andrew, " Under half-a-crown, 

What a man finds is all his own, 

And so, my Friend, good-day to you." 30 



And hence I said, that Andrew's boys 
Will all be framed to waste and pillage; 
And wished the press-gang, or the drum 
With its tantara sound, would come 
And sweep him from the village. 



THE TWO THIEVES 

OR, THE LAST STAGE OF AVARICE 

1S00. 1800 

This is described from the life, as I was in 
the habit of observing when a boy at Hawks- 
head School. Daniel was more than eighty- 
years older than myself when lie was daily, 
thus occupied, under my notice. No book 
could have so early taught me to think of the 
changes to which human life is subject ; and 
while looking at him I could not but say to 
myself — we may. one of us, I or the happiest 
of my playmates, live to become still more the 
object of pity than this old man, this half-doat- 
ing pilferer ! 

O now that the genius of Bewick were mine. 
And the skill which he learned on the banks 

of the Tyne. 
Then the Muses might deal with me just as 

they chose, 
For I 'd take my last leave both of verse 

and of prose. 

What feats would I work with my magical 
hand ! 

Book-learning and books should be banished 
the land: 

And, for hunger and thirst and such trouble- 
some calls, 

Every ale-house should then have a feast 
on its walls. 

The traveller would hang his wet clothes 

on a chair; 
Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw 

would he care ! 10 

For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and 

his sheaves, 
Oh, what would they be to my tale of two 

Thieves ? 

The One, yet unbreeched, is not three birth- 
days old, 

His Grandsire that age more than thirty 
times told; 



260 



A CHARACTER 



There are ninety good seasons of fair and 

foul weather 
Between them, and both go a -pilfering 

together. 

With chips is the carpenter strewing his 

floor? 
Is a cart-load of turf at an old woman's 

door ? 
Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will 

slide ! 
And his Grandson 's as busy at work by his 

side. 20 

Old Daniel begins; he stops short — and 

his eye,. 
Through the lost look of dotage, is cunning 

and sly: 
'T is a look which at this time is hardly his 

own, 
But tells a plain tale of the days that are 

flown. 

He once had a heart which was moved by 

the wires 
Of manifold pleasures and many desires: 
And what if he cherished his purse? 'T was 

no more 
Than treading a path trod by thousands 

before. 

T was a path trod by thousands; but Daniel 

is one 
Who went something farther than others 

have gone, 30 

And now with old Daniel you see how it 

fares ; 
You see to what end he has brought his 

grey hairs. 

The pair sally forth hand hi hand: ere the 

sun 
Has peered o'er the beeches, their work is 

begun: 
And yet, into whatever sin they may fall, 
This child but half knows it, and that, not 

at all. 

They hunt through the streets with delib- 
erate tread, 

And each, in his turn, becomes leader or led ; 

And, wherever they carry their plots and 
their wiles, 

Every face in the village is dimpled with 
smiles. 40 



Neither checked by the rich nor the needy 
they roam; 

For the grey-headed Sire has a daughter a1 
home, 

Who will gladly repair all the damage 
that 's done ; 

And three, were it asked, woidd be ren- 
dered for one. 

Old Man ! whom so oft I with pity have eyed, 
I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy 

side: 
Long yet may'st thou live ! for a teacher we 

see 
That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee. 



A CHARACTER 

1800. 1S00 

The principal features are taken from that 
of my friend Robert Jones. 

I marvel how Nature could ever find space 
For so many strange contrasts in one human 

face: 
There 's thought and no thought, and there 's 

paleness and bloom 
And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and 

gloom. 

There 's weakness, and strength both re- 
dundant and vain; 

Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain 

Could pierce through a temper that 's soft to 
disease, 

Would be rational peace — a philosopher's 
ease. 

There 's indifference, alike when he fails or 

succeeds, 
And attention full ten times as much as 

there needs; 
Pride where there 's no envy, there 's so 

much of joy ; 
And mildness, and spirit both forward and 

coy. 

There 's freedom, and sometimes a diffident 

stare 
Of shame scarcely seeming to know that 

she 's there, 
There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, 
Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy 

the name. 



INSCRIPTIONS 



261 



This picture from nature may seem to de- 
part, 

Yet the Man would at once run away with 
your heart; 

And I for five centuries right gladly would 
be 

Such an odd, such a kind happy creature as 
he. 



INSCRIPTIONS 

for the spot where the hermitage 
stood on st. Herbert's island, 
derwentwater 

l800. 180O 

If thou hi the dear love of some one Friend 
Hast been so happy that thou know'st what 

thoughts 
Will sometimes in the happiness of love 
Make the heart sink, then wilt thou rever- 
ence 
This quiet spot; and, Stranger ! not un- 
moved 
Wilt thou behold this shapeless heap of 

stones, 
The desolate rums of St. Herbert's Cell. 
Here stood his threshold; here was spread 

the roof 
That sheltered him, a self-secluded Man, 
After long exercise in social cares 
And offices humane, intent to adore 
The Deity, with undistracted mind, 
And meditate on everlasting things, 
In utter solitude. — But he had left 
A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man 

loved 
As his own soul. And, when with eye up- 
raised 
To heaven he knelt before the crucifix, 
While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore 
Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced 
Along the beach of this small isle and 

thought 
Of his Companion, he would pray that both 
(Now that their earthly duties were ful- 
filled) 
Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain 
So prayed he: — as our chronicles report, 
Though here the Hermit numbered his last 

day 
Far from St; Cuthbert his beloved Friend, 
Those holy Men both died in the same 
hour. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE 
IN THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN OUT- 
HOUSE), ON THE ISLAND AT GRASMERE 

1800. 1800 

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen 
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained 
Proportions more harmonious, and ap- 
proached 
To closer fellowship with ideal grace. 
But take it in good part: — alas ! the poor 
Vitruvius of our village had no help 
From the great City; never, upon leaves 
Of red Morocco folio, saw displayed, 
In long succession, pre-existing ghosts 9 
Of Beauties yet unborn — the rustic Lodge 
Antique, and Cottage with verandah graced, 
Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove, 
Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined 

hermitage. 
Thou see'st a homely Pile, yet to these walls 
The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and 

here 
The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from 

the wind. 
And hither does one Poet sometimes row 
His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled 
With plenteous store of heath and withered 

fern, 
(A lading which he with his sickle cuts, 20 
Among the mountains) and beneath this roof 
He makes his summer couch, and here at 

noon 
Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, 

the Sheep, 
Panting beneath the burthen of their wool, 
Lie round him, even as if they were a part 
Of his own Household: nor, while from 

his bed 
He looks, through the open door-place, 

toward the lake 
And to the stirring breezes, does he want 
Creations lovely as the work of sleep — 
Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy! 30 



WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL UPON A 
STONE, THE LARGEST OF A HEAP 
LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, 
UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDAL 

1800. 1S00 

Stranger ! this hillock of mis-shapen 

stones 
Is not a Ruin spared or made by time, 



262 



THE SPARROW'S NEST 



Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the 

Cairn 
Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing 

more 
Than the rude embryo of a little Dome 
Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be 

built 
Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. 
But, as it chanced, Sir William having 

learned 
That from the shore a full-grown man 

might wade, 9 

And make himself a freeman of this spot 
At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight 
Desisted, and the quarry and the mound 
Are monuments of his unfinished task. 
The block on which these lines are traced, 

perhaps, 
Was once selected as the corner-stone 
Of that intended Pile, which would have 

been 
Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate 

skill, 
So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, 
And other little builders who dwell here, 
Had wondered at the work. But blame 

him not, 20 

For old Sir William was a gentle Knight, 
Bred hi this vale, to which he appertained 
With all his ancestry. Then peace to him, 
And for the outrage which lie had devised 
Entire forgiveness ! — But if thou art one 
On fire with thy impatience to become 
An inmate of these mountains, — if, dis- 
turbed 
By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn 
Out of the quiet rock the elements 
Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze 
In snow-white splendour, — think again ; 

and, taught 31 

By old Sir William and his quarry, leave 
Thy fragments to the bramble and the 

rose; 
There let the vernal slow-worm sun him- 
self, 
And let the redbreast hop from stone to 

stone. 



THE SPARROW'S NEST 

1801. 1807 

Written in the Orchard, Town-end, Gras- 
mere. At the end of the garden of ray father's 
house at Cockermouth was a high terrace that 



commanded a fine view of the river Derwent 
and Cockermouth Castle. This was our favour- 
ite play-ground. The terrace-wall, a low one, 
was covered with closely-dipt privet and roses, 
which gave an almost impervious shelter to 
birds that built their nests there. The latter 
of these stanzas alludes to one of those nests. 

Behold, within the leafy shade, 
Those bright blue eggs together laid ! 
On me the chance-discovered sight 
Gleamed like a vision of delight. 
I started — seeming to espy 
The home and sheltered bed, 
The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by 
My Father's house, in wet or dry 
My sister Emmeline and I 
Together visited. 

She looked at it and seemed to fear it; 
Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it: 
Such heart was in her, being then 
A little Prattler among men. 
The Blessing of my later years 
Was with me when a boy: 
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; 
And humble cares, and delicate fears ; 
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; 
And love, and thought, and joy. 



"PELION AND OSSA FLOURISH 
SIDE BY SIDE" 

1S01. 1815 

Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side, 
Together in immortal books enrolled: 
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold; 
And that inspiring Hill, which " did di- 
vide 
Into two ample horns his forehead wide," 
Shines with poetic radiance as of old; 
While not an English Mountain we be- 
hold 
By the celestial Muses glorified. 
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in 

crowds: 
What was the great Parnassus' self to 

Thee, 
Mount Skiddaw ? In his natural sover- 
eignty 
Our British Hill is nobler far; he shrouds 
His double front among Atlantic clouds, 
And pours forth streams more sweet than 
Castaly. 



THE PRIORESS'S TALE 



263 



THE PRIORESS'S TALE 

FROM CHAUCER 
l8oi. 1820 

" Call up him who left half told 
The story of Cambuscau bold." 

In the following Poem no further deviation 
from the original has heen made than was 
necessary for the fluent reading and instant un- 
derstanding of the Author: so much, however, 
is the language altered since Chaucer's time, es- 
pecially in pronunciation, that much was to be 
removed, and its place supplied with as little 
incongruity as possible. The ancient accent 
has been retained in a few conjunctions, as 
also and alwliy, from a conviction that such 
sprinklings of antiquity would be admitted, by 
persons of taste, to have a graceful accordance 
■w ith the subject. The fierce bigotry of the 
Prioress forms a fine background for her ten- 
der-hearted sympathies with the Mother and 
Child ; and the mode in which the story is told 
amply atones for the extravagance of the 
miracle. 



" Lord, our Lord ! how wondrously," 

(quoth she) 
" Thy name in this large world is spread 

abroad ! 
For not alone by men of dignity 
Thy worship is performed and precious 

laud ; 
But by the mouths of children, gracious 

God ! 
Thy goodness is set forth; they when they 

lie 
Upon the breast thy name do glorify. 



" Wherefore in praise, the worthiest that I 

may, 
Jesu ! of thee, and the white Lily-flower 
Which did thee bear, and is a Maid for 

aye, IO 

To tell a story I will use my power; 
Not that I may increase her honour's 

dower, 
For she herself is honour, and the root 
Of goodness, next her Son, our soul's best 

boot. 



" O Mother Maid ! O Maid and Mother 

free ! 
O bush unburnt ! burning in Moses' sight ! 



That down didst ravish from the Deity, 
Through humbleness, the spirit that did 

alight 
Upon thy heart, whence, through that 

glory's might, 
Conceived was the Father's sapience, 20 
Help me to tell it in thy reverence ! 



" Lady ! thy goodness, thy magnificence, 

Thy virtue, and thy great humility, 

Surpass all science and all utterance; 

For sometimes, Lady ! ere men pray to thee 

Thou goest before in thy benignity, 

The light to us vouchsafing of thy prayer, 

To be our guide unto thy Sou so dear. 



" My knowledge is so weak, O blissful 

Queen ! 
To tell abroad thy mighty worthiness, 30 
That I the weight of it may not sustain; 
But as a child of twelvemonths old or less, 
That laboureth his language to express, 
Even so fare I ; and therefore, I thee pray, 
Guide thou my song which I of thee shall 

say. 



" There was in Asia, in a mighty town, 
'Mong Christian folk, a street where Jews 

might be, 
Assigned to them and given them for their 

own 
By a great Lord, for gain and usury, 
Hateful to Christ and to his company; 40 
And through this street who list might ride 

and wend; 
Free was it, and unbarred at either end. 



" A little school of Christian people stood 
Down at the farther end, in which there 

were 
A nest of children come of Christian blood, 
That learned in that school from year to 

year 
Such sort of doctrine as men used there, 
That is to say, to sing and read als5, 
As little children in their childhood do. 



" Among these children was a Widow's 
son, 50 

A little scholar, scarcely seven years old, 



264 



THE PRIORESS'S TALE 



Who day by day unto this school hath gone, 
And eke, when he the image did behold 
Of Jesu's Mother, as he had been told, 
This Child was wont to kneel adown and 

say 
Ave Marie, as he goeth by the way. 



" This Widow thus her little Son hath taught 
Our blissful Lady, Jesu's Mother dear, 
To worship aye, and he forgat it not; 
For simple infant hath a ready ear. 60 

Sweet is the holiness of youth: and hence, 
Calling to mind this matter when I may, 
Saint Nicholas in my presence standeth 

aye, 
Tor he so young to Christ did reverence. 



" This little Child, while in the school he 
sate 

His Primer conning with an earnest cheer, 

The whilst the rest their anthem-book re- 
peat 

The Alma IZedemptoris did he hear; 

And as he durst he drew him near and near, 

And hearkened to the words and to the 
note, 70 

Till the first verse he learned it all by rote. 

XI 

" This Latin knew he nothing what it said, 
For he too tender was of age to know; 
But to his comrade he repaired, and prayed 
That he the meaning of this song would 

show, 
And unto him declare why men sing so; 
This oftentimes, that he might be at ease, 
This child did him beseech on his bare 

knees. 



" His Schoolfellow, who elder was than he, 
Answered him thus : — ' This song, I have 

heard say, 80 

Was fashioned for our blissful Lady free; 
Her to salute, and also her to pray 
To be our help upon our dying day: 
If there is more in this, I know it not; 
Song do I learn, — small grammar I have 

got.' 

XIII 

" ' And is this song fashioned in reverence 
Of Jesu's Mother ? ' said this Innocent; 



' Xow, certes, I will use my diligence 
To con it all ere Christmas-tide be spent; 
Although I for my Primer shall be shent, 90 
And shall be beaten three times in an hour, 
Our Lady I wdl praise with all my power,' 



" His Schoolfellow, whom he had so be- 
sought, 
As they went homeward taught him privily, 
And then he sang it well and fearlessly, 
From word to word according to the note: 
Twice hi a day it passed through his throat ; 
Homeward and schoolward whensoe'er he 

went, 
On Jesu's Mother fixed was his intent. 



" Through all the Jewry (this before said 
1) 100 

This little Child, as he came to and fro, 
Fidl merrily then would he shig and cry, 
O Alma Redemptoris ! high and low: 
The sweetness of Christ's Mother pierced so 
His heart, that her to praise, to her to pray, 
He cannot stop his singing by the way. 



" The Serpent, Satan, our first foe, that hath 
His wasp's nest in Jew's heart, upswelled 

— ' O woe, 
O Hebrew people ! ' said he hi his wrath, 
' Is it an honest thing? Shall this be so ? no 
That such a Boy where'er he lists shall go 
In your despite, and sing his hymns and 

saws, 
Which is against the reverence of our laws ! ' 



" From that day forward have the Jews con* 

spired 
Out of the world this Innocent to chase; 
And to this end a Homicide they hired, 
That in an alley had a privy place, 
And, as the Child 'gan to the school to pace, 
This cruel Jew him seized, and held him fast 
And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast. 120 

XVIII 

" I say that him into a pit they threw, 

A loathsome pit, whence noisome scents 

exhale ; 
O cursed folk ! away, ye Herods new ! 
What may your ill intentions you avail ? 
Murder will out; cert6s it will not fail; 



THE PRIORESS'S TALE 



265 



Know, that the honour of high God may 

spread, 
The blood cries out on your accursed deed. 



" O Martyr 'stablished in virginity ! 
Now inay'st thou sing for aye before the 
throne, 129 

Following the Lamb celestial," quoth she, 
" Of which the great Evangelist, Saint John, 
In Patmos wrote, who saith of them that go 
Before the Lamb singing continually, 
That never fleshly woman they did know. 



" Now this poor widow waiteth all that 

night 
After her little Child, and he came not; 
For which, by earliest glimpse of morning 

light, 
With face all pale with dread and busy 

thought, 
She at the School and elsewhere him hath 

sought 
Until thus far she learned, that he had 

been 140 

In the Jews' street, and there he last was 

seen. 



" With Mother's pity in her breast enclosed 
She goeth, as she were half out of her 

mind, 
To every place wherein she hath supposed 
By likelihood her little Son to find; 
And ever on Christ's Mother meek and kind 
She cried, till to the Jewry she was brought, 
And him among the accursed Jews she 

sought. 

XXII 

" She asketh, and she piteously doth pray 
To every Jew that dwelleth in that place 150 
To tell her if her child had passed that 

way; 
They all said — Nay; but Jesu of his grace 
Gave to her thought, that in a little space 
She for her Son in that same spot did cry 
Where he was cast into a pit hard by. 



" thou great God that dost perform thy 

laud 
By mouths of Innocents, lo ! here thy 

might; 



This gem of chastity, this emerald, 
And eke of martyrdom this ruby bright, 
There, where with mangled throat he lay 
upright, 160 

The Alma Redemptoris 'gan to sing, 
So loud, that with his voice the place did 



" The Christian folk that through the Jewry 

went 
Come to the spot in wonder at the thing; 
And hastily they for the Provost sent; 
Immediately he came, not tarrying, 
And praiseth Christ that is our heavenly 

King, 
And eke his Mother, honour of Mankind: 
Which done he bade that they the Jews 

should bind. 

XXV 

" This Child with piteous lamentation then 
Was taken up, singing his song alway; 17 c 
And with procession great and pomp of 

men 
To the next Abbey him they bare away; 
His Mother swooning by the body lay: 
And scarcely coidd the people that were 

near 
Remove this second Rachel from the bier. 



" Torment and shameful death to every 
one 

This Provost doth for those bad Jews pre- 
pare 

That of this m order wist, and that anon: 

Such wickedness his judgments cannot 
spare; 180 

Who will do evil, evil shall he bear; 

Them therefore with wild horses did he 
draw, 

And after that he' hung them by the law. 



" Upon his bier this Innocent doth lie 
Before the altar while the Mass doth last: 
The Abbot with his convent's company 
Then sped themselves to bury him full 

fast; 
And, when they holy water on him cast, 
Yet spake this Child when sprinkled was 

the water, 
And sang, O A Ima Redemptoris Mater ! 190 



266 



THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE 



XXVIII 

" This Abbot, for he was a holy man, 
As all Monks are, or surely ought to be, 
In supplication to the Child began 
Thus saying, ' dear Child ! I summon 

thee 
In virtue of the holy Trinity 
Tell me the cause why thou dost sing this 

hynin 
Since that thy throat is cut, as it doth 

seem.' 

XXIX 

" ' My throat is cut unto the bone, I trow,' 
Said this young Child, ' and by the law of 

«rkind 
I should have died, yea many hours ago ; 200 
But Jesus Christ, as in the books ye fiud, 
Will that his glory last, and be in mind; 
And, for the worship of his Mother dear, 
Yet may I sing O A Ima ! loud and clear. 



" ' This well of mercy, Jesu's Mother sweet, 
After my knowledge I have loved alway; 
And in the hour when I my death did 

meet 
To me she came, and thus to me did say, 
" Thou in thy dying sing this holy lay," 209 
As ye have heard ; and soon as I had sung 
Methought she laid a grain upon my tongue. 

XXXI 

" ' Wherefore I sing, nor can from song re- 
I frain, 

In honour of that blissful Maiden free, 
Till from my tongue off -taken is the gram; 
And after that thus said she irnto me ; 
" My little Child, then will I come for thee 
Soon as the grain from off thy tongue they 

take : 
Be not dismayed, I will not thee forsake ! " ' 



" This holy Monk, this Abbot — him mean 

I, 
Touched then his tongue, and took away 

the grain; 220 

And he gave up the ghost full peacefully; 
And, when the Abbot had this wonder seen, 
His salt tears trickled down like showers of 

ram; 
And on his face he dropped upon the 

ground, 
And still he lay as if he had been bound. 



" Eke the whole Convent on the pavement 

, lay, 
Weeping and praising Jesu's Mother dear; 
And after that they rose, and took their 

way, 
And lifted up this Martyr from the bier, 
And in a tomb of precious marble clear 230 
Enclosed his uncorrupted body sweet. — 
Where'er he be, God grant us him to meet ! 



" Young Hew of Lincoln ! hi like sort laid 

low 
By cursed Jews — thing well and widely 

known, 
For it was done a little while ago — 
Pray also thou for us, while here we tarry 
Weak sinful folk, that God, with pitying 

eye, 
In mercy would his mercy multiply 
On us, for reverence of his Mother Mary ! " 



THE CUCKOO AND THE 
NIGHTINGALE 

FROM CHAUCER 

iSoi. 1842 

I 

The God of Love — ah, benedicite ! 

How mighty and how great a Lord is he ! 

For he of low hearts can make high, of 

high 
He can make low, and unto death bring 

nigh ; 
And hard hearts he can make them kind 

and free. 



Within a little time, as hath been found, 
He can make sick folk whole and fresh and 

sound: 
Them who are whole in body and in mind, 
He can make sick, — bind can he and un- 
bind 
All that he will have bound, or have un- 
bound. 10 

in 

To tell his might my wit may not suffice; 
Foolish men he can make them out of 

wise ; — 
For he may do all that he will devise; 



THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE 



267 



Loose livers he can make abate their vice, 
And proud hearts can make tremble in a 
trice. 



In brief, the whole of what he will, he may; 
Against him dare not any wight say nay; 
To humble or afflict whome'er he will, 
To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill ; 
But most his might he sheds on the eve of 
May. 20 



For every true heart, gentle heart and free, 
That with him is, or thinketh so to be, 
Now against May shall' have some stirring 

— whether 
To joy, or be it to some mourning; never 
At other time, methinks, hi like degree. 



For now when they may hear the small 

birds' song, 
And see the budding leaves the branches 

throng, 
This unto their remembrance doth bring 
All kinds of pleasure mixed with sorrowing; 
And longing of sweet thoughts that ever 

long. 30 



And of that longing heaviness doth come, 
Whence oft great sickness grows of heart 

and home: 
Sick are they all for lack of their desire; 
And thus in May their hearts are set on fire, 
So that they burn forth in great martyrdom. 



In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though 

now 
Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow; 
Yet have I felt of sickness through the May, 
Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every 

day, — 
How hard, alas ! to bear, I only know. 40 

IX 

Such shaking doth the fever in me keep 
Through all this May that I have little 

sleep; 
And also 't is not likely unto me, 
That any living heart should sleepy be 
In which Love's dart its fiery point doth 

steep. 



But tossing lately on a sleepless bed, 
I of a token thought which Lovers heed; 
How among them it was a common tale, 
That it was good to hear the Nightingale, 
Ere the vile Cuckoo's note be uttered. 50 



And then I thought anon as it was day, 
I gladly would go somewhere to essay 
If I perchance a Nightingale might hear, 
For yet had I heard none, of all that year, 
And it was then the third night of the 
May. 



And soon as I a glimpse of day espied, 

No longer would I hi my bed abide, 

But straightway to a wood that was hard 

by, 

Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly, 
And held the pathway down by a brook- 
side ; 60 



Till to a lawn I came all white and green, 

I in so fair a one had never been. 

The ground was green, with daisy powdered 

over; 
Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty 

cover, 
All green and white; and nothing else was 



There sate I down among the fair fresh 

flowers, 
And saw the birds come tripping from their 

bowers, 
Where they had rested them all night; and 

they, 
Who were so joyful at the light of day, 69 
Began to honour May with all their powers. 

XV 

Well did they know that service all by 
rote, 

And there was many and many a lovely 
note, 

Some, singing loud, as if they had com- 
plained ; 

Some with their notes another manner 
feigned; 

And some did sing all out with the full 
throat. 



2 68 



THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE 



They pruned themselves, and made them- 
selves right gay, 
Dancing and leaping light upon the spray; 
And ever two and two together were, 
The same as they had chosen for the year, 
Upon Saint Valentine's returning day. 80 



Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate 

upon, 
Was making such a noise as it ran on 
Accordant to the sweet Birds' harmony; 
Methought that it was the best melody 
Which ever to man's ear a passage won. 



And for delight, but how I never wot, 
I in a slumber and a swoon was caught, 
Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly ; 
And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy, 
Broke silence, or I heard him in my 
thought. 00 



And that was right upon a tree fast by, 
And who was then ill satisfied but I ? 
Now, God, quoth I, that died upon the 

rood, 
From thee and thy base throat, keep all 

that 's good, 
Full little joy have I now of thy cry. 



And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide, 
In the next bush that was me fast beside, 
I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing, 
That her clear voice made a loud rioting, 
Echoing thorough all the green wood 
wide. 100 



Ah ! good sweet Nightingale ! for my 

heart's cheer, 
Hence hast thou stayed a little while too 

long; 
For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here, 
And she hath been before thee with her 

song; 
Evil light on her ! she hath done me wrong. 

XXII 

But hear you now a wondrous thing, I 

pray; 
As long as in that swooning-fit I lay, 



Methought I wist right well what these 

birds meant, 
And had good knowing both of their intent, 
And of their speech, and all that they 

would say. MO 



The Nightingale thus in my hearing 

spake : — 
Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or 

brake, 
And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here ; 
For every wight eschews thy song to hear, 
Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make. 

XXIV 

What ! quoth she then, what is 't that ails 

thee now ? 
It seems to me I sing as well as thou; 
For mine 's a song that is both true and 

plain, — 
Although I cannot quaver so in vain 
As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not 

how. 1 20 



All men may understanding have of me, 
But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee; 
For thou hast many a foolish and quaint 

cry: — 
Thou say'st Osee, Osee, then how may I 
Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this 

may be ? 



Ah, fool ! quoth she, wist thou not what it 

is? 
Oft as I say Osee, Osee, I wis, 
Then mean I, that I should be wonderous 

fain 
That shamefully they one and all were 

slam, 
Whoever against Love mean aaght amiss. 130 



And also would I that they all were dead, 
Who do not think hi love their life to lead: 
For who is loth the God of Love to obey, 
Is only fit to die, I dare well say, 
And for that cause Osee I cry; take heed ! 

XXVIII 

Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law, 
That all must love or die ; but I withdraw, 
And take my leave of all such company, 



THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE 



269 



For mine intent it neither is to die, 139 

Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw. 



For lovers of all folk that be alive, 
The most disquiet have and least do thrive ; 
Most feeling have of sorrow, woe and care, 
And the least welfare cometh to their share ; 
What need is there agahist the truth to 
strive ? 



What ! quoth she, thou art all out of thy 

mind, 
That in thy churlishness a cause canst find 
To speak of Love's true Servants hi this 

mood ; 
For in this world no service is so good 
To every wight that gentle is of kind. 150 



For thereof comes all goodness and all 

worth ; 
All gentiless and honour thence come forth; 
Thence worship comes, content and true 

heart's pleasure, 
And full-assured trust, joy without measure, 
And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth; 



And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy, 
And seemliness, and faithful company, 
And dread of shame that will not do amiss ; 
For he that faithfully Love's servant is, 
Rather than be disgraced, would chuse to 
die. 160 

XXXIII 

And that the very truth it is which I 
Now say — hi such belief I '11 live and 

die; 
And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice. 
Then, quoth she, let me never hope for 

bliss, 
If with that counsel I do e'er comply. 



Good Nightingale ! thou speakest wondrous 
fair, 

Yet for all that, the truth is found else- 
where ; 

For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis: 

And Love in old folk a great dotage is; 

Who most it useth, him 't will most im- 
pair. i 7 o 



For thereof come all contraries to gladness ! 
Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming 

sadness, 
Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate, 
Dishonour, shame, envy importunate, 
Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and mad- 
ness. 

XXXVI 

Loving is aye an office of despair, 
And one thing is therein which is not fair; 
For whoso gets of love a little bliss, 
Unless it alway stay with him, I wis i 79 
He may full soon go with an old man's hair. 



And, therefore, Nightingale ! do thou keep 

nigh, 
For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint 

cry, 
If long time from thy mate thou be, or far, 
Thou 'It be as others that forsaken are ; 
Then shalt thou raise a clamour as do I. 

XXXVIII 

Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill be- 

seen ! 
The God of Love afflict thee with all teen, 
For thou art worse than mad a thousand 

fold; 
For many a one hath virtues manifold, 
Who had been nought, if Love had never 

been. 190 



For evermore his servants Love amendeth, 
And he from every blemish them def endeth ; 
And maketh them to burn, as in a fire, 
In loyalty, and worshipful desire, 
And, when it likes him, joy enough them 
sendeth. 



Thou Nightingale ! the Cuckoo said, be still, 
For Love no reason hath but his own will ; - — 
For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy ; 
True lovers doth so bitterly annoy, 
He lets them perish through that grievous 
ill. 200 



With such a master would I never be; 
For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not 
see, 



270 



THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE 



And knows not when he hurts and when he 

heals ; 
Within this court full seldom Truth avails, 
So diverse in his wilfulness is he. 



Then of the Nightingale did I take note, 
How from her inmost heart a sigh she 

brought, 
And said, Alas ! that ever I was born, 
Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn, — 
And with that word, she into tears burst out. 



Alas, alas ! my very heart will break, 211 
Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus 

speak 
Of Love, and of his holy services; 
Now, God of Love; thou help me in some 

wise, 
That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may 

wreak. 

XLIV 

And so methought I started up anon, 
And to the brook I ran and got a stone, 
Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast, 
And he for dread did fly away full fast ; 219 
And glad, hi sooth, was I when he was gone. 



And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye, 
Kept crying " Farewell ! — farewell, Pop- 
injay ! " 
As if in scornful mockery of me; 
And on I hunted him from tree to tree, 
Till he was far, all out of sight, away. 



Then straightway came the Nightingale to 

me, 
And said, Forsooth, my friend, do I thank 

thee, 
That thou wert near to rescue me; and 

now, 
Unto the God of Love I make a vow, 229 
That all this May I will thy songstress be. 

XLVII 

Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said, 
By this mishap no longer be dismayed, 
Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou 

heard'st me; 
Y et if I live it shall amended be, 
When next May comes, if I am not afraid. 



XLVIII 

And one thing will I counsel thee alsb, 
The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love's 

saw; 
All that she said is an outrageous lie. 
Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto, quoth 

I, _ 239 

For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe. 

XL1X 

Yea, hath it ? use, quoth she, this medicine ; 
This May-time, every day before thou dine, 
Go look on the fresh daisy; then say I, 
Although for pain thou may'st be like to 

die, 
Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and 

pine. 

L 

And mind always that thou be good and 

true, 
And I will sing one song, of many new, 
For love of thee, as loud as I may cry ; 
And then did she begin this song full high, 
" Beshrew all them that are in love untrue." 

LI 

And soon as she had sung it to the end, 251 
Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must 

wend; 
And, God of Love, that can right well and 

may, 
Send unto thee as mickle joy this day, 
As ever he to Lover yet did send. 

LII 

Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of 

me; 
I pray to God with her always to be, 
And joy of love to send her evermore; 
And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore, 
For there is not so false a bird as she. 260 

LIII 

Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale, 
To all the Birds that lodged within that 

dale, 
And gathered each and all into one place ; 
And them besought to hear her dolef id case 
And thus it was that she began her tale. 

LIV 

The Cuckoo — 't is not well that I should 

hide 
How she and I did each the other chide, 



TROILUS AND CRESIDA 



271 



And without ceasing, since it was daylight; 
And now I pray yon all to do me right 269 
Of that false Bird whom Love can not ahide. 



Then spake one Bird, and full assent all 

gave; 
This matter asketh counsel good as grave, 
For hirdswe are — all here together brought; 
And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not; 
And therefore we a Parliament will have. 



And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord, 
And other Peers whose names are on record ; 
A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent, 
And judgment there be given ; or that intent 
Failing, we finally shall make accord. 2S0 



And all this shall be done, without a nay, 
The moivow after Saint Valentine's day, 
Under a maple that is well beseen, 
Before the chamber-window of the Queen, 
At Woodstock, on the meadow green and 



She thanked them; and then her leave she 

took, 
And flew into a hawthorn by that brook; 
And there she sate and sung — upon that 

tree — 
" For term of life Love shall have hold of 

me " — 
So loudly, that I with that song awoke. 290 

Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know, 
For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence, 
Who did on thee the hardiness bestow 
To appear before my Lady ? but a sense 
Thou surely hast of her benevolence, 
Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth 

give; 
For of all good she is the best alive. 

Alas, poor Book ! for thy unworthiness, 
To show to her some pleasant meanings 

writ 
In winning words, since through her gen- 

tiless, 300 

Thee she accepts as for her service fit ! 
Oh ! it repents me I have neither wit 
Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give ; 
For of all good she is the best alive. 



Beseech her meekly with all lowliness, 
Though I be far from her I reverence, 
To think upon my truth and stedfastness, 
And to abridge my sorrow's violence, 
Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience, 
She of her liking proof to me would give; 
For of all good she is the best alive. 311 



Pleasure's Aurora, Day of gladsomeness ! 
Luna by night, with heavenly influence 
Illumined ! root of beauty and goodnesse, 
Write, and allay, by your beneficence, 
My sighs breathed forth in silence, — com- 
fort give ! 
Since of all good, you are the best alive. 

EXPLICIT 



TROILUS AND CRESIDA 

FROM CHAUCER 

l8oi. 1842 

Next morning Troilus began to clear 
His eyes from sleep, at the first break of 

day, 
And unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear, 
For love of God, full piteously did say, 
We must the Palace see of Cresida; 
For since we yet may have no other feast, 
Let us behold her Palace at the least ! 

And therewithal to cover his intent 
A cause he found into the Town to go, 
And they right forth to Cresid's Palace 

went; 10 

But, Lord, this simple Troilus was woe, 
Him thought his sorrowful heart would 

break in two; 
For when he saw her doors fast bolted all, 
Well nigh for sorrow down he 'gan to fall. 

Therewith when this true Lover 'gan be- 
hold, 

How shut was every window of the place, 

Like frost he thought his heart was icy 
cold ; 

For which, with changed, pale, and deadly 
face, 

Without word uttered, forth he 'gan to 
pace; 

And on his purpose bent so fast to ride, 20* 

That no wight his continuance espied. 



272 



TROILUS AND CRESIDA 



Then said he thus, — O Palace desolate ! 
O house of houses, once so richly dight ! 
O Palace empty and disconsolate ! 
Thou lamp of which extinguished is the 

light; 
O Palace whilom day that now art night, 
Thou ought'st to fall and I to die; since 

she 
Is gone who held us both in sovereignty. 

O, of all houses once the crowned boast ! 
Palace illumined with the sun of bliss; 30 
O ring of which the ruby now is lost, 

cause of woe, that cause has been of 

bliss : 
Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss 
Thy cold doors ; but I dare not for this rout; 
Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is 

out. 

Therewith he cast on Pandarus an eye, 
With changed face, and piteous to behold; 
And when he might his time aright espy, 
Aye as he rode, to Pandarus he told 
Both his new sorrow and his joys of old, 40 
So piteously, and with so dead a hue, 
That every wight might on his sorrow rue. 

Forth from the spot he rideth up and down, 
And everything to his rememberance 
Came as he rode by places of the town 
Where he had feit such perfect pleasure 

once. 
Lo, yonder saw I mine own Lady dance, 
And in that Temple she with her bright 

eyes, 
My Lady dear, first bound me captive-wise. 

And yonder with joy-smitten heart have I 
Heard my own Cresid's laugh; and once 
at play 5' 

1 yonder saw her eke full blissfully; 
And yonder once she unto me 'gan say — 
Now, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I 

pray ! 
And there so graciously did me behold, 
That hers unto the death my heart I hold. 

And at the corner of that self-same house 
Heard I my most beloved Lady dear, 
So womanly, with voice melodious 
Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear, 60 
That in my soul methinks I yet do hear 
The blissful sound ; and in that very place 
My Lady first me took unto her grace. 



O blissful God of Love ! then thus he cried, 
When I the process have in memory, 
How thou hast wearied me on every side, 
Men thence a book might make, a history; 
What need to seek a conquest over me, 
Since I am wholly at thy will ? what joy 
Hast thou thy own liege subjects to de- 
stroy ? 7° 

Dread Lord ! so fearful when provoked, 

thine ire 
Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain and 

grief. 
Now mercy, Lord ! thou know'st well I 

desire 
Thy grace above all pleasures first and 

chief; 
And live and die I will in thy belief; 
For which I ask for guerdon but one boon, 
That Cresida again thou send me soon. 

Constrain her heart as quickly to return, 
As thou dost mine with longing her to see, 
Then know I well that she would not so- 
journ. 80 
Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be 
Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee, 
As Juno was mito the Theban blood, 
From whence to Thebes came griefs in mul- 
titude. 

And after this he to the gate did go, 
Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she was ; 
And up and down there went, and to and fro, 
And to himself full oft he said, alas ! 
From hence my hope, and solace forth did 
pass. 

would the blissful God now for his joy, 

1 might her see again coming to Troy ! 91 

And up to yonder hill was I her guide; 
Alas, and there I took of her my leave; 
Yonder I saw her to her Father ride, 
For very grief of which my heart shall 

cleave ; — 
And hither home I came when it was eve; 
And here I dwell an outcast from all joy, 
And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy. 

And of himself did he imagine oft, 
That he was blighted, pale, and waxen less 
Than he was wont; and that in whispers 
soft 10 1 

Men said, what may it be, can no one guess 
Why Troilus hath all this heaviness ? 



THE SAILOR'S MOTHER 



2 73 



All which he of himself conceited wholly 
Out of his weakness and his melancholy. 

Another time he took into his head, 

That every wight, who hi the way passed 

by, 
Had of him ruth, and fancied that they 

said, 
I am right sorry Troilus will die: 
And thus a' day or two drove wearily ; 1 10 
As ye have heard ; such life 'gan he to lead 
As one that standeth betwixt hope and 

dread. 

For which it pleased him in his songs to 

show 
The occasion of his woe, as best he might; 
And made a fitting song, of words but few, 
Somewhat his woeful heart to make more 

light; 
And when he was removed from all men's 

sight, 
With a soft night voice, he of his Lady 

dear, 
That absent was, 'gan sing as ye may hear. 

star, of which I lost have all the light, 120 
With a sore heart well ought I to bewail, 
That ever dark in torment, night by night, 
Toward my death with wind I steer and 

sail; 
For which upon the tenth night if thou fail 
With thy bright beams to guide me but 

one hour, 
My ship and me Charybdis will devour. 

As soon as he this song had thus sung 

through, 
He fell again into his sorrows old; 
And every night, as was his wont to do, 
Troilus stood the bright moon to behold; 130 
And all his trouble to the moon he told, 
And said; I wis, when thou art horn'd 

anew, 

1 shall be glad if all the world be true. 

Thy horns were old as now upon that 
morrow, 

When hence did journey my bright Lady 
dear, 

That cause is of my torment and my sor- 
row; 

For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and 
clear ; 

For love of God, run fast above thy sphere ; 



For when thy horns begin once more to 

spring, 
Then shall she come, that with her bliss 

may bring. 140 

The day is more, and longer every night 
Than they were wont to be — for he thought 

so; 
And that the sim did take his course not 

right, 
By longer way than he was wont to go; 
And said, I am in constant dread I trow, 
That Phiieton his son is yet alive, 
His too fond father's car amiss to drive. 

Upon the walls fast also would he walk, 
To the end that he the Grecian host might 

see; 149 

And ever thus he to himself would talk: — 
Lo ! yonder is my own bright Lady free; 
Or yonder is it that the tents must be; 
And thence does come this ah- which is so 

sweet, 
That in my soul I feel the joy of it. 

And certainly this wind, that more and 

more 
By moments thus increaseth in my face, 
Is of my Lady's sighs heavy and sore; 
I prove it thus; for in no other space 
Of all this town, save only in this place, 159 
Feel I a wind, that sound eth so like pain; 
It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain ? 

A weary while in pain he tosseth thus, 
Till fully past and gone was the ninth 

night ; 
And ever at his side stood Pandarus, 
Who busily made use of all his might 
To comfort him, and make his heart more 

light; 
Giving him always hope, that she the 

morrow 
Of the tenth day will come, and end his 

sorrow. 

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER 

1802. 1807 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. I met this 
woman near the Wishing-gate, on the high- 
road that then led from Grasmere to Amble- 
side. Her appearance was exactly as here 
described, and such was her account, nearly to 
the letter. 



274 



ALICE FELL 



One morning (raw it was and wet — 

A foggy day in winter time) 

A Woman on the road I met, 

Not old, though something past her 

prime: 
Majestic in her person, tall and straight; 
And like a Roman matron's was her mien 

and gait. 

The ancient spirit is not dead ; 
Old times, thought I, are breathing there ; 
Proud was I that my country bred 
Such strength, a dignity so fair: 10 

She begged an alms, like one hi poor 

estate ; 
I looked at her again, nor did my pride 

abate. 

When from these lofty thoughts I woke, 
" What is it," said I, " that you bear, 
Beneath the covert of your Cloak, 
Protected from tins cold damp ah- ? " 
She answered, soon as she the question 
heard, 
"A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing- 
bird." 

And, thus continuing, she said, 

" I had a Son, who many a day 20 

Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; 

In Denmark he was cast away: 

And I have travelled weary miles to 

see 
If aught which he had owned might still 

remain for me. 

" The bird and cage they both were 

his: 
'T was my Son's bird; and neat and 

trim 
He kept it: many voyages 
The singing-bird had gone with him; 
When last he sailed, he left the bird 

behind; 
From bodings, as might be, that hung upon 

his mind. 30 

" He to a fellow-lodger's care 
Had left it, to be watched and fed, 
And pipe its song in safety ; — there 
I found it when my Son was dead; 
And now, God help me for my little 

wit ! 
1 bear it with me, Sir; — he took so much 

delight in it." 



ALICE FELL 

OR, POVERTY 

1802. 1807 

Written to gratify Mr. Graham of Glasgow, 
brother of the Author of " The Sabbath." He 
was a zealous coadjutor of Mr. Clarkson, and a 
man of ardent humanity. The incident had 
happened to himself, and he urged me to put 
it into verse, for humanity's sake. Tiie hum- 
bleness, meanness if you like, of the subject, 
tog-ether with the homely mode of treating it, 
brought upon me a world of ridicule by the 
small critics, so that in policy I excluded it 
from many editions of my Poems, till it was 
restored at the request of some of my friends, 
in particular my son-in-law, Edward Quillinau. 

The post-boy drove with fierce career, 
For threatening clouds the moon had 

drowned ; 
When, as we hurried on, my ear ' 
Was smitten with a startling sound. 

As if the wind blew many ways, 
I heard the sound, — and more and more, 
It seemed to follow with the chaise, 
And still I heard it as before. 

At length I to the boy called out; 
He stopped his horses at the word, 10 

But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, 
Nor aught else like it, could be heard. 

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 
The horses scampered through the rain; 
But, hearing soon upon the blast 
The cry, I bade him halt again. 

Forthwith alighting on the ground, 

" Whence comes," said I, " this piteous 

moan ? " 
And there a little Girl I found, 
Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 20 

" My cloak ! " no other word she spake, 
But loud and bitterly she wept, 
As if her innocent heart woidd break; 
And down from off her seat she leapt. 

" What ails you, child ? " — she sobbed 

" Look here ! " 
I saw it in the wheel entangled, 
A weather-beaten rag as e'er 
From any garden scare-crow dangled. 



BEGGARS 



275 



There, twisted between nave and spoke, 
It hung, nor could at once be freed; 
But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, 
A miserable rag indeed ! 

" And whither are you going, child, 
To-night along these lonesome ways ? " 
"To Durham," answered she, half wild- 
" Then come with me into the chaise." 

Insensible to all relief 
Sat the poor girl, and forth did send 
Sob after sob, as if her grief 
Could never, never have an end. 

" My child, in Durham do you dwell ? " 
She checked herself hi her distress, 
And said, " My name is Alice Fell; 
I 'm fatherless and motherless. 

" And I to Durham, Sir, belong." 
Again, as if the thought would choke 
Her very heart, her grief grew strong; 
And all was for her tattered cloak ! 

The chaise drove on; our journey's end 
Was nigh; and, sitthig by my side, 
As if she had lost her only friend 
She wept, nor would be pacified. 

Up to the tavern-door we post; 
Of Alice and her grief I told; 
And I gave money to the host, 
To buy a new cloak for the old. 

" And let it be of duml grey, 
As warm a cloak as man can sell ! " 
Proud creature was she the next day, 
The little orphan, Alice Fell ! 



BEGGARS 

1802. 1807 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Met, and 
described to me by my Sister, near the quarry 
at the head of Rydal lake, a place still a chosen 
resort of vagrants travelling with their fami- 
lies. 

She had a tall man's height or more; 
Her face from summer's noontide heat 
No bonnet shaded, but she wore 
A mantle, to her very feet 



Descending with a graceful flow, 
And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen 
snow. 

Her skin was of Egyptian brown: 
Haughty, as if her eye had seen 
Its own light to a distance thrown, 
She towered, fit person for a Queen 10 

To lead those ancient Amazonian files ; 
Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian 
isles. 

Advancing, forth she stretched her hand 
And begged an alms with doleful plea 
That ceased not; on our English land 
Such woes, I knew, could never be; 
And yet a boon I gave her, for the crea- 
ture 
Was beautif ul to see — a weed of glorious 
feature. 

I left her, and pursued my way; 
And soon before me did espy 20 

A pair of little Boys at play, 
Chasing a crimson butterfly; 
The taller followed with his hat in hand, 
Wreathed round with yellow flowers the 
gayest of the land. 

The other wore a rimless crown 
With leaves of laurel stuck about; 
And, while both followed up and down, 
Each whooping with a merry shout, 
In their fraternal features I could trace 
Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppli- 
ant's face. 30 

Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit 

For finest tasks of earth or air: 

Wings let them have, and they might flit 

Precursors to Aurora's car, 

Scattering fresh flowers; though happier 

far, I ween, 
To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and 

level green. 

They dart across my path — but lo, 
Each ready with a plaintive whine ! 
Said I, " not half an hour ago 
Your Mother has had alms of mine." 40 
" That cannot be," one answered — " she 

is dead : " — 
I looked reproof — they saw — but neither 

hung his head. 



276 



TO A BUTTERFLY 



" She has been dead, Sir, many a day." — 

" Hush, boys ! you 're telling me a lie; 

It was your Mother, as I say ! " 

And, hi the twinkling of an eye, 

" Come ! Come ! " cried one, and without 

more ado, 
Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants 

flew! 

TO A BUTTERFLY 

1802. 1807 

Written in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. 
My sister and I were parted immediately after 
the death of our mother, who died in 1778, 
both being very young. 

Stay near me — do not take thy flight ! 

A little longer stay in sight ! 

Much converse do I find in thee, 

Historian of my infancy ! 

Float near me; do not yet depart ! 

Dead times revive in thee: 

Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art ! 

A solemn image to my heart, 

My father's family ! 

Oh ! pleasant, pleasant were the days, 
The time, when, in our childish plays, 
My sister Emmeline and I 
Together chased the butterfly ! 
A very hunter did I rush 
Upon the prey: — with leaps and springs 
I followed on from brake to bush; 
But she, God love her, feared to brush 
The dust from off its wings. 



THE EMIGRANT MOTHER 

1802. 1807 

Suggested by what I have noticed in more 
than one French fugitive during the time of 
the French Revolution. If I am not mistaken, 
the lines were composed at Sockburn, when I 
was on a visit to Mrs. Wordsworth and her 
brother. 

Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned 

In which a Lady driven from France did 

dwell ; 
The big and lesser griefs with which she 

mourned, 
£11 friendship she to me would often tell. 
This Lady, dwelling upon British ground, 
Where she was childless, daily would repair 



To a poor neighbouring cottage ; as I found, 
For sake of a young Child whose home was 
there. 

Once having seen her clasp with fond em- 
brace 

This Child, I chanted to myself a lay, 10 

Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to 
trace 

Such things as she unto the Babe might 
say: 

And thus, from what I heard and knew, or 
guessed, 

My song the workings of her heart ex- 
pressed. 



" Dear Babe, thou daughter of another, 

One moment let me be thy mother ! 

An infant's face and looks are thine, 

And sure a mother's heart is mine: 

Thy own dear mother 's far away, 

At labour in the harvest field: 20 

Thy little sister is at play ; — 

What warmth, what comfort would it yield 

To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be 

One little hour a child to me ! 



" Across the waters I am come, 

And I have left a babe at home: 

A long, long way of land and sea ! 

Come to me — I 'm no enemy: 

I am the same who at thy side 

Sate yesterday, and made a nest 30 

For thee, sweet Baby ! — thou hast tried, 

Thou know'st the pillow of my breast; 

Good, good art thou : — alas ! to me 

Far more than I can be to thee. 



" Here, little Darling, dost thou lie ; 

An infant thou, a mother I ! 

Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears; 

Mine art thou — spite of these my tears. 

Alas ! before I left the spot, 

My baby and its dwelling-place; 40 

The nurse said to me, ' Tears should not 

Be shed upon an infant's face, 

It was unlucky ' — no, no, no ; 

No truth is in them who say so ! 



" My own dear Little-one will sigh, 
Sweet Babe ! and they will let him die. 



"AMONG ALL LOVELY THINGS MY LOVE HAD BEEN" 277 



* He pines,' they '11 say, ' it is his doom, 
And you may see his hour is come.' 
Oh ! had he but thy cheerful smiles, 
Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, 50 

Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles, 
And countenance like a summer's day, 
They would have hopes of him ; — and 

then 
I should behold his face again ! 



" 'T is gone — like dreams that we forget; 

There was a smile or two — yet — yet 

I can remember them, I see 

The smiles, worth all the world to me. 

Dear Baby ! I must lay thee down; 

Thou troublest me with strange alarms; 60 

Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own; 

I cannot keep thee in my arms; 

For they confound me ; — where — where is 

That last, that sweetest smile of his ? 



" Oh ! how I love thee ! — we will stay 
Together here this one half day. 
My sister's child, who bears my name, 
From France to sheltering England came; 
She with her mother crossed the sea; 
The babe and mother near me dwell: 70 
Yet does my yearning heart to thee 
Turn rather, though I love her well: 
Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here ! 
Never was any child more dear ! 

VII 

" — I cannot help it ; ill intent 
I 've none, my pretty Innocent ! 
I weep — I know they do thee wrong, 
These tears — and my poor idle tongue. 
Oh, what a kiss was that ! my cheek 
How cold it is ! but thou art good; 80 

Thine eyes are on me — they would speak, 
I think, to help me if they could. 
Blessings upon that soft, warm face, 
My heart again is in its place ! 



" While thou art mine, my little Love, 
This cannot be a sorrowful grove; 
Contentment, hope, and mother's glee, 
I seem to find them all in thee: 
Here 's grass to play with, here are flowers; 
I '11 call thee by my darling's name ; 9 o 

Thou hast, I think, a look of ours, 
Thy features seem to me the same ; 



His little sister thou shalt be; 

And, when once more, my home I see, 

I '11 tell him many tales of Thee." 



"MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN 
I BEHOLD" 

1802. 1807 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. 

My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky: 
So was it when my life began; 
So is it now I am a man; 
So be it when I shall grow old, 

Or let me die ! 
The Child is father of the Man; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



"AMONG ALL LOVELY THINGS 
MY LOVE HAD BEEN" 

1802. 1807 

Among all lovely things my Love had been ; 
Had noted well the stars, all flowers that 

grew 
About her home; but she had never seen 
A glow-worm, never one, and this I knew. 

Whfle riding near her home one stormy 

night 
A single glow-worm did I chance to espy; 
I gave a fervent welcome to the sight, 
And from my horse I leapt; great joy had I. 

Upon a leaf the glow-worm did I lay, 

To bear it with me through the stormy 

night: 
And, as before, it shone without dismay; 
Albeit putting forth a fainter light. 

When to the dwelling of my Love I came, 
I went into the orchard quietly; 
And left the glow-worm, blessing it by name, 
Laid safely by itself, beneath a tree. 

The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped 

with fear; 
At night the glow-worm shone beneath the 

tree; 
I led my Lucy to the spot, " Look here," 
Oh ! joy it was for her, and joy for me ! 



278 



WRITTEN IN MARCH 



WRITTEN IN MARCH 

■WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT 
THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER 

l802. 1807 

Extempore. This little poem was a favour- 
ite with Joanna Baillie. 

The Cock is crowing, 

The stream is flowing, 

The small birds twitter, 

The lake doth glitter, 
The green field sleeps in the sun; 

The oldest and youngest 

Are at work with the strongest; 

The cattle are grazing, 

Their heads never raising; 
There are forty feeding like one ! 

Like an army defeated 

The snow hath retreated, 

And now doth fare ill 

On the top of the bare hill; 
The ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon: 

There 's joy in the mountains; 

There 's life in the fountains ; 

Small clouds are sailing, 

Blue sky prevailing; 
The rain is over and gone ! 



THE REDBREAST CHASING THE 
BUTTERFLY 

1802. 1807 

Observed, as described, in the then beautiful 
orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. 

Art thou the bird whom Man loves 

best, 
The pious bird with the scarlet breast, 

Our little English Robin; 
The bird that comes about our doors 
When Autumn-winds are sobbing ? 
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors ? 

Their Thomas in Finland, 

And Russia far inland ? 
The bird, that by some name or other 
All men who know thee call their brother, 
The darling of children and men ? 1 1 

Could Father Adam open his eyes 
And see this sight beneath the skies, 
He 'd wish to close them again. 



— If the butterfly knew but his friend, 

Hither his flight he w r ould bend; 

And find his way to me, 

Under the branches of the tree: 

In and out, he darts about; 

Can this be the bird, to man so good, 20 

That, after their bewildering, 

Covered with leaves the little children, 

So painfully in the wood ? 
What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st 
pursue 

A beautiful creature, 
That is gentle by nature ? 
Beneath the summer sky 
From flower to flower let him fly; 
'T is all that he wishes to do. 29 

The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness, 
He is the friend of our summer gladness: 
What hinders, then, that ye should be 
Playmates in the sunny weather, 
And fly about in the air together ! 
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, 
A crimson as bright as thine own: 
Would'st thou be happy in thy nest, 
O pious Bird ! whom man loves best, 
Love him, or leave him alone ! 



TO A BUTTERFLY 

1802. 1S07 

Written in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. 

I 've watched you now a full half -hour, 
Self -poised upon that yellow flower; 
And, little Butterfly ! indeed 
I know not if you sleep or feed. 
How motionless ! — not frozen seas 
More motionless ! and then 
What joy awaits you, when the breeze 
Hath found you out among the trees, 
And calls you forth again ! 

This plot of orchard-ground is ours; 
My trees they are, my sister's flowers; 
Here rest your wings when they are 

weary ; 
Here lodge as in a sanctuary ! 
Come often to us, fear no wrong; 
Sit near us on the bough ! 
We '11 talk of sunshine and of song, 
And summer days, when we were young; 
Sweet childish days, that were as long 
As twenty days are now. 



TO THE SMALL CELANDINE 



279 



FORESIGHT 

1S02. 1807 

Also composed in the orchard, Town-end, 
Grasmere. 

That is work of waste and ruin — 
Do as Charles and I are doing ! 
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, 
We must spare them — here are many : 
Look at it — the flower is small, 
Small and low, though fair as any: 
Do not touch it ! summers two 
I am older, Anne, than you. 

Pull the primrose, sister Anne ! 

Pull as many as you can. 10 

— Here are daisies, take your fill; 

Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower: 

Of the lofty daffodil 

Make your bed, or make your bower; 

Fill your lap, and fill your bosom ; 

Only spare the strawberry-blossom ! 

Primroses, the Spring may love them — 

Summer knows but little of them: 

Violets, a barren kind, 

Withered on the ground must lie ; 30 

Daisies leave no fruit behind 

When the pretty flowerets die ; 

Pluck them, and another year 

As many will be blowing here. 

God has given a kindlier power 

To the favoured strawberry-flower. 

Hither soon as spring is fled 

You and Charles and I will Avalk; 

Lurking berries, ripe and red, 

Then will hang on every stalk, 30 

Each within its leafy bower; 

And for that promise spare the flower ! 



TO THE SMALL CELANDINE 

1802. 1807 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. It is re- 
markable that this flower, coming' out so early 
in the spring as it does, and so bright and 
beautiful, and in such profusion, should not 
have been noticed earlier in English verse. 
What adds much to the interest that attends 
it is its habit of shutting itself up and open- 
ing out according to the degree of light aud 
temperature of the air. 



Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
Let them live upon their praises; 
Long as there 's a sun that sets, 
Primroses will have their glory; 
Long as there are violets, 
They will have a place in story : 
There 's a flower that shall be mine, 
'T is the little Celandine. 

Eyes of some men travel far 
For the finding of a star; 10 

Up and down the heavens they go, 
Men that keep a mighty rout ! 
I 'm as great as they, I trow, 
Since the day I found thee out, 
Little Flower ! — I '11 make a stir, 
Like a sage astronomer. 

Modest, yet withal an Elf 
Bold, and lavish of thyself; 
Since we needs must first have met 
I have seen thee, high and low, 20 

Thirty years or more, and yet 
'T was a face I did not know; 
Thou hast now, go where I may, 
Fifty greetings in a day. 

Ere a leaf is on a bush, 

In the time before the thrush 

Has a thought about her nest, 

Thou wilt come with half a call, 

Spreading out thy glossy breast 

Like a careless Prodigal; 30 

Telling tales about the sun, 

When we 've little warmth, or none. 

Poets, vain men in their mood ! 

Travel with the multitude: 

Never heed them; I aver 

That they all are wanton wooers; 

But the thrifty cottager, 

Who stirs little out of doors, 

Joys to spy thee near her home; 

Spring is coming, Thou art come ! 40 

Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
Careless of thy neighbourhood, 
Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
On the moor, and in the wood, 
In the lane ; — there 's not a place, 
Howsoever mean it be, 
But 't is good enough for thee. 

Ill befall the yellow flowers, 
Children of the flaring hours ! 50 



28o 



TO THE SAME FLOWER 



Buttercups, that will be seen, 
Whether we will see or no; 
Others, too, of lofty mien; 
They have done as worldlings do, 
Taken praise that should be thine, 
Little, humble Celandine ! 

Prophet of delight and mirth, 
Ill-requited upon earth; 
Herald of a mighty band, 
Of a joyous tram ensuing, 
Serving at my heart's command, 
Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
I will smg, as doth behove, 
Hymns in praise of what I love ! 



TO THE SAME FLOWER 

1802. 1807 

Pleasures newly found are sweet 

When they lie about our feet: 

February last, my heart 

First at sight of thee was glad ; 

All unheard of as thou art, 

Thou must needs, I think, have had, 

Celandine ! and long ago, 

Praise of which I nothing know. 

I have not a doubt but he, 
Whosoe'er the man might be, i 

Who the first with pointed rays 
(Workman worthy to be sainted) 
Set the sign-board in a blaze, 
When the rising sun he painted 
Took the fancy from a glance 
At thy glittering countenance. 

Soon as gentle breezes bring 
News of winter's vanishing, 
And the children build their bowers, 
Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould : 
All about with full-blown flowers, 
Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold ! 
With the proudest thou art there, 
Mantling in the tiny square. 

Often have I sighed to measure 
By myself a lonely pleasure, 
Sighed to think, I read a book 
Only read, perhaps, by me; 
Yet I long could overlook 
Thy bright coronet and Thee, ; 

And thy arch and wily ways, 
And thy store of other praise. 



50 



Blithe of heart, from week to week 
Thou dost play at hide-and-seek; 
While the patient primrose sits 
Like a beggar hi the cold, 
Thou, a flower of wiser wits, 
Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold; 
Liveliest of the vernal train 
When ye all are out again. 

Drawn by what peculiar spell, 
By what charm of sight or smell, 
Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, 
Labouring for her waxen cells, 
Fondly settle upon Thee 
Prized above all buds and bells 
Opening daily at thy side, 
By the season multiplied ? 

Thou art not beyond the moon, 
But a thing " beneath our shoon: " 
Let the bold Discoverer thrid 
In his bark the polar sea; 
Rear who will a pyramid; 
Praise it is enough for me, 
If there be but three or four 
Who will love my little Flower. 

RESOLUTION AND INDE- 
PENDENCE 

1802. 1807 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. This old 
Man I met a few hundred yards from my cot- 
tage ; and the account of him is taken from 
his own mouth. I was in the state of feeling- 
described in the beginning of the poem, while 
crossing over Barton Fell from Mr. Clarkson's, 
at the foot of Ullswater, towards Askham. 
The image of the hare I then observed on the 
ridge of the Fell. 



There was a roaring in the wind all night; 
The rain came heavily and fell in floods; 
But now the sun is rising calm and bright; 
The birds are singing in the distant woods; 
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove 

broods; 
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie 

chatters ; 
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise 

of waters. 



All things that love the sun are out of doors; 
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; 



RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE 



281 



The grass is bright with rain-drops ; — on 
the moors IO 

The hare is running races in her mirth; 

And with her feet she from the plashy 
earth 

Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, 

Runs with her all the way, wherever she 
doth rim. 

Ill 

I was a Traveller then upon the moor, 
I saw the hare that raced about with joy; 
I heard the woods and distant waters roar; 
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy: 
The pleasant season did my heart employ: 
My old remembrances went from me wholly; 
And all the ways of men, so vain and mel- 
ancholy. 2I 

IV 

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the 

might 
Of joy in minds that can no further go, 
As high as we have mounted in delight 
In our dejection do we sink as low; 
To me that morning did it happen so; 
And fears and fancies thick upon me came; 
Dim sadness — and blind thoughts, I knew 

not, nor could name. 



I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; 
And I bethought me of the playful hare : 
Even such a happy Child of earth am I; 3 , 
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; 
Far from the world I walk, and from all 

care; 
But there may come another day to me — 
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. 

VI 

My whole life I have lived in pleasant 
thought, 

As if life's business were a summer mood; 

As if all needful things would come un- 
sought 

To genial faith, still rich in genial good; 

But how can He expect that others should 

Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 

Love him, who for himself will take no heed 
at all ? 42 

VII 

I thought of Chatter ton, the marvellous Boy, 
The sleepless Soul that perished in his 
pride; 



Of Him who walked in glory and in joy 
Following his plough, along the mountain- 
side: 
By our own spirits are we deified: 
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; 
But thereof come hi the end despondency 
and madness. 

VIII 

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 50 
A leading from above, a something given, 
Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place, 
When I with these untoward thoughts had 

striven, 
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 
I saw a Man before me unawares: 
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore 

grey hairs. 

IX 

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
Couched on the bald top of an eminence; 
Wonder to all who do the same espy, 
By what means it could thither come, and 

whence ; 60 

So that it seems a thing endued with sense: 
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a 

shelf 
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; 

x 

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor 

dead, 
Nor all asleep — in his extreme old age : 
His body was bent double, feet and head 
Coming together in life's pilgrimage; 
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 
Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 
A more than human weight upon his frame 

had cast. ?0 

XI 

Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale 

face, 
Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood: 
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, 
Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, 
That heareth not the loud winds when they 

call 
And moveth all together, if it move at all. 

XII 

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 



282 



I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE 



Upon the muddy water, which he conned, 
As if he had been reading in a book: 81 

And now a stranger's privilege I took; 
And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 
" This morning gives us promise of a glo- 
rious day." 



A gentle answer did the old Man make, 
In courteous speech which forth he slowly 

drew: 
And him with further words I thus bespake, 
" What occupation do you there pursue ? 
This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 90 
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid 

eyes, 

XIV 

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, 
But each in solemn order followed each, 
With something of a lofty utterance drest — 
Choice word and measured phrase, above 

the reach 
Of ordinary men; a stately speech; 
Such as grave Livers do hi Scotland use, 
Religious men, who give to God and man 

their dues. 



He told, that to these waters he had come 
To gather leeches, being old and poor: 100 
Employment hazardous and wearisome ! 
And he had many hardships to endure: 
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor 

to moor; 
Housing, with God's good help, by choice or 

chance, 
And in this way he gained an honest main- 
tenance. 

XVI 

The old Man still stood talking by my side ; 
But now his voice to me was like a stream 
Scarce heard; nor word from word could 

I divide; 
And the whole body of the Man did seem 
Like one whom I had met with in a dream ; 
Or like a man from some far region sent, 
To give me human strength, by apt admon- 
ishment. 112 



My former thoughts returned : the fear that 

kills; 
And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 



Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; 
And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 
— Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, 
My question eagerly did I renew, 
" How is it that you live, and what is it you 
do?" 

XVIII 

He with a smile did then his words repeat; 
And said, that, gathering leeches, far and 

wide 121 

He travelled; stirring thus above his feet 
The waters of the pools where they abide. 
" Once I could meet with them on every 

side ; 
But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; 
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I 

may." 

XIX 

While he was talking thus, the lonely place, 
The old Man's shape, and speech — all trou- 
bled me: 
In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 
About the weary moors continually, 130 
Wandering about alone and silently. 
While I these thoughts within myself pur- 
sued, 
He, having made a pause, the same discourse 
renewed. 



And soon with this he other matter blended, 
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, 
But stately hi the main ; and when he ended, 
I could have laughed myself to scorn to 

find 
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 
" God," said I, " be my help and stay se- 
cure; 
I '11 think of the Leech-gatherer on the 
lonely moor ! " 140 



"I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE" 

1802. 1807 

I grieved for Buonaparte', with a vain 
And an unthinking grief ! The tenderest 

mood 
Of that Man's mind — what can it be ? 

what food 
Fed his first hopes ? what knowledge could 

he gain ? 



A FAREWELL 



283 



'Tis not in battles that from youth we 

tram 
The Governor who must be wise and good, 
And temper with the sternness of the brain 
Thoughts motherly, and meek as woman- 
hood. 
Wisdom doth live with children round her 

knees: 
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the 

talk 
Man holds with week-day man in the hourly 

walk 
Of the mind's business: these are the 

degrees 
By which true Sway doth mount; this is 

the stalk 
True Power doth grow on; and her rights 

are these. 

A FAREWELL 

1802. 1815 

Composed just before my sister and I went 
to fetch Mrs. Wordsworth from Gallow-hill, 
near Scarborough. 

Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain- 
ground, 

Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair 

Of that magnificent temple which doth 
bound 

One side of our whole vale with grandeur 
rare; 

Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, 

The loveliest spot that man hath ever 
found, 

Farewell ! — we leave thee to Heaven's 
peaceful care, 

Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost 
surround. 

Our boat is safely anchored by the shore, 
And there will safely ride when we are 

gone ; 10 

The flowering shrubs that deck our humble 

door 
Will prosper, though untended and alone: 
Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have 

none: 
These narrow bounds contain our private 

store 
Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine 

upon ; 
Here are they in our sight — we have no 

more. 



Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and 
bell! 

For two months now in vain we shall be 
sought: 

We leave you here in solitude to dwell 

With these our latest gifts of tender 
thought ; 20 

Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat, 

Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, fare- 
well ! 

Whom from the borders of the Lake we 
brought, 

And placed together near our rocky Well. 

We go for One to whom ye will be dear; 
And she will prize this Bower, this Indian 

shed, 
Our own contrivance, Building without 

peer ! 
— A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, 
Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered, 
With joyousness, and with a thoughtful 

cheer, 30 

Will come to you ; to you herself will wed ; 
And love the blessed life that we lead here. 

Dear Spot ! which we have watched with 

tender heed, 
Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms 

blown 
Among the distant mountains, flower and 

weed, 
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own, 
Making all khidness registered and known; 
Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child 

indeed, 
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone, 
Hast taken gifts which thou dost little 

need. 4 o 

And O most constant, yet most fickle Place, 
Thou hast thy wayward moods, as thou 

dost show 
To them who look not daily on thy face; 
Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost 

know, 
And say'st, when we forsake thee, " Let 

them go ! " 
Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race 
Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, 
And travel with the year at a soft pace. 

Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by, 

And this sweet spring, the best beloved and 

best; 50 



284 



THE SUN HAS LONG BEEN SET" 



Joy will be flown in its mortality ; 
Something must stay to tell us of the rest. 
Here, thronged with primroses, the steep 

rock's breast 
Glittered at evening like a starry sky; 
And in this bush our sparrow built her nest, 
Of which I sang one song that will not die. 

O happy Garden ! whose seclusion deep 
Hath been so friendly to industrious hours; 
And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep 
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of 

flowers, 6° 

And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers ; 
Two burning months let summer overleap, 
And, coming back with Her who will be 

ours, 
Into thy bosom we again shall creep. 



"THE SUN HAS LONG BEEN 
SET" 

1802. 1807 

Reprinted at the request of my Sister, in 
whose presence the lines were thrown off. 

This Impromptu appeared, many years ago, 
among- the Author's poems, from which, in sub- 
sequent editions, it was excluded. 

The sim has long been set, 

The stars are out by twos and threes, 
The little birds are piping yet 

Among the bushes and trees; 
There 's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes, 
And a far-off wind that rushes, 
And a sound of water that gushes, 
And the cuckoo's sovereign cry 
Fills all the hollow of the sky. 

Who would " go parading " 
In London, " and masquerading," 
On such a night of June 
With that beautiful soft half-moon, 
And all these innocent blisses ? 
On such a night as this is ! 



COMPOSED UPON WESTMIN- 
STER BRIDGE, Sept. 3, 1802 

1S02. 1807 

Written on the roof of a coach, on my way 
to France. 

Earth has not anything to show more fair: 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty: 



This City now doth, like a garment, wear 
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples 

lie 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless 

air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; 
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
The river glideth at his own sweet will: 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 



COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, 
NEAR CALAIS, August 1802 

1802. 1807 

Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west, 
Star of my Country ! — on the horizon's 

brink 
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to 

sink 
On England's bosom; yet well pleased to 

rest, 
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest 
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, 
Shonld'st be my Country's emblem; and 

should'st wink, 
Bright Star ! with laughter on her ban- 
ners, drest 
In thy fresh beauty. There ! that dusky 

spot 
Beneath thee, that is England ; there she lies. 
Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one lot, 
One life, one glory ! — I, with many a fear 
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs, 
Among men who do not love her, linger 

here. 



CALAIS, August 1802 

1802. 1807 

Is it a reed that 's shaken by the wind, 
Or what is it that ye go forth to see ? 
Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low 

degree, 
Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, 

and blind, 
Post forward all, like creatures of one kind, 
With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the 

knee 
In France, before the new-born Majesty. 



ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC 285 



'T is ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind, 
A seemly reverence may be paid to power; 
But that 's a loyal virtue, never sown 
In haste, nor springing with a transient 

shower: 
When truth, when sense, when liberty were 

flown, 
What hardship had it been to wait an 

hour ? 
Shame on 3 r ou, feeble Heads, to slavery 

prone ! 



COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS, ON 
THE ROAD LEADING TO AR- 
DRES, August 7, 1802 

1802. 1807 

Jones ! as from Calais southward you and I 
Went pacing side by side, this public Way 
Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous 

day, 
When faith was pledged to new-born Lib- 
erty: 
A homeless sound of joy was in the sky: 
From hour to hour the antiquated Earth 
Beat like the heart of Man: songs, gar- 
lands, mirth, 
Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh ! 
And now, sole register that these things 

were, 
Two solitary greetings have I heard, 
" Good-morrow, Citizen ! " a hollow word, 
As if a dead man spake it 1 Yet despair 
Touches me not, though pensive as a bird 
Whose vernal coverts winter hath laid bare. 



CALAIS, August 15, 1802 

1802. 1807 

Festivals have I seen that were not 

names: 
This is young Buonaparte"s natal day, 
And his is henceforth an established sway — 
Consul for life. With worship France pro- 
claims 
Her approbation, and with pomps and 

games. 
Heaven grant that other Cities may be 

gay! 
Calais is not: and I have bent my way 
To the sea-coast, noting that each man 
frames 



His business as he likes. Far other show 
My youth here witnessed, in a prouder 

time ; 
The senselessness of joy was then sublime ! 
Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope, 
Consul, or King, can sound himself to know 
The destiny of Man, and live in hope. 



"IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVEN- 
ING, CALM AND FREE" 

1802. 1807 

This was composed on the beach near Calais, 
in the autumn of 1802. 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 
The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun 
Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the 

Sea: 
Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 
And doth with his eternal motion make 
A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with 

me here, 
If thou appear untouched by solemn 

thought, 
Thy nature is not therefore less divine: 
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; 
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
God being with thee when we know it not. 



ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE 
VENETIAN REPUBLIC 

1802. 1807 

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in 

fee; 
And was the safeguard of the west: the 

worth 
Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 
She was a maiden City, bright and free; 
No guile seduced, no force could violate; 
And, when she took unto herself a Mate, 
She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
And what if she had seen those glories fade, 
Those titles vanish, and that strength 

decay ; 
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
When her long life hath reached its final 

day: 



286 



THE KING OF SWEDEN 



Men are we, and must grieve when even 

the Shade 
Of that which once was great, is passed 

away. 

THE KING OF SWEDEN 
1802. 1807 

The Voice of song from distant lands shall 

call 
To that great King; shall hail the crowned 

Youth 
Who, taking counsel of unbending Truth, 
By one example hath set forth to all 
How they with dignity may stand ; or fall, 
If fall they must. Now, whither doth it 

tend? 
And what to him and his shall be the end ? 
That thought is one which neither can 

appal 
Nor cheer him; for the illustrious Swede 

hath done 
The thing which ought to be; is raised 

above 
All consequences: work he hath begun 
Of fortitude, and piety, and love, 
Which all his glorious ancestors approve: 
The heroes bless him, him their rightful son. 



TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE 

1802. 1807 

Totjssaint, the most unhappy man of 

men ! 
Whether the whistling Rustic tend his 

plough 
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless 

den ; — 
O miserable Chieftain ! where and when 
Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do 

thou 
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow: 
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, 
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left 

behind 
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, 

and skies; 
There 's not a breathing of the common 

wind 
That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ; 
Thy friends are exultations, agonies, 
And love, and man's unconquerable mind. 



COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY 
NEAR DOVER, ON THE DAY 
OE LANDING 

1802. 1807 

Here, on our native soil, we breathe once 

more. 
The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, 

that sound 
Of bells; those boys who in yon meadow- 
ground 
In white-sleeved shirts are playing; and 

the roar 
Of the waves breaking on the chalky 

shore ; — 
All, all are English. Oft have I looked 

round 
With joy in Kent's green vales; but never 

found 
Myself so satisfied in heart before. 
Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass, 
Thought for another moment. Thou art 

free, 
My Country ! and 't is joy enough and 

pride 
For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the 

grass 
Of England once again, and hear and see, 
With such a dear Companion at my side. 



SEPTEMBER 1, 1802 

1802. 1807 

Among the capricious acts of tyranny that 
disgraced those times, was the chasing of all 
Negroes from France by decree of the govern- 
ment : we had a Fellow-passenger who was one 
of the expelled. 

We had a female Passenger who came 
From Calais with us, spotless in array, — 
A white-robed Negro, like a lady gay, 
Yet downcast as a woman fearing blame ; 
Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or aim 
She sate, from notice turning not away, 
But on all proffered intercourse did lay 
A weight of languid speech, or to the same 
No sign of answer made by word or face: 
Yet still her eyes retained their tropic fire, 
That, burning independent of the mind, 
Joined with the lustre of her rich attire 
To mock the Outcast. — O ye Heavens, be 

kind! 
And feel, thou Earth, for this afflicted Race ! 



"GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN AMONG US" 



287 



NEAR DOVER, September 1802 

1S02. 1807 

Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood; 
And saw, while sea was calm and ah" was 

clear," 
The coast of France — the coast of France 

how near ! 
Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood. 
I shrunk; for verily the barrier flood 
Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, 
A span of waters; yet what power is there ! 
What mightiness for evil and for good ! 
Even so doth God protect us if we be 
Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters 

roll, 
Strength to the brave, and Power, and 

Deity; 
Yet in themselves are nothing ! One decree 
Spake laws to them, and said that by the 

soul 
Only, the Nations shall be great and free. 

IN LONDON, September 1802 

1802. 1807 

This was written immediately after my re- 
turn from France to London, when I could not 
but he struck, as here described, with the vanity 
and parade of our own country, especially in 
great towns and cities, as contrasted with the 
quiet, and I may say the desolation, that the 
revolution had produced in France. This must 
be borne in mind, or else the reader may think 
that in this and the succeeding Sonnets I have 
exaggerated the mischief engendered and fos- 
tered among us by undisturbed wealth. It 
would not be easy to conceive with what a depth 
of feeling I entered into the struggle carried 
on by the Spaniards for their deliverance from 
the usurped power of the French. Many times 
have I gone from Allan Bank in Grasmere vale, 
where we were then residing, to the top of the 
Raise-gap as it is called, so late as two o'clock 
in the morning, to meet the carrier bringing 
the newspaper from Keswick. Imperfect traces 
of the state of mind in which I then was may 
be found in my Tract on the Convention of 
Cintra, as well as in these Sonnets. 

O Friend ! I know not which way I must 

look 
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, 
To think that now our life is only drest 
For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, 

cook, 



Or groom ! — We must run glittering like 

a brook 
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest: 
The wealthiest man among us is the best: 
No grandeur now in nature or in book 
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 
This is idolatry; and these we adore: 
Plain living and high thinking are no more : 
The homely beauty of the good old cause 
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, 
And pure religion breathing household 

laws. 

LONDON, 1802 
1802. 1807 

Milton ! thou should'st be living at this 

hour: 
England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and 

bower, 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; 
Oh ! raise us up, return to us again; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, 

power. 
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like 

the sea: 
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 
So didst thou travel on life's common way, 
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



"GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN 
AMONG US" 

1802. 1807 

Great men have been among us; hands 

that penned 
And tongues that uttered wisdom — better 

none: 
The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, 
Young Vane, and others who called Milton 

friend. 
These moralists could act and comprehend : 
They knew how genuine glory was put on; 
Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 
In splendour : what strength was, that 

would not bend 
But in magnanimous meekness. France, 

't is strange, 



2 S8 



IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF" 



Hath brought forth no such souls as we had 

then. 
Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change ! 
No single volume paramount, no code, 
No master spirit, no determined road; 
But ecmally a want of books and men ! 



"IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT 
OF" 

1802. 1807 

It is not to be thought of that the Flood 
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea 
Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity- 
Hath flowed, " with pomp of waters, un- 

withstood," 
Roused though it be full often to a mood 
Which spurns the check of salutary bands, 
That this most famous Stream in bogs and 

sands 
Should perish; and to evil and to good 
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung 
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old: 
We must be free or die, who speak the 

tongue 
That Shakspeare spake; the faith and 

morals hold 
Which Milton held. — In everything we are 

sprung 
Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 



"WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN 
MEMORY" 

1802. 1807 

When I have borne in memory what has 

tamed 
Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts 

depart 
When men change swords for ledgers, and 

desert 
The student's bower for gold, some fears 

unnamed 
I had, my Country ! — am I to be blamed ? 
Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, 
Verily, in the bottom of my heart, 
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
For dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 
In thee a bulwark for the cause of men: 
And I by my affection was beguiled: 
What wonder if a Poet now and then, 
Among the many movements of his mind, 
Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! 



COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY 
ACROSS THE HAMBLETON 
HILLS, YORKSHIRE 

1802. 1807 

Composed October 4th, 1802, after a jour- 
ney over the Hambleton Hills, on a day mem- 
orable to me — the day of my marriage. 
The horizon commanded by those hills is most 
magnificent. — The next day, while we were 
travelling in a post-chaise up Wensleydale, we 
were stopt by one of the horses proving rest- 
ive, and were obliged to wait two hours in a 
severe storm before the post-boy could fetch 
from the inn another to supply its place. The 
spot was in front of Bolton Hall, where Mary 
Queen of Scots was kept prisoner soon after 
her unfortunate landing at Workington. The 
place then belonged to the Scroopes. and me- 
morials of her are yet preserved there. To 
beguile the time I composed a Sonnet. The 
subject was our own confinement contrasted 
with hers ; but. it was not thought worthy of 
being preserved. 

Dark and more dark the shades of evening 

fell; 
The wished-f or point was reached — but at 

an hour 
When little could be gained from that rich 

dower 
Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell. 
Yet did the glowing west with marvellous 

power 
Salute us; there stood Indian citadel, 
Temple of Greece, and minster with its 

tower 
Substantially expressed — a place for bell 
Or clock to toll from ! Many a tempting 

isle, 
With groves that never were imagined, lay 
'Mid seas how steadfast ! objects all for 

the eye 
Of silent rapture ; but we felt the while 
We should forget them ; they are of the sky, 
And from our earthly memory fade away. 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOM* 
SON'S " CASTLE OF INDOLENCE " 

l802. 1815 

Composed in the orchard, Town-end, Gras- 
mere, Coleridge living with us much at the 
time : his son Hartley has said, that his father's 



STANZAS 



289 



character and habits are here preserved in a 
livelier way than in anything that has been 
•written about him. 

Within our happy Castle there dwelt One 
Whom without blame I may not overlook; 
For never sun or living creature shone 
Who more devout enjoyment with us took: 
Here on his hours he hung as on a book, 
On his own time here would he float away, 
As doth a fly upon a summer brook; 
But go to-morrow, or belike to-day, 
Seek for him, — he is fled ; and whither 
none can say. 

Thus often would he leave our peaceful 
home, 10 

And find elsewhere his business or delight; 
Out of our Valley's limits did he roam: 
Full many a time, upon a stormy night, 
His voice came to us from the neighbour- 
ing height : 
Oft could we see him driving full in view 
At mid-day when the sun was shining 

bright ; 
What ill was on him, what he had to do, 
A mighty wonder bred among our quiet 
crew. 

<, Ah ! piteous sight it was to see this Man 
When he came back to ns, a withered 

flower, — 20 

Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. 
Down would he sit; and without strength 

or power 
Look at the common grass from hour to 

hour : 
And oftentimes, how long I fear to say, 
Where apple-trees in blossom made a 

bower, 
Retired hi that sunshiny shade lie lay; 
And, like a naked Indian, slept himself 

away. 

Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was 
Whenever from our Valley he withdrew; 
For happier soul no living creature has 30 
Than lie had, being here the long day 

through. 
Some thought he was a lover, and did 

woo: 
Some thought far worse of him, and judged 

him wrong; 
But verse was what he had been wedded 

to; 



And his own mind did like a tempest strong 
Come to him thus, and drove the weary 
Wight along. 

With him there often walked in friendly 

guise, 
Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree, 
A noticeable Man with large gray eyes, 39 
And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly 
As if a blooming face it ought to be; 
Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear, 
Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy; 
Profound his forehead was, though not 

severe ; 
Yet some did think that he had little busi- 
ness here. 

Sweet heaven forfend ! his was a lawful 

right; 
Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy; 
His limbs would toss about him with delight 
Like branches when strong winds the trees 

annoy. 
Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy 
To banish listlessness and irksome care; 51 
He would have taught you how you might 

employ 
Yourself ; and many did to him repair, — 
And certes not in vain; he had inventions 

rare. 

Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried : 
Long blades of grass, plucked round him 

as he lay, 
Made, to his ear attentively applied, 
A pipe on which the wind would deftly play ; 
Glasses he had, that little things display, 
The beetle panoplied in gems and gold, 60 
A mailed angel on a battle-day; 
The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold, 
And all the gorgeous sights which fairies 

do behold. 

He would entice that other Man to hear 

His music, and to view his imagery: 

And, sooth, these two were each to the 

other dear: 
No livelier love in such a place could be: 
There did they dwell — from earthly labour 

free, 
As happy spirits as were ever seen; 
If but a bird, to keep them company, 7° 
Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween, 
As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden- 
queen. 



290 



TO H. C. 



TO H. C. 

SIX YEARS OLD 
l802. 1S07 

O thou ! whose fancies fro*m afar are 

brought; 
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, 
And fittest to unutterable thought 
The breeze-like motion and the self-born 

carol ; 
Thou faery voyager ! that dost float 
In such clear water, that thy boat 
May rather seem 

To brood on air than on an earthly stream ; 
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, 
Where earth and heaven do make one 

imagery ; 10 

blessed vision ! happy child ! 
Thou art so exquisitely wild, 

1 think of thee with many fears 

For what may be thy lot in future years. 
I thought of times when Pain might be 

thy guest, 
Lord of thy house and hospitality; 
And Grief, uneasy lover ! never rest 
But when she sate within the touch of thee. 
O too industrious folly ! 
O vain and causeless melancholy ! 20 

Nature will either end thee quite ; 
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, 
Preserve for thee, by individual right, 
A young lamb's heart among the full-grown 

flocks. 
What hast thou to do with sorrow, 
Or the injuries of to-morrow ? 
Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn 

brings forth, 
111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, 
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth; 
A gem that glitters while it lives, 30 

And no forewarning gives; 
But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife 
Slips in a moment out of life. 



TO THE DAISY 

1802. 1807 

This and the two following: were composed 
in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere, where 
the bird was often seen as here described. 

"Her divine skill taught me this, 
That from every thing I saw 
I could some instruction draw, 



- 



And raise pleasure to the height 
Through the meanest object's sight. 
By the murmur of a spring, 
Or the least bough's rustelling ; 
By a Daisy whose leaves spread 
Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
Or a shady bush or tree ; 
She could more infuse in me 
Than all Nature's beauties can 
In some other wiser man." 

G. Withee. 

In youth from rock to rock I went, 
From hill to hill hi discontent 
Of pleasure high and turbulent, 

Most pleased when most uneasy; 
But now my own delights I make, — 
My thirst at every rill can slake, 
And gladly Nature's love partake, 

Of Thee, sweet Daisy ! 

Thee Winter in the garland wears 

That thinly decks his few grey hairs; ] 

Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 

That she may sun thee; 
Whole Summer-fields are thine by right; 
And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! 
Doth in thy crimson head delight 

When rains are on thee. 

In shoals and bands, a morrice train, 
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane; 
Pleased at his greeting thee again; 

Yet nothing daunted, : 

Nor grieved if thou be set at nought: 
And oft alone hi nooks remote 
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, 

When such are wanted. 

Be violets in their secret mews 

The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose; 

Proud be the rose, with rams and dews 

Her head impearling, 
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, 
Yet hast not gone without thy fame; ■ 
Thou art indeed by many a claim 

The Poet's darling. 

If to a rock from rams he fly, 
Or, some bright day of April sky, 
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie 

Near the green holly, 
And wearily at length should fare; 
He needs but look about, and there 
Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare 

His melancholy. 

A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
Ere thus I have lam couched an hour, 



TO THE DAISY 



291 



Have I derived from thy sweet power 

Some apprehension; 
Some steady love; some brief delight; 
Some memory that had taken flight; 
Some chime of fancy wrong or right; 

Or stray invention. 

If stately passions in me burn, 

And one chance look to Thee should turn, 

I drink out of an humbler urn 51 

A lowlier pleasure ; 
The homely sympathy that heeds 
The common life, our nature breeds; 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 

Of hearts at leisure. 

Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, 
When thou art up, alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play 

With kindred gladness: 60 

And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 

Of careful sadness. 

And all day long I number yet, 
All seasons through, another debt, 
Which I, wherever thou art met, 

To thee am owing; 
An instinct call it, a blind sense; 
A happy, genial influence, 70 

Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 

Nor whither going. 

Child of the Year ! that round dost run 
Thy pleasant course, — when day 's begun 
As ready to salute the sun 

As lark or leveret, 
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; 
Nor be less dear to future men 
Than in old time ; — thou not in vain 

Art Nature's favourite. 80 



TO THE SAME FLOWER 

1802. 1807 

With little here to do or see 

Of things that in the great world be, 

Daisy ! again I talk to thee, 

For thou art worthy, 
Thou unassuming Common-place 
Of Nature, with that homely face, 
And yet with something of a grace, 

Which Love makes for thee ! 



Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit, and play with similes, 10 

Loose types of things through all degrees, 

Thoughts of thy raising: 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
As is the humour of the game, 

While I am gazing. 

A nun demure of lowly port ; 

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, 

In thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations; 20 

A queen in crown of rubies drest; 
A starveling in a scanty vest; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations. 

A little cyclops, with one eye 
Staring to threaten and defy, 
That thought comes next — and instantly 

The freak is over, 
The shape will vanish — and behold 
A silver shield with boss of gold, 3c 

That spreads itself, some faery bold 

In fight to cover 1 

I see thee glittering from afar — 
And then thou art a pretty star; 
Not quite so fair as many are 

In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; — 
May peace come never to his nest, 

Who shall reprove thee ! 40 

Bright Flower ! for by that name at last, 
When all my reveries are past, 
I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 

Sweet silent creature ! 
That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
Do thou, as thou art wonf, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nature ! 



TO THE DAISY 

1802. 1807 

This and the other Poems addressed to the 
same flower were composed at Town-end, Gras- 
mere, during 1 the earlier part of my residence 
there. I have been censured for the last line 
but one — " thy function apostolical '' — as be- 
ing little less than profane. How could it be 



292 



THE GREEN LINNET 



thought so ? The word is adopted with refer- 
ence to its derivation, implying something sent 
on a mission ; and assuredly this little flower, 
especially when the subject of verse, may be 
regarded, in its humble degree, as administer- 
ing both to moral and to spiritual purposes. 

Bright Flower ! whose home is everywhere, 

Bold in maternal Nature's care, 

And all the long year through the heir 

Of joy or sorrow; 
Methinks that there abides in thee 
Some concord with humanity, 
Given to no other flower I see 

The forest thorough ! 

Is it that Man is soon deprest ? 

A thoughtless Thing ! who, once unblest, 

Does little on his memory rest, 

Or on his reason, 
And Thou would'st teach him how to find 
A shelter under every wind, 
A hope for times that are unkind 

And every season ? 

Thou wander'st the wide world about, 
Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt, 
With friends to greet thee, or without, 

Yet pleased and willing; 
Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, 
And all things suffering from all, 
Thy function apostolical 

In peace fulfilling. 



THE GREEN LINNET 

1803. 1807 

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 
Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
With brightest sunshine round me spread 

Of spring's unclouded weather, 
In this sequestered nook how sweet 
To sit upon my orchard-seat ! 
And birds and flowers once more to greet, 

My last year's friends together. 

One have I marked, the happiest guest 
In all this covert of the blest: 10 

Hail to Thee, far above the rest 

In joy of voice and pinion ! 
Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array, 
Presiding Spirit here to-day, 
Dost lead the revels of the May; 

And this is thy dominion. 



While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, 
Make all one band of paramours, 
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 

Art sole in thy employment: 
A life, a Presence like the Air, 
Scattering thy gladness without care, 
Too blest with any one to pair; 

Thyself thy own enjoyment. 

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees, 
That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
Behold him perched in ecstasies, 

Yet seeming still to hover; 
There ! where the flutter of his wings 
Upon his back and body flings 
Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 

That cover him all over. 

My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
A Brother of the dancing leaves; 
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves 

Pours forth his song hi gushes; 
As if by that exulting strain 
He mocked and treated with disdain 
The voiceless Form he chose to feign, 

While fluttering in the bushes. 



YEW-TREES 

1803. 1815 

Written at Grasmere. These yew-trees are 
still standing, but the spread of that at Lorton 
is much diminished by mutilation. I will here 
mention that a little way up the hill, on the 
road leading from Rosthwaite to Stonethwaite 
(in Borrowdale), lay the trunk of a yew-tree, 
which appeared as you approached, so vast 
was its diameter, like the entrance of a cave, 
and not a small one. Calculating upon what I 
have observed of the slow growth of this tree 
in rocky situations, and of its durability, I have 
often thought that the one I am describing 
must have been as old as the Christian era. 
The tree lay in the line of a fence. Great 
masses of its ruins were strewn about, and 
some had been rolled down the hillside and 
lay near the road at, the bottom. As you ap- 
proached the tree, you were struck with the 
number of shrubs and young plants, ashes, etc., 
which had found a bed upon the decayed trunk 
and grew to no inconsiderable height, forming, 
as it were, a part of the hedgerow. In no part 
of England, or of Europe, have I ever seen a 
yew-tree at all approaching this in magnitude, 
as it must have stood. By the bye, Hutton, 
the old Guide, of Keswiek, had been so im- 



"IT IS NO SPIRIT WHO FROM HEAVEN HATH FLOWN" 293 



pressed with the remains of this tree, that he 
used gravely to tell strangers that there could 
be no doubt of its having- been in existence be- 
fore the flood. 

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 
Which to this day stands single, in the 

midst 
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore ; 
Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands 
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched 
To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed 

the sea 
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, 
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. 
Of vast circumference and gloom profound 
This solitary Tree ! a living thing 10 

Produced too slowly ever to decay; 
Of form and aspect too magnificent 
To be destroyed. But worthier still of 

note 
Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, 
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ; 
Huge trunks ! and each particular trunk a 

growth 
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved; 
Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks 
That threaten the profane ; — a pillared 

shade, 20 

Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown 

hue, 
By sheddings from the pining umbrage 

tinged 
Perennially — beneath whose sable roof 
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked 
With unrejoicing berries — ghostly Shapes 
May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling 

Hope, 
Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton 
And Time the Shadow; — there to cele- 
brate, 
As in a natural temple scattered o'er 
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, 30 
United worship ; or in mute repose 
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. 



"WHO FANCIED WHAT A 
PRETTY SIGHT" 

1803. 1807 

Who fancied what a pretty sight 
This Rock would be if edged around 



With living snow-drops ? circlet bright ! 
How glorious to this orchard-ground ! 
Who loved the little Rock, and set 
Upon its head this coronet ? 

Was it the humour of a child ? 

Or rather of some gentle maid, 

Whose brows, the day that she was styled 

The shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed ? 

Of man mature, or matron sage ? 

Or old man toying with his age ? 

I asked — 't was whispered ; The device 
To each and all might well belong: 
It is the Spirit of Paradise 
That prompts such work, a Spirit strong, 
That gives to all the self-same bent 
Where life is wise and innocent. 



"IT IS NO SPIRIT WHO FROM 
HEAVEN HATH FLOWN" 

1803. 1S07 

Written at Town-end. Grasmere. I remem- 
ber the instant my sister, S. H., called me to 
the window of our Cottage, saying-, " Look 
how beautiful is yon star ! It has the sky 
all to itself." I composed the verses imme- 
diately. 

It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown, 

And is descending on his embassy; 

Nor Traveller gone from earth the heavens 

to espy ! 
'T is Hesperus — there he stands with glit- 
tering crown, 
First admonition that the sun is down ! 
For yet it is broad day-light: clouds pass 

by; 
A few are near him still — and now the sky, 
He hath it to himself — 't is all his own. 
O most ambitious Star ! an inquest wrought 
Within me when I recognised thy light; 
A moment I was startled at the sight : 
And, while I gazed, there came to me a 

thought 
That I might step beyond my natural race 
As thou seem'st now to do; might one day 

trace 
Some ground not mine; and, strong her 

strength above, 
My Soul, an Apparition in the place, 
Tread there with steps that no one shall 

reprove ! 



294 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 

1S03 

Mr. Coleridge, my Sister, and myself started together from Town-end to make a tour in Scot- 
land. Poor Coleridge was at that time in bad spirits, and somewhat too much in love with his 
own dejection ; and he departed from us, as is recorded in my Sister's Journal, soon after we left 
Loch Lomond. The verses that stand foremost among these Memorials were not actually writ- 
ten for the occasion, but transplanted from my " Epistle to Sir George Beaumont." 



I 

DEPARTURE FROM THE VALE 
OF GRASMERE 

AUGUST 1803 
1S03. 1827 

The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian 

plains 
Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains; 
Even for the tenants of the zone that lies 
Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise, 
Methinks 't would heighten joy, to overleap 
At will the crystal battlements, and peep 
Into some other region, though less fair, 
To see how things are made and managed 

there. 
Change for the worse might please, incur- 
sion bold 
Into the tracts of darkness and of cold; 10 
O'er Limbo lake with aery flight to steer, 
And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear. 
Such animation often do I find, 
Power in my breast, wings growing in my 

mind, 
Then, when some rock or hill is overpast, 
Perchance without one look behind me cast. 
Some barrier with which Nature, from the 

birth 
Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on 

earth. 
O pleasant transit, Grasmere ! to resign 
Such happy fields, abodes so calm as 

thine ; 20 

Not like an outcast with himself at strife ; 
The slave of business, time, or care for 

life, 
But moved by choice; or, if constrained in 

part, 
Yet still with Nature's freedom at the 

heart ; — 
To cull contentment upon wildest shores, 
And luxuries extract from bleakest moors; 
With prompt embrace all beauty to enfold, 
And having rights in all that we behold. 



— Then why these lingering steps ? — A 
bright adieu, 

For a brief absence, proves that love is 
true ; 30 

Ne'er can the way be irksome or for- 
lorn 

That winds into itself for sweet return. 



II 

AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS 

1803 

SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH 

1803. 1845 

For illustration, see my Sister's Journal. It 
may he proper to add that the second of these 
pieces, though felt at the time, was not com- 
posed till many years after. 

I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold, 

At thought of what I now behold: 

As vapours breathed from dungeons cold, 

Strike pleasure dead, 
So sadness comes from out the mould 

Where Burns is laid. 

And have I then thy bones so near, 
And thou forbidden to appear ? 
As if it were thyself that 's here 

I shrink with pain; 10 

And both my wishes and my fear 

Alike are vain. 

Off weight — nor press on weight ! — away 
Dark thoughts ! — they came, but not to 

stay; 
With chastened feelings would I pay 

The tribute due 
To him, and aught that hides his clay 

From mortal view. 

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 
He sang, his genius " glinted " forth, 20 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



2 95 



Rose like a star that touching earth, 

For so it seems, 
Doth glorify its humble birth 

With matchless beams. 

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, 
The struggling heart, where be they 

now ? — 
Full soon the Aspirant of the plough, 

The prompt, the brave, 
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low 

And silent grave. 30 

I mourned with thousands, but as one 
More deeply grieved, for He was gone 
Whose light I hailed when first it shone, 

And showed my youth 
How Verse may build a princely throne 

On humble truth. 

Alas ! where'er the current tends, 
Regret pursues and with it blends, — 
Huge CriffeFs hoary top ascends 

By Skiddaw seen, — 40 

Neighbours we were, and loving friends 

We might have been; 

True friends though diversely inclined; 
But heart with heart and mind with mind, 
Where the main fibres are entwined, 

Through Nature's skill, 
May even by contraries be joined 

More closely still. 

The tear will start, and let it flow; 

Thou " poor Inhabitant below," 50 

At this dread moment — even so — 

Might we together 
Have sate and talked where gowans blow, 

Or on wild heather. 

What treasures would have then been 

placed 
Within my reach; of knowledge graced 
By fancy what a rich repast ! 

But why go on ? — 
Oh ! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, 

His grave grass-grown. 60 

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, 
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,) 
Lies gathered to his Father's side, 

Soul-moving sight ! 
Yet one to which is not denied 

Some sad delight: 



For he is safe, a quiet bed 

Hath earl}' found among the dead, 

Harboured where none can be misled, 

Wronged, or distrest; 70 

And surely here it may be said 

That such are blest. 

And oh for Thee, by pitying grace 
Checked oft-times in a devious race, 
May He who halloweth the place 

Where Man is laid 
Receive thy Spirit hi the embrace 

For which it prayed ! 

Sighing I turned away; but ere 

Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear, 80 

Music that sorrow comes not near, 

A ritual hymn, 
Chaunted in love that casts out fear 

By Seraphim. 



Ill 
THOUGHTS 

SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON 
THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THE POET'S 
RESIDENCE 

1803. 1845 

Too frail to keep the lofty vow 
That must have followed when his brow 
Was wreathed — " The Vision " tells us 
how — 

With holly spray, 
He faltered, drifted to and fro, 

And passed away. 

Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, 

throng 
Our minds when, lingering all too long, 
Over the grave of Burns we hung 

In social grief — 10 

Indulged as if it were a wrong 

To seek relief. 

But, leaving each unquiet theme 

Where gentlest judgments may misdeem, 

And prompt to welcome every gleam 

Of good and fair, 
Let us beside this limpid Stream 

Breathe hopeful air. 

Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight; 
Think rather of those moments bright 20 



296 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



When to the consciousness of right 

His course was true, 
When Wisdom prospered hi his sight 

And virtue grew. 

Yes, freely let our hearts expand, 
Freely as in youth's season bland, 
When side by side, his Book hi hand, 

We wont to stray, 
Our pleasure varying at command 

Of each sweet Lay. 30 

How oft inspired must he have trod 
Tbese pathways, yon far-stretching road ! 
There lurks his home; hi that Abode, 

With mirth elate, 
Or in his nobly-pensive mood, 

The Rustic sate. 

Proud thoughts that Image overawes, 

Before it humbly let us pause, 

And ask of Nature, from what cause 

And by what rules 40 

She trained her Burns to win applause 

That shames the Schools. 

Through busiest street and loneliest glen 

Are felt the flashes of his pen; 

He rules 'mid winter snows, and when 

Bees fill their hives ; 
Deep in the general heart of men 

His power survives. 

What need of fields hi some far clime 
Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, 50 
And all that fetched the flowing rhyme 

From genuine springs, 
Shall dwell together till old Time 

Folds up his whigs ? 

Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven 
This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; 
The rueful conflict, the heart riven 

With vain endeavour, 
And memory of Earth's bitter leaven, 

Effaced for ever. 60 

But why to Him confine the prayer, 
When kindred thoughts and yearnings 

bear 
On the frail heart the purest share 

With all that live ? — 
The best of what we do and are, 

Just God, forgive ! 



IV 
TO THE SONS OF BURNS 

AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR 
FATHER 

1803. 1807 

" The Poet's grave is in a corner of the 
church-yard. We looked at it with melancholy 
and painful reflections, repeating to each other 
his own verses — 

" ' Is there a man whose judgment clear,' etc." 
Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller. 

'Mid crowded obelisks and urns 

I sought the untimely grave of Burns; 

Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns 

With sorrow true; 
And more would grieve, but that it turns 

Trembling to you ! 

Through twilight shades of good and ill 

Ye now are panting up life's hill, 

And more than common strength and skill 

Must ye display; 10 

If ye would give the better will 

Its lawful sway. 

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear 
Intemperance with less harm, beware ! 
But if the Poet's wit ye share, 

Like him can speed 
The social hour — of tenfold care 

There will be need; 

For honest men delight will take 

To spare your failings for his sake, 20 

Will flatter you, — and fool and rake 

Your steps pursue; 
And of your Father's name will make 

A snare for you. 

Far from their noisy haunts retire, 
And add your voices to the quire 
That sanctify the cottage fire 

With service meet; 
There seek the genius of your Sire, 

His spirit greet; 30 

Or where, 'mid " lonely heights and hows," 
He paid to Nature tuneful vows; 
Or wiped his honourable brows 

Bedewed with toil, 
While reapers strove, or busy ploughs 

Upturned the soil; 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



297 



His judgment with benignant ray 
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way; 
But ne'er to a seductive lay 

Let faith be given; 40 

Nor deem that " light which leads astray, 

Is light from Heaven." 

Let no mean hope your souls enslave; 
Be independent, generous, brave; 
Your Father such example gave, 

And such revere; 
But be admonished by his grave, 

And think, and fear ! 



TO A HIGHLAND GIRL 

AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND 

1803. 1807 

This delightful creature and her demeanour 
are particularly described in my Sister's Jour- 
nal. The sort of prophecy with which the 
verses conclude has, through God's goodness, 
been realised ; and now, approaching the close 
of my 73d yeaf, I have a most vivid remem- 
brance of her and the beautiful objects with 
which she was surrounded. She is alluded to 
in the Poem of "The Three Cottage Girls" 
among my Continental Memorials. In illus- 
tration of this class of poems I have scarcely 
anything to say beyond what is anticipated in 
my Sister's faithful and admirable Journal. 

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 

Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 

Twice seven consenting years have shed 

Their utmost bounty on thy head: 

And these grey rocks; that household 

lawn ; 
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn; 
This fall of water that doth make 
A murmur near the silent lake; 
This little bay; a quiet road 
That holds in shelter thy Abode — 10 

In truth together do ye seem 
Like something fashioned in a dream; 
Such Forms as from their covert peep 
When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
But, O fair Creature ! in the light 
Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 
I bless thee with a human heart; 
God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers; 20 
And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 



With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away: 
For never saw I mien, or face, 
In which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred sense 
Ripening in perfect innocence. 
Here scattered, like a random seed, 
Remote from men, Thou dost not need 
The embarrassed look of shy distress, 30 
And maidenly shamefacedness: 
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a Mountaineer: 
A face with gladness overspread ! 
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 
And seemliness complete, that sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays; 
With no restraint, but such as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 40 
Of thy few words of English speech: 
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
So have I, not unmoved in mind, 
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind — 
Thus beating up against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful ? 

happy pleasure ! here to dwell 

Beside thee in some heathy dell; 50 

Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 

A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! 

But I could frame a wish for thee 

More like a grave reality : 

Thou art to me but as a wave 

Of the wild sea; and I would have 

Some claim upon thee, if I could, 

Though but of common neighbourhood. 

What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 

Thy elder Brother I would be, 60 

Thy Father — anything to thee ! 

Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its 
grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place. 
Joy have I had; and going hence 

1 bear away my recompence. 
In spots like these it is we prize 

Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: 

Then, why should I be loth to stir ? 

I feel this place was made for her; 

To give new pleasure like the past, 70 

Continued long as life shall last. 

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 

Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part: 

For I, methinks, till I grow old, 

As fair before me shall behold, 



298 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



As I do now, the cabin small, 
The lake, the bay, the waterfall; 
And Thee, the Spirit of them all ! 



VI 

GLEN-ALMAIN 

OR, THE NARROW GLEN 

1803. 1807 

In this still place, remote from men, 

Sleeps Ossian, in the narrow glen; 

In this still place, where murmurs on 

But one meek streamlet, only one : 

He sang of battles, and the breath 

Of stormy war, and violent death; 

And should, methinks, when all was past, 

Have rightfully been laid at last 

Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent 

As by a spirit turbulent; 10 

Where sights were rough, and sounds were 

wild, 
And everything unreconciled; 
In some complaining, dim retreat, 
For fear and melancholy meet; 
But this is calm ; there cannot be 
A more entire tranquillity. 

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed ? 
Or is it but a groundless creed ? 
What matters it ? — I blame them not 
Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot 20 

Was moved; and in such way expressed 
Their notion of its perfect rest. 
A convent, even a hermit's cell, 
Would break the silence of this Dell: 
It is not quiet, is not ease; 
But something deeper far than these: 
The separation that is here 
Is of the grave; and of austere 
Yet happy feelings of the dead: 
And, therefore, was it rightly said 30 

That Ossian, last of all his race ! 
Lies buried in this lonely place. 



VII 
STEPPING WESTWARD 

1803. 1807 

While my Fellow-traveller and I were walk- 
ing by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine 
evening 1 after sunset, in our road to a Hut 



where, in the course of our Tour, we had been 
hospitably entertained some weeks before, we 
met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary 
region, two well-dressed Women, one of whom 
said to us, by way of greeting, " What, you are 
stepping westward ? " 

" What, you are stepping westward f " — 

" Yea" 
— 'T would be a wildish destiny, 
If we, who thus together roam 
In a strange Land, and far from home, 
Were in this place the guests of Chance: 
Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, 
Though home or shelter he had none, 
With such a sky to lead him on ? 

The dewy ground was dark and cold; 

Behind, all gloomy to behold; 

And stepping westward seemed to be 

A kind of heavenly destiny: 

I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound 

Of something without place or bound; 

And seemed to give me spiritual right 

To travel through that region bright. 

The voice was soft, and she who spake 

Was walking by her native lake: 

The salutation had to me 

The very sound of courtesy: 

Its power was felt; and while my eye 

Was fixed upon the glowing Sky, 

The echo of the voice enwrought 

A human sweetness with the thought 

Of travelling through the world that lay 

Before me in my endless way. 



VIII 
THE SOLITARY REAPER 

1803. 1807 

Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently pass ! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 
O listen ! for the Vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No Nightingale did ever chaunt 
More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands: 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



299 



A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-hird, 
Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 
Perhaps the plaintive numbers How 
For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
And battles long ago: 20 

Or is it some more humble lay, 
Familiar matter of to-day ? 
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
That has been, and may be again ? 

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 

As if her song could have no ending; 

I saw her singing at her work, 

And o'er the sickle bending; — 

I listened, motionless and still; 

And, as I mounted up the hill 30 

The music in my heart I bore, 

Long: after it was heard no more. 



IX 

ADDRESS TO KILCHURN CASTLE, 
UPON LOCH AWE 

1803. 1827 

The first three lines were thrown off at the 
moment I first caught sight of the Ruin from a 
small eminence by the wayside ; the rest was 
added many years after. 

" From the top of the hill a most impressive 
scene opened upon our view, — a ruined Castle 
on an Island (for an Island the flood had made 
it) at some distance from the shore, backed by 
a Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, down which 
came a foaming stream. The Castle occupied 
every foot of the Island that was visible to us, 
appearing to rise out of the water, — mists 
rested upon the mountain side, with spots of 
sunshine ; there was a mild desolation in the 
low grounds, a solemn grandeur in the moun- 
tains, and the Castle was wild, yet stately — 
not dismantled of turrets — nor the walls broken 
down, though obviously a ruin." — Extract 
from the Journal of my Companion. 

Child of loud-throated War ! the moun- 
tain Stream 

Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest 

Is come, and thou art silent in thy age; 

Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds 
are caught 

Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs. 



Oh ! there is life that breathes not; Powers 

there are 
That touch each other to the quick hi 

modes 
Which the gross world no sense hath to 

perceive, 
No soul to dream of. What art Thou, 

from care 
Cast off — abandoned by thy rugged Sire, 10 
Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in 

place 
And in dimension, such that thou might'st 

seem 
But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord, 
Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills 
Might crush, nor know that it had suffered 

harm ; ) 
Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims 
To reverence, suspends his own; submit- 
ting 
All that the God of Nature hath conferred, 
All that he holds in common with the stars, 
To the memorial majesty of Time 20 

Impersonated in thy calm decay ! 
Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unre- 

proved ! 
Now, while a farewell gleam of evening 

light 
Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front, 
Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and rule 
Over the pomp and beauty of a scene 
Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and 

woods, unite 
To pay thee homage; and with these are 

joined, 
In willing admiration and respect, 
Two Hearts, which in thy presence might 

be called 30 

Youthful as Spring. — Shade of departed 

Power, 
Skeleton of unfleshed humanity, 
The chronicle were welcome that should 

call 
Into the compass of distinct regard 
The toils and struggles of thy infant years I 
Yon foaming flood seems motionless as 

ice; 
Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye, 
Frozen by distance ; so, majestic Pile, 
To the perception of this Age, appear 
Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subv 

dued ^o 

And quieted in character — the strife, 
The pride, the fury uncontrollable, 
Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades I 



3°° 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



ROB ROY'S GRAVE 

1803. 1807 

I have since been told that I was misin- 
formed as to the burial-place of Rob Roy. If 
so, I may plead in excuse that I wrote on ap- 
parently good authority, namely, that of a well- 
educated Lady who lived at the head of the 
Lake, within a mile or less of the point indi- 
cated as containing 1 the remains of One so 
famous in the neighbourhood. 

The history of Rob Roy is sufficiently 
known ; his grave is near the head of Loch 
Ketterine, in one of those small pinfold-like 
Burial-grounds, of neglected and desolate ap- 
pearance, which the traveller meets with in the 
Highlands of Scotland. 

A famous man is Robin Hood, 

The English ballad-singer's joy ! 

And Scotland has a thief as good, 

An outlaw of as daring mood ; 

She has her brave Rob Roy ! 

Then clear the weeds from off his Grave, 

And let us chant a passing stave, 

In honour of that Hero brave ! 

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart 
And wondrous length and strength of 

arm: 
Nor craved he more to quell his foes, n 
Or keep his friends from harm. 

Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave; 
Forgive me if the phrase be strong; — 
A Poet worthy of Rob Roy 
Must scorn a timid song. 

Say, then, that he was wise as brave; 
As wise in thought as bold in deed: 
For in the principles of things 

He sought his moral creed. 20 

Said generous Rob, " What need of books ? 
Burn all the statutes and their shelves: 
They stir us up against our kind; 
And worse, against ourselves. 

" We have a passion — make a law, 
Too false to guide us or control ! 
And for the law itself we fight 
In bitterness of soul. 



" And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose 
Distinctions that are plain and few: 30 

These find I graven on my heart: 
That tells me what to do. 

" The creatures see of flood and field, 
And those that travel on the wind ! 
With them no strife can last; they live 
In peace, and peace of mind. 

" For why ? — because the good old rule 
Sufficeth them, the simple plan, 
That they should take, who have the power, 
And they should keep who can. 40 

" A lesson that is quickly learned, 
A signal this which all can see ! 
Thus nothing here provokes the strong 
To wanton cruelty. 

" All freakishness of mind is checked; 
He tamed, who foolishly aspires; 
While to the measure of his might 
Each fashions his desires. 

" All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall 
By strength of prowess or of wit: 50 

'T is God's appointment who must sway, 
And who is to submit. 

" Since, then, the rule of right is plain, 
And longest life is but a day ; 
To have my ends, maintain my rights, 
I '11 take the shortest way." 

And thus among these rocks he lived, 
Through summer heat and winter snow: 
The Eagle, he was lord above, 

And Rob was lord below. 60 

So was it — toould, at least, have been 
But through untowardness of fate; 
For Polity was then too strong — 
He came an age too late; 

Or shall we say an age too soon ? 
For, were the bold Man living now, 
How might he flourish in his pride, 
With buds on every bough ! 

Then rents and factors, rights of chase, 
Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains, 70 
Would all have seemed but paltry things, 
Not worth a moment's pains. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



301 



Rob Roy had never lingered here, 
To these few meagre Vales confined; 
But thought how wide the world, the thnes 
How fairly to his mind ! 

And to his Sword he would have said, 
" Do Thou my sovereign will enact 
From land to land through half the earth ! 
Judge thou of law and fact ! 80 

" 'T is fit that we should do our part, 
Becoming, that mankind should learn 
That we are not to be surpassed 
In fatherly concern. 

" Of old things all are over old, 
Of good things none are good enough : — 
We '11 show that we can help to frame 
A world of other stuff. 

" I, too, will have my kings that take 
From me the sign of life and death: 90 

Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds, 
Obedient to my breath." 

And, if the word had been fulfilled, 
As might have been, then, thought of joy ! 
France would have had her present Boast, 
And we our own Rob Roy ! 

Oh ! say not so; compare them not; 
I would not wrong thee, Champion brave ! 
Would wrong thee nowhere; least of all 
Here standing by thy grave. 100 

For Thou, although with some wild thoughts, 
Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan ! 
Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love 
The liberty of man. 

And, had it been thy lot to live 
With us who now behold the light, 
Thou would'st have nobly stirred thyself, 
And battled for the Right. 

For thou wert still the poor man's stay, 
The poor man's heart, the poor man's 
hand ; 1 10 

And all the oppressed, who wanted strength, 
Had thine at their command. 

Bear witness many a pensive sigh 
Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays 
Alone upon Loch Veol's heights, 
And by Loch Lomond's braes ! 



And, far and near, through vale and hill, 
Are faces that attest the same; 
The proud heart flashing through the eyes, 
At sound of Rob Roy's name. 120 

XI 
SONNET 



COMPOSED AT 



CASTLE 



1803. 1807 



The Castle here mentioned was Nidpath 
near Peebles. The person alluded to was the 
then Duke of Queensbury. The fact was told 
nie by Walter Scott. 

Degenerate Douglas ! oh, the unworthy 

Lord ! 
Whom mere despite of heart could so far 

please, 
And love of havoc, (for with such disease 
Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth 

word 
To level with the dust a noble horde, 
A brotherhood of venerable Trees, 
Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like 

these, 
Beggared and outraged ! — Many hearts 

deplored 
The fate of those old Trees; and oft with 

pain 
The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze 
On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems 

to heed: 
For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and 

bays, 
And the pure mountains, and the gentle 

Tweed, 
And the green silent pastures, yet remain. 

XII 
YARROW UNVISITED 

1803. 1S07 

See the various Poems the scene of which is 
laid upon the banks of the Yarrow ; in particu- 
lar, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton begin- 
ning 

" Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome MarroV ! — " 

From Stirling castle we had seen 
The mazy Forth unravelled; 
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 
And with the Tweed had travelled; 



302 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



And when we came to Clovenford, 
Then said my " winsome Marrow" 
" Whate'er betide, we '11 turn aside, 
And see the Braes of Yarrow." 

" Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 
Who have been buying, selling, 10 

Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own; 
Each maiden to her dwelling ! 
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 
But we will downward with the Tweed, 
Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 

" There 's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 

Both lying right before us; 

And Dryborough, where with chiming 

Tweed 
The lint whites sing in chorus; 20 

There 's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
Made blithe with plough and harrow: 
Why throw away a needfid day 
To go in search of Yarrow ? 

" What 's Yarrow but a river bare, 
That glides the dark hills under ? 
There are a thousand such elsewhere 
As worthy of your wonder." 
— Strange words they seemed of slight and 

scorn 
My True-love sighed for sorrow; 30 

And looked me in the face, to think 
I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 

" Oh ! green," said I, " are Yarrow's holms, 
And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 
But we will leave it growing. 
O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 
We '11 wander Scotland thorough ; 
But, though so near, we will not turn 
Into the dale of Yarrow. 40 

" Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; 
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow ! 
We will not see them ; will not go, 
To-day, nor yet to-morrow, 
Enough if in our hearts we know 
There 's such a place as Yarrow. 

" Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! 
It must, or we shall rue it: 50 

We have a vision of our own; 
Ah ! why should we undo it ? 



The treasured dreams of times long past, 
We '11 keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
For when we 're there, although 't is fair, 
'T will be another Yarrow ! 

" If Care with freezing years should come, 
And wandering seem but folly, — 
Should we be loth to stir from home, 
And yet be melancholy; 60 

Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
'T will soothe us in our sorrow, 
That earth has something yet to show, 
The bonny holms of Yarrow ! " 



XIII 

THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH 
AND HER HUSBAND 

1803. 1807 

At Jedborough, my companion and I went 
into private lodgings for a few days ; and 
the following Verses were called forth by 
the character and domestic situation of our 
Hostess. 

Age ! twine thy brows with fresh spring 

flowers, 
And call a train of laughing Hours; 
And bid them dance, and bid them sing; 
And thou, too, mingle hi the ring ! 
Take to thy heart anew delight; 
If not, make merry in despite 
That there is One who scorns thy power: — 
But dance ! for under Jedborough Tower, 
A Matron dwells who, though she bears 
The weight of more than seventy years, 10 
Lives in the light of youthful glee, 
And she will dance and sing with thee. 

Nay ! start not at that Figure — there ! 
Him who is rooted to his chair ! 
Look at him — look again ! for he 
Hath long been of thy family. 
With legs that move not, if they can, 
And useless arms, a trunk of man, 
He sits, and with a vacant eye ; 
A sight to make a stranger sigh ! 2* 

Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom: 
His world is in this single room: 
Is this a place for mirthful cheer ? 
Can merry-making enter here ? 

The joyous Woman is the Mate 
Of him in that forlorn estate ! 
He breathes a subterraneous damp; 
But bright as Vesper shines her lamp: 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



3°3 



He is as mute as Jedborough Tower: 

She jocund as it was of yore, 30 

With all its bravery on; in times 

When all alive with merry chimes, 

Upon a sun-bright morn of May, 

It roused the Vale to holiday. 

I praise thee, Matron ! and thy due 
Is praise, heroic praise, and true ! 
With admiration I behold 
Thy gladness unsubdued and bold: 
Thy looks, thy gestures, all present 
The picture of a life well spent: 40 

This do I see; and something more; 
A strength unthought of heretofore ! 
Delighted am I for thy sake; 
And yet a higher joy partake: 
Our Human-nature throws away 
Its second twilight, and looks gay; 
A land of promise and of pride 
Unfolding, wide as life is wide. 

Ah ! see her helpless Charge ! enclosed 
Within himself it seems, composed; 50 

To fear of loss, and hope of gain, 
The strife of happiness and pain, 
Utterly dead ! yet in the guise 
Of little infants, when their eyes 
Begin to follow to and fro 
The persons that before them go, 
He tracks her motions, quick or slow, 
Her buoyant spirit can prevail 
Where common cheerfulness would fail; 
She strikes upon him with the heat 60 

Of July suns; he feels it sweet; 
An animal delight though dim ! 
'T is all that now remains for him ! 

The more I looked, I wondered more — 
And, while I scanned them o'er and o'er, 
Some inward trouble suddenly 
Broke from the Matron's strong black eye — 
A remnant of uneasy light, 
A flash of something over-bright ! 
Nor long this mystery did detain 70 

My thoughts; — she told in pensive strain 
That she had borne a heavy yoke, 
Been stricken by a twofold stroke; 
111 health of body; and had pined 
Beneath worse ailments of the mind. 

So be it ! — but let praise ascend 
To Him who is our lord and friend ! 
Who from disease and suffering 
Hath called for thee a second spring; 
Repaid thee for that sore distress 80 

By no untimely joyousness; 
Which makes of thine a blissful state; 
And cheers thy melancholy Mate ! 



XIV 

"FLY, SOME KIND HARBINGER, 
TO GRASMERE-DALE !" 

1803. 1S15 

This was actually composed the last day of 
our tour between Dalstou and Grasmere. 

Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere- 

dale ! 
Say that we come, and come by this day's 

light; 
Fly upon swiftest wing round field and 

height, 
But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale; 
There let a mystery of joy prevail, 
The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite, 
And Rover whine, as at a second sight 
Of near-approaching good that shall not 

fail: 
And from that Infant's face let joy appear; 
Yea, let our Mary's one companion child — 
That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled 
With intimations manifold and dear, 
While we have wandered over wood and 

wild — 
Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer. 



XV 
THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY 

A TALE TOLD BY THE FIRE-SIDE, AFTER 
RETURNING TO THE VALE OF GRASMERE 

1803. 1807 

The story was told me by George Mackereth, 
for many years parish-clerk of Grasmere. He 
had been an eye-witness of the occurrence. The 
vessel in reality was a washing-tub, which the 
little fellow had met with on the shore of 
the Loch. 

Now we are tired of boisterous joy, 
Have romped enough, my little Boy ! 
Jane hangs her head upon my breast, 
And you shall bring your stool and rest; 
This corner is your own. 

There ! take your seat, and let me see 
That you can listen quietly: 
And, as I promised, I will tell 
That strange adventure which befell 

A poor blind Highland Boy. 10 



3°4 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



A Highland Boy ! — why call him so ? 
Because, my Darlings, ye must know 
That, under hills which rise like towers, 
Far higher hills than these of ours ! 
He from his birth had lived. 

He ne'er had seen one earthly sight, 
The sun, the day; the stars, the night; 
Or tree, or butterfly, or flower, 
Or fish in stream, or bird in bower, 

Or woman, man, or child. 20 

And yet he neither drooped nor pined, 
Nor had a melancholy mind; 
For God took pity on the Boy, 
And was his friend; and gave him joy 
Of which we nothing know. 

His Mother, too, no doubt, above 
Her other children him did love: 
For, was she here, or was she there, 
She thought of him with constant care, 

And more than mother's love. 30 

And proud she was of heart, when, clad 
In crimson stockings, tartan plaid, 
And bonnet with a feather gay, 
To Kirk he on the Sabbath day 
Went hand in hand with her. 

A dog, too, had he; not for need, 
But one to play with and to feed; 
Which would have led him, if bereft 
Of company or friends, and left 

Without a better guide. 40 

And then the bagpipes he could blow — 
And thus from house to house would go; 
And all were pleased to hear and see, 
For none made sweeter melody 
Than did the poor blind Boy. 

Yet he had many a restless dream; 
Both when he heard the eagles scream, 
And when he heard the torrents roar, 
And heard the water beat the shore 

Near which their cottage stood. 50 

Beside a lake their cottage stood, 
Not small like ours, a peaceful flood; 
But one of mighty size, and strange ; 
That, rough or smooth, is full of change, 
And stirring in its bed. 

For to this lake, by night and day, 
The great Sea-water finds its way 



Through long, long windings of the hills 
And drinks up all the pretty rills 

And rivers large and strong: 60 

Then hurries back the road it came — 
Returns, on errand still the same; 
This did it when the earth was new; 
And this for evermore will do 
As long as earth shall last. 

And, with the coming of the tide, 
Come boats and ships that safely ride 
Between the woods and lofty rocks; 
And to the shepherds with their flocks 

Bring tales of distant lands. 70 

And of those tales, whate'er they were, 
The blind Boy always had his share; 
Whether of mighty towns, or vales 
With warmer suns and softer gales, 
Or wonders of the Deep. 

Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred, 
When from the water-side he heard 
The shouting, and the jolly cheers; 
The bustle of the mariners 

In stillness or in storm. 80 

But what do his desires avail ? 
For He must never handle sail; 
Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float 
In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat, 
Upon the rocking waves. 

His Mother often thought, and said, 
What sin would be upon her head 
If she should suffer this: " My Son, 
Whate'er you do, leave this undone; 

The danger is so great." 90 

Thus lived he by Loch Leven's side 
Still sounding with the sounding tide, 
And heard the billows leap and dance, 
Without a shadow of mischance, 
Till he was ten years old. 

When one day (and now mark me well, 
Ye soon shall know how this befell) 
He in a vessel of his own, 
On the swift flood is hurrying down, 

Down to the mighty Sea. 100 

In such a vessel never more 
May human creature leave the shore ! 
I If this or that way he should stir, 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



3°S 



Woe to the poor blind Mariner ! 
For death will be his doom. 

But say what bears him ? — Ye have seen 
The Indian's bow, his arrows keen, 
Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright ; 
Gifts which, for wonder or delight, 

Are brought in ships from far. no 

Such gifts had those seafaring men 
Spread round that haven in the glen; 
Each hut, perchance, might have its own, 
And to the Boy they all were known — 
He knew and prized them all. 

The rarest was a Turtle-shell 

Which he, poor Child, had studied well; 

A shell of ample size, and light 

As the pearly car of Amphitrite, 

That sportive dolphins drew. 120 

And, as a Coracle that braves 
On Vaga's breast the fretful waves, 
This shell upon the deep would swim, 
And gaily lift its fearless brim 
Above the tossing surge. 

And this the little blind Boy knew: 
And he a story strange yet true 
Had heard, how in a shell like this 
An English Boy, O thought of bliss ! 

Had stoutly launched from shore; 130 

Launched from the margin of a bay 
Among the Indian isles, where lay 
His father's ship, and had sailed far — 
To join that gallant ship of war, 
In his delightful shell. 

Our Highland Boy oft visited 
The house that held this prize; and, led 
By choice or chance, did thither come 
One day when no one was at home, 

And found the door unbarred. 140 

While there he sate, alone and blind, 
That story flashed upon his mind; — 
A bold thought roused him, and he took 
The shell from out its secret nook, 
And bore it on his head. 

He launched his vessel, — and in pride 
Of spirit, from Loch Leven's side, 
Stepped into it — his thoughts all free 
As the light breezes that with glee 149 

Sang through the adventurer's hair. 



A while he stood upon his feet; 
He felt the motion — took his seat; 
Still better pleased as more and more 
The tide retreated from the shore, 
And sucked, and sucked him in. 

And there he is in face of Heaven. 
How rapidly the Child is driven ! 
The fourth part of a mile, I ween, 
He thus had gone, ere he was seen 

By any human eye. 160 

But when he was first seen, oh me 
What shrieking and what misery ! 
For many saw; among the rest 
His Mother, she who loved him best, 
She saw her poor blind Boy. 

But for the child, the sightless Boy, 
It is the triumph of his joy ! 
The bravest traveller in balloon, 
Mounting as if to reach the moon, 

Was never half so blessed. i 7 o 

And let him, let him go his way, 
Alone, and innocent, and gay ! 
For, if good Angels love to wait 
On the forlorn unfortunate, 

This Child will take no harm. 

But now the passionate lament, 
Which from the crowd on shore was sent, 
The cries which broke from old and young 
In Gaelic, or the English tongue, 

Are stifled — all is still. 18c 

And quickly with a silent crew 
A boat is ready to pursue; 
And from the shore their course they take, 
And swiftly down the running lake 
They follow the blind Boy. 

But soon they move with softer pace; 
So have ye seen the fowler chase 
On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast 
A youngling of the wild-duck's nest 

With deftly-lifted oar; 190 

Or as the wily sailors crept 
To seize (while on the Deep it slept) 
The hapless creature which did dwell 
Erewhile within the dancing shell, 
They steal upon their prey. 

With sound the least that can lie made, 
They follow, more and more afraid, 



306 



OCTOBER 1803 



More cautious as they draw niore near; 
But in his darkness he can hear, 

And guesses their intent. 200 

" Lei-gha — Lei-gha " — he then cried out, 
" Lei-gha — Lei-gha " — '■ with eager shout; 
Thus did he cry, and thus did pray, 
And what he meant was, " Keep away, 
And leave me to myself ! " 

Alas ! and when he felt their hands 

You 've often heard of magic wands, 
That with a motion overthrow 
A palace of the proudest show, 

Or melt it into air: 210 

So all his dreams — that inward light 
With which his soul had shone so bright — 
All vanished; — 't was a heartfelt cross 
To him, a heavy, bitter loss, 
As he had ever known. 

But hark ! a gratulating voice, 
With which the very hills rejoice: 
'T is from the crowd, who tremblingly 
Have watched the event, and now can 
see 
That he is safe at last. 220 

And then, when he was brought to land, 
Full siire they were a happy band, 
Which, gathering round, did on the banks 



Of that great Water give God thanks, 
And welcomed the poor Child. 

And in the general joy of heart 
The blind Boy's little dog took part; 
He leapt about, and oft did kiss 
His master's hands in sign of bliss, 

With sound like lamentation. 230 

But most of all, his Mother dear, 
She who had fainted with her fear, 
Rejoiced when waking she espies 
The Child; when she can trust her eyes, 
And touches the blind Boy. 

She led him home, and wept amain, 
When he was in the house again: 
Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes; 
She kissed him — how could she chastise ? 
She was too happy far. 240 

Thus, after he had fondly braved 
The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved; 
And, though his fancies had been wild, 
Yet he was pleased and reconciled 
To live in peace on shore. 

And in the lonely Highland dell 
Still do they keep the Turtle-shell 
And long the story will repeat 
Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat, 

And how he was preserved. 250 



OCTOBER 1S03 
1803. 1807 

One might believe that natural miseries 
Had blasted France, and made of it a land 
Unfit for men ; and that in one great band 
Her sons were bursting forth, to dwell at 

ease. 
But 'tis a chosen soil, where sun and 

breeze 
Shed gentle favours: rural works are there, 
And ordinary business without care; 
Spot rich in all things that can soothe and 

please ! 
How piteous then that there should be such 

dearth 
Of knowledge; that whole myriads should 

unite 
To work against themselves such fell de- 
spite : 



Should come in phrensy and in drunken 

mirth, 
Impatient to put out the only light 
Of Liberty that yet remains on earth I 



"THERE IS A BONDAGE WORSE, 
FAR WORSE, TO BEAR" 

1803. 1807 

There is a bondage worse, far worse, to 

bear 
Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, 

and wall, 
Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall: 
'T is his who walks about in the open air, 
One of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear 
Their fetters in their souls. For who could 

be, 
Who, even the best, in such condition, free 



TO THE MEN OF KENT 



307 



From self-reproach, reproach that he must 

share 
With Human-nature ? Never be it ours 
To see the sun how brightly it will shine, 
And know that noble feelings, manly 

powers, 
Instead of gathering strength, must droop 

and pine; 
And earth with all her pleasant fruits and 

flowers 
Fade, and participate in man's decline. 



OCTOBER 1803 
1803. 1807 

These times strike monied worldlings with 

dismay : 
Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the 

air 
With words of apprehension and despair: 
While tens of thousands, thinking on the 

affray, 
Men unto whom sufficient for the day 
And minds not stinted or untilled are given, 
Sound, healthy, children of the God of 

heaven, 
Are cheerful as the rising sun in May. 
What do we gather hence but firmer faith 
That every gift of noble origin 
Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual 

breath ; 
That virtue and the faculties within 
Are vital, — and that riches are akin 
To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death ? 



"ENGLAND ! THE TIME IS COME 
WHEN THOU SHOULD'ST WEAN " 

1803. 1S07 

England ! the time is come when thou 

should'st wean 
Thy heart from its emasculating food; 
The truth should now be better understood ; 
Old things have been unsettled; we have 

seen 
Fair seed-tune, better harvest might have 

been 
B\it for thy trespasses; and, at this day, 
If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa, 
Aught good were destined, thou would'st 

step between. 
England ! all nations in this charge agree: 
But worse, more ignorant in love and hate, 



Far — far more abject, is thine Enemy: 
Therefore the wise pray for thee, though 

the freight 
Of thy offences be a heavy weight: 
Oh grief that Earth's best hopes rest all 

with Thee ! 



OCTOBER 1803 
1803. 1807 

When, looking on the present face of 

things, 
I see one Man, of men the meanest too ! 
Raised up to sway the world, to do, undo, 
With mighty Nations for his underlings, 
The great events with which old story rings 
Seem vain and hollow; I find nothing great : 
Nothing is left which I can venerate; 
So that a doubt almost within me springs 
Of Providence, such emptiness at length 
Seems at the heart of all things. But, great 

God! 
I measure back the steps which I have trod : 
And tremble, seeing whence proceeds the 

strength 
Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts 

sublime 
I tremble at the sorrow of the time. 



TO THE MEN OF KENT 

October 1803 

1803. 1807 

Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, 

Ye children of a Soil that doth advance 

Her haughty brow against the coast of 
France, 

Now is the time to prove your hardiment ! 

To France be words of invitation sent ! 

They from their fields can see the counte- 
nance 

Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering 
lance 

And hear you shouting forth your brave 
intent. 

Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore, 

Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath; 

Confirmed the charters that were yours 
before ; — 

No parleying now ! In Britain is one breath ; 

We all are with you now from shore to 
shore : — 

Ye men of Kent, 't is victory or death ! 



3 o8 



IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKY 



IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKY 

1803. 1807 

An invasion being expected, October 1803. 

Six thousand veterans practised in war's 

game, 
Tried men, at Killicranky were arrayed 
Against an equal host that wore the plaid, 
Shepherds and herdsmen. — Like a whirl- 
wind came 
The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like 

flame ; 
And Garry, thundering down his mountain- 
road, 
Was stopped, and could not breathe be- 
neath the load 
Of the dead bodies. — 'T was a day of shame 
For them whom precept and the pedantry 
Of cold mechanic battle do enslave. 
O for a single hour of that Dundee, 
Who on that day the word of onset gave ! 
Like conquest would the Men of England 

see; 
And her Foes find a like inglorious grave. 



ANTICIPATION, October 1803 

1803. 1807 

Shout, for a mighty Victory is won ! 

On British ground the Invaders are laid 

low; 
The breath of Heaven has drifted them 

like snow, 
And left them lying in the silent sun, 
Never to rise again ! — the work is done. 
Come forth, ye old men, now in peaceful 

show 
And greet your sons ! drums beat and 

trumpets blow ! 
Make merry, wives ! ye little children, 

stun 
Your grandame's ears with pleasure of your 

noise ! 
Clap, infants, clap your hands ! Divine 

must be 
That triumph, when the very worst, the 

pain, 
And even the prospect of our brethren 

slain, 
Hath something hi it which the heart 

enjoys : — 
In glory will they sleep and endless sanc- 
tity. 



LINES ON THE EXPECTED 
INVASION, 1803 

1803. 1S45 

Come ye — who, if (which Heaven avert !) 

the Land 
Were with herself at strife, would take 

your stand, 
Like gallant Falkland, by the Monarch's 

side, 
And, like Montrose, make Loyalty your 

pride — 
Come ye — who, not less zealous, might 

display 
Banners at enmity with regal sway, 
And, like the Pyms and Mil tons of that day, 
Think that a State would live in sounder 

health 
If Kingship bowed its head to Common- 
wealth — 
Ye too — whom no discreditable fear 
Would keep, perhaps with many a fruitless 

tear, 
Uncertain what to choose and how to 

steer — 
And ye — who might mistake for sober 

sense 
And wise reserve the plea of indolence — 
Come ye — whate'er your creed — O waken 

all, 
Whate'er your temper, at your Country's 

call; 
Resolving (this a free-born Nation can) 
To have one Soul, and perish to a man, 
Or save this honoured Land from every 

Lord 
But British reason and the British sword. 



THE FARMER OF TILSBURY 
VALE 

1803. 1815 

The character of this man was described to 
me, and the incident upon which the verses turn 
was told me, by Mr. Pool of Nether Stowey, 
with whom I became acquainted through our 
common friend, S. T. Coleridge. During my 
residence at Alfoxden I used to see much of 
him and had frequent occasions to admire the 
course of his daily life, especially his conduct 
to his labourers and poor neighbours : their 
virtues he carefully encouraged, and weighed 
their faults in the scales of charity. If I seem 
in these verses to h;ive treated the weaknesses 
of the farmer, and his transgression, too ten- 



THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE 



3^9 



derly, it may in part be ascribed to my baling 
received tbe story from one so averse to all 
barsh judgment. After bis death, was found 
in his escritoir a lock of grey hair carefully 
preserved, with a notice that it had been cut 
from tbe head of his faithful shepherd, who 
had served him for a length of years. I need 
scarcely add that he felt for all men as his 
brothers. He was much beloved by distin- 
guished persons — Mr. Coleridge, Mr. Southey, 
Sir H. Davy, and many others ; and in his own 
neighbourhood was highly valued as a magis- 
trate, a man of business, and in every other 
social relation. The latter part of the poem, 
perhaps, requires some apology as being too 
much of an echo to tbe " Reverie of Poor Su- 



'T is not for the unfeeling, the falsely re- 
fined, 

The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of 
mind, 

And the small critic wielding his delicate 
pen, 

That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old 
men. 

He dwells in the centre of London's wide 

Town; 
His staff is a sceptre — his grey hairs a 

crown ; 
And his bright eyes look brighter, set off 

by the streak 
Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his 

cheek. 

'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn, — 

'mid the joy 
"Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when 

a boy, 10 

That countenance there fashioned, which, 

spite of a stain 
That his life hath received, to the last will 

remain. 

A Farmer he was; and his house far and 

near 
Was the boast of the country for excellent 

cheer: 
How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury 

Vale 
Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt 

his mild ale ! 

Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin, 
His fields seemed to know what their Mas- 
ter was doing: 



And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, 

and lea, 19 

All caught the infection — as generous as he. 

Yet Adam prized little the feast and the 
bowl, — - 

The fields better suited the ease of his soul: 

He strayed through the fields like an indo- 
lent wight, 

The quiet of nature was Adam's delight. 

For Adam was simple in thought; and the 

poor, 
Familiar with him, made an inn of his door: 
He gave them the best that he had ; or, to say 
What less may mislead you, they took it 

away. 

Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on 

his farm: 
The Genius of plenty preserved him from 

harm : 30 

At length, what to most is a season of 

sorrow, 
His means are run out, — he must beg, or 

must borrow. 

To the neighbours he went, — all were free 
with their money; 

For his hive had so long been replenished 
with honey, 

That they dreamt not of dearth ; — He con- 
tinued his rounds, 

Knocked here — and knocked there, pounds 
still adding to pounds. 

He paid what he could with his ill-gotten 

pelf, 
And something, it might be, reserved for 

himself: 
Then (what is too true) without hinting a 

word, 
Turned his back on the country — and off 

like a bird. 40 

You lift up your eyes ! — but I guess that 

you frame 
A judgment too harsh of the sin and the 

shame ; 
In him it was scarcely a business of art, 
For this he did all in the ease of his heart. 

To London — a sad emigration I ween — 
With his grey hairs he went from the brook 
and the green; 



3io 



TO THE CUCKOO 



And there, with small wealth but his legs 

and his hands, 
As lonely he stood as a crow on the 

sands. 

All trades, as need was, did old Adam as- 
sume, — 

Sewed as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, 
and groom ; 50 

But nature is gracious, necessity kind, 

And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in 
his mind, 

He seems ten birthdays younger, is green 

and is stout; 
Twice as fast as before does his blood run 

about ; 
You would say that each hair of his beard 

was alive, 
And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive. 

For he 's not like an Old Man that leisurely 

goes 
About work that he knows, in a track that 

he knows; 
But often his mind is compelled to demur, 
And you guess that the more then his body 

must stir. 60 

In the throng of the town like a stranger is 

he, 
Like one whose own country 's far over the 

sea; 
And Nature/while through the great city 

he hies, 
Full ten times a day takes his heart by 

surprise. 

This gives him the fancy of one that is 

young, 
More of soul in his face than of words on 

his tongue; 
Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and 

sighs, 
And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes. 

What 's a tempest to him, or the dry parch- 
ing heats ? 

Yet he watches the clouds that pass over 
the streets; 7° 

With a look of such earnestness often will 
stand, 

You might think he 'd twelve reapers at 
work in the Strand. 



Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate 

hours 
Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits 

and her flowers, 
Old Adam will smile at the pains that have 

made 
Poor winter look fine in such strange 

masquerade. 

'Mid coaches and chariots, a waggon of 

straw, 
Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can 

draw ; 
With a thousand soft pictures his memory 

will teem, 
And his hearing is touched with the sounds 

of a dream. £0 

Up the Haymarket hill he oft whistles his 

way, 
Thrusts his hands hi a waggon, and smells 

at the hay ; 
He thinks of the fields he so often hath 

mown, 
And is happy as if the rich freight were his 

own. 

But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to re- 
pair, — 

If you pass by at morning, you '11 meet with 
him there. 

The breath of the cows you may see him 
inhale, 

And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury 
Vale. 

Now farewell, old Adam ! when low thou 

art laid, 
May one blade of grass spring up over thy 

head ; 9c 

And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it 

be, 
Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves 

of a tree. 



TO THE CUCKOO 

1804. 1807 

Composed in the orchard, Town-end, Gras- 
mere. 

blithe New-comer ! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice. 

O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice ? 



"I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD" 



3ii 



While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear, 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off, and near. 

Though babbling only to the Vale, 
Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Thou bringest imto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 

Even yet thou art to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery; 

The same whom in my school-boy days 
I listened to; that Cry 
Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
Still longed for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet; 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place; 
That is fit home for Thee ! 



"SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF 
DELIGHT" 

1804. 1807 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The germ 
of this poem was four lines composed as a part 
of the verses on the Highland Girl. Though 
beginning in this way, it was written from my 
heart, as is sufficiently obvious. 

She was a Phantom of delight 

When first she gleamed upon my sight; 

A lovely Apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament; 

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; 

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; 

A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 10 



I saw her upon nearer view, 
A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 
Her household motions light and free, 
And steps of virgin-liberty; 
A countenance hi which did meet 
Sweet records, promises as sweet; 
A Creature not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily food; 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, 
smiles. 



and 



And now I see with eye serene 

The very pulse of the machine ; 

A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A Traveller between life and death ; 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 

A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 

To warn, to comfort, and command; 

And yet a Spirit still, and bright 

With something of angelic light. ■. 



"I WANDERED LONELY AS A 
CLOUD" 

1804. 1807 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The Daf- 
fodils grew and still grow on the margin of 
Ullswater, and probably may be seen to this 
day as beautiful in the month of March, nod- 
ding their golden heads beside the dancing and 
foaming waves. 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay: 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced; but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: 

A poet could not but be gay, 

In such a jocund company: 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought: 



312 



THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET 



For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 



THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET 

1804. 1807 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. This was 
taken from the case of a poor widow who lived 
in the town of Penrith. Her sorrow was well 
known to Mrs. Wordsworth, to my Sister, and, 
I believe, to the whole town. She kept a shop, 
and when she saw a stranger passing- by, she 
was in the habit of going' out into the street to 
enquire of him after her son. 



Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
Where art thou, worse to me than dead ? 
Oh find me, prosperous or undone ! 
Or, if the grave be now thy bed, 
Why am I ignorant of the same 
That I may rest; and neither blame 
Nor sorrow may attend thy name ? 



Seven years, alas ! to have received 

No tidings of an only child; 

To have despaired, have hoped, believed, 10 

And been for evermore beguiled; 

Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! 

I catch at them, and then I miss; 

Was ever darkness like to this ? 



He was among the prime in worth, 

An object beauteous to behold; 

Well born, well bred; I sent him forth 

Ingenuous, innocent, and bold: 

If things ensued that wanted grace, 

As hath been said, they were not base; 20 

And never blush was on my face. 



Ah ! little doth the young one dream, 
When full of play and childish cares, 
What power is in his wildest scream, 
Heard by his mother unawares ! 
He knows it not, he cannot guess: 
Years to a mother bring distress; 
But do not make her love the less. 



Neglect me ! no, I suffered Jong 

From that ill thought; and, being blind, 30 

Said, " Pride shall help me in my wrong; 

Kind mother have I been, as kind 

As ever breathed: " and that is true; 

I 've wet my path with tears like dew, 

Weeping for him when no one knew. 



My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
Hopeless of honour and of gain, 
Oh ! do not dread thy mother's door; 
Think not of me with grief and pain: 
I now can see with better eyes; 
And worldly grandeur I despise, 
And fortune with her gifts and lies. 



Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight; 
They mount — how short a voyage brings 
The wanderers back to their delight ! 
Chains tie us down by land and sea; 
And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
All that is left to comfort thee. 



Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 50 

Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ; 

Or thou upon a desert thrown 

Inheritest the lion's den; 

Or hast been summoned to the deep, 

Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep 

An incommunicable sleep. 

IX 

I look for ghosts; but none will force 
Their way to me : 't is falsely said 
That there was ever intercourse 
Between the living and the dead ; 60 

For, surely, then I should have sight 
Of him I wait for day and night, 
With love and longings infinite. 



My apprehensions come in crowds; 
I dread the rustling of the grass; 
The very shadows of the clouds 
Have power to shake me as they pass: 
I question things and do not find 
One that will answer to my mind; 
I And all the world appears unkind. 



REPENTANCE 



3*3 



XI 

Beyond participation lie 
My troubles, and beyond relief: 
If any chance to heave a sigh, s 
They pity me, and not my grief. 
Then come to me, my Son, or send 
Some tidings that my woes may end; 
I have no other earthly friend ! 



THE FORSAKEN 

1804. 1845 

This was an overflow from the " Affliction of 
Margaret ," and was excluded as super- 
fluous there, but preserved in the faint hope 
that it may turn to account by restoring' a shy 
lover to some forsaken damsel. My poetry has 
been complained of as deficient in interests of 
this sort, — a charge which the piece begin- 
ning, " Lyre ! though such power do in thy 
magic live," will scarcely tend to obviate. The 
natural imagery of these verses was supplied 
by frequent, I might say intense, observation 
of the Rydal torrent. What an animating con- 
trast is the ever-changing aspect of that, and 
indeed of every one of our mountain brooks, to 
the monotonous tone and unmitigated fury of 
such streams among the Alps as are fed all 
the summer long by glaciers and melting 
snows. A traveller observing the exquisite 
purity of the great rivers, such as the Rhine at 
Geneva, and the Keuss at Lucerne, when they 
issue out of their respective lakes, might fancy 
for a moment that some power in nature pro- 
duced this beautiful change, with a view to 
make amends for those Alpine sullyings whicli 
the waters exhibit near their fountain heads ; 
but, alas ! how soon does that purity depart 
before the influx of tributary waters that have 
flowed through cultivated plains and the 
crowded abodes of men. 

The peace which others seek they find; 

The heaviest storms not longest last; 

Heaven grants even to the guiltiest mind 

An amnesty for what is past; 

When will my sentence be reversed ? 

I only pray to know the worst; 

And wish as if my heart would burst. 

weary struggle ! silent years 
Tell seemingly no doubtful tale; 
And yet they leave it short, and fears 
And hopes are strong and will prevail. 
My calmest faith escapes not pain; 
And, feeling that the hope is vain, 

1 think that he will come again. 



REPENTANCE 

A PASTORAL BALLAD 

1804. 1820 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Suggested 
by the conversation of our next neighbour, 
Margaret Ashburner. 

The fields which with covetous spirit we 

sold, 
Those beautiful fields, the delight of the 

day, 
Would have brought us more good than a 

burthen of gold, 
Could we but have been as contented as 

they. 

When the troublesome Tempter beset us, 

said I, 
" Let him come, with his purse proudly 

grasped in his hand; 
But, Allan, be true to me, Allan, — we '11 

die 
Before he shall go with an inch of the 

land ! " 

There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their 

bowers; 
Unf ettered as bees that in gardens abide; ro 
We could do what we liked with the land, 

it was ours; 
And for us the brook murmured that ran 

by its side. 

But now we are strangers, go early or late ; 
And often, like one overburthened with sin, 
With my hand on the latch of the half- 
opened gate, 
I look at the fields, but I cannot go in ! 

When I walk by the hedge on a bright 
summer's day, 

Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's 
tree, 

A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say, 

" What ails you, that you must come creep- 
ing to me ! " 20 

With our pastures about us, we could not 

be sad; 
Our comfort was near if we ever were 

crost; 
But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth 

that we had, 
We slighted them all, — and our birth-right 

was lost. 



3i4 



THE SEVEN SISTERS 



Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son 
Who must now be a wanderer ! but peace 

to that strain ! 
Think of evening's repose when our labour 

was done, 
The sabbath's return; and its leisure's soft 

chain ! 

And in sickness, if night had been sparing 

of sleep, 
How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I 

stood, 30 

Looking down on the kine, and our treasure 

of sheep 
That besprinkled the field ; 't was like youth 

in my blood ! 

Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a 

snail ; 
And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with 

a sigh, 
That follows the thought — We 've no land 

in the vale, 
Save six feet of earth where our forefathers 

lie ! 



THE SEVEN SISTERS 

OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE 
1804. 1807 



Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald, 

All children of one mother: 

You could not say in one short day 

What love they bore each other. 

A garland, of seven lilies, wrought ! 

Seven Sisters that together dwell; 

But he, bold Knight as ever fought, 

Their Father, took of them no thought, 

He loved the wars so well. 

Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 

The solitude of Binnorie ! 



Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, 

And from the shores of Erin, 

Across the wave, a Rover brave 

To Binnorie is steering: 

Right onward to the Scottish strand 

The gallant ship is borne; 

The warriors leap upon the land, 

And hark ! the Leader of the band 

Hath blown his bugle horn. 



Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 
The solitude of Binnorie. 



Beside a grotto of their own, 

With boughs above them closing, 

The Seven are laid, and in the shade 

They lie like fawns reposing. 

But now, upstarting with affright 

At noise of man and steed, 

Away they fly to left, to right — 

Of your fair household, Father-knight, 30 

Methinks you take small heed ! 

Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 

The solitude of Binnorie. 



Away the seven fair Campbells fly, 

And, over hill and hollow, 

With menace proud, and insult loud, 

The youthful Rovers follow. 

Cried they, " Your Father loves to roam : 

Enough for him to find 

The empty house when he comes home; 40 

For us your yellow ringlets comb, 

For us be fair and kind ! " 

Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 

The solitude of Binnorie. 



Some close behind, some side to side, 

Like clouds in stormy weather ; 

They run, and cry, " Nay, let us die, 

And let us die together." 

A lake was near; the shore was steep; 

There never foot had been ; 50 

They ran, and with a desperate leap 

Together plunged into the deep, 

Nor ever more were seen. 

Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 

The solitude of Binnorie. 

VI 

The stream that flows out of the lake, 

As through the glen it rambles, 

Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, 

For those seven lovely Campbells. 

Seven little Islands, green and bare, 60 

Have risen from out the deep: 

The fishers say, those sisters fair, 

By faeries all are buried there, 

And there together sleep. 

Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 

The solitude of Binnorie. 



ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, DORA 



3i5 



ADDRESS TO MY INFANT 
DAUGHTER, DORA 

ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A 
MONTH OLD THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 1 6 

1804. 1815 

Hast thou then survived — 

Mild Offspring of infirm humanity, 
Meek Infant ! among all forlornest things 
The most forlorn — one life of that bright 

star, 
The second glory of the Heavens ? — Thou 

hast, 
Already hast survived that great decay, 
That transformation through the wide earth 

felt, 
And by all nations. In that Being's sight 
From whom the Race of human kind pro- 
ceed, 
A thousand years are but as yesterday ; 10 
And one day's narrow circuit is to Him 
Not less capacious than a thousand years. 
But what is time ? What outward glory ? 

neither 
A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend 
Through " heaven's eternal year." — Yet 

hail to Thee, 
Frail, feeble Monthling ! — by that name, 

methinks, 
Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out 
Not idly. — Hadst thou been of Indian birth, 
Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, 
And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, 20 
Or to the churlish elements exposed 
On the blank plains, — the coldness of the 

night, 
Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful 

face 
Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned, 
Would, with imperious admonition, then 
Have scored thine age, and punctually 

timed 
Thine infant history, on the minds of those 
Who might have wandered with thee. — 

Mother's love, 
Nor less than mother's love in other breasts, 
Will, among us warm-clad and warmly 

housed, 30 

Do for thee what the finger of the heavens 
Doth all too often harshly execute 
For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds 
Where fancy hath small liberty to grace 
The affections, to exalt them or refine; 
And the maternal sympathy itself, 



Though strong, is, in the mam, a joyless 

tie 
Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. 
Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours ! 
Even now — to solemnise thy helpless state, 
And to enliven in the mind's regard 41 

Thy passive beauty — parallels have risen, 
Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect, 
Within the region of a father's thoughts, 
Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky. 
And first ; — thy sinless progress, through a 

world 
By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed, 
Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered 

clouds, 
Moving untouched in silvery purity, 
And cheering oft-times their reluctant 

gloom. 50 

Fair are ye both, and both are free from 

stain: 
But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy 

horn 
With brightness ! leaving her to post along, 
And range about, disquieted in change, 
And still impatient of the shape she wears. 
Once up, once down the hill, one journey, 

Babe, 
That will suffice thee; and it seems that 

now 
Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is 

thine ; 
Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st 
In such a heedless peace. Alas ! full soon 
Hath this conception, grateful to behold, 61 
Changed countenance, like an object sullied 

o'er 
By breathing mist; and thine appears 

to be 
A mournful labour, while to her is given 
Hope, and a renovation without end. 
— That smile forbids the thought; for on 

thy face 
Smiles are beginning, like the beams of 

dawn, 
To shoot and circidate; smiles have there 

been seen, 
Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports 
The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers 
Thy loneliness: or shall those smiles be 

called 71 

Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore 
This untried world, and to prepare thy 

way 
Through a strait passage intricate and 

dim? 



316 



THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES 



Such are they; and the same are tokens, 

signs, 
Which, when the appointed season hath 

arrived, 
Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt; 
And Reason's godlike Power he proud to 



THE KITTEN AND FALLING 
LEAVES 

1S04. 1807 

Seen at Town-end, Grasmere. The elder- 
bush has long since disappeared : it hung over 
the wall near the Cottage ; and the Kitten con- 
tinued to leap vip, catching the leaves as here 
described. The infant was Dora. 

That way look, my Infant, lo ! 
What a pretty baby-show ! 
See the Kitten on the Avail, 
Sporting with the leaves that fall, 
Withered leaves — one — two — and three — 
From the lofty elder-tree ! 
Through the calm and frosty air 
Of this morning bright and fair, 
Eddying round and round they sink 
Softly, slowly: one might think, 10 

From the motions that are made, 
Every little leaf conveyed 
Sylph or Faery hither tending, — 
To this lower world descending, 
Each invisible and mute, 
In his wavering parachute. 

But the Kitten, how she starts, 

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! 
First at one, and then its fellow 
Just as light and just as yellow; 20 

There are many now — now one — 
Now they stop and there are none. 
What intenseness of desire 
In her \ipward eye of fire ! 
With a tiger-leap half-way 
Now she meets the coming prey, 
Lets it go as fast, and then 
Has it in her power again: 
; Now she works with three or four, 
Like an Indian conjurer; 30 

Quick as he in feats of art, 
Far beyond in joy of heart. 
Were her antics played in the eye 
Of a thousand standers-by, 
Clapping hands with shout and stare, 
What would little Tabby care 
For the plaudits of the crowd ? 



Over happy to be proud, 

Over wealthy in the treasure 

Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 40 

T is a pretty baby-treat; 
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; 
Here, for neither Babe nor me, 
Other play-mate can I see. 
Of the countless living things, 
That with stir of feet and wings 
(In the sun or under shade, 
Upon bough or grassy blade) 
And with busy revellings, 
Chirp and song, and miumnirings, 50 

Made this orchard's narrow space, 
And this vale so blithe a place ; 
Multitudes are swept away 
Never more to breathe the day: 
Some are sleeping; some in bands 
Travelled into distant lands; 
Others slunk to moor and wood, 
Far from human neighbourhood; 
And, among the Kinds that keep 
With us closer fellowship, 60 

With us openly abide, 
All have laid their mirth aside. 

Where is he that giddy Sprite, 
Blue-cap, with his colours bright, 
Who was blest as bird could be, 
Feeding in the apple-tree; 
Made such wanton spoil and rout, 
Turning blossoms inside out; 
Hung— head pointing towards the ground — 
Fluttered, perched, into a round 70 

Bound himself, and then unbound; 
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ! 
Prettiest Tumbler ever seen ! 
Light of heart and light of limb; 
What is now become of Him ? 
Lambs, that through the mountains went 
Frisking, bleating merriment, 
When the year was in its prime, 
They are sobered by this time. 
If you look to vale or hill, 80 

If you listen, all is still, 
Save a little neighbouring rill, 
That from out the rocky ground 
Strikes a solitary sound. 
Vainly glitter hill and plain, 
And the air is calm in vain; 
Vainly Morning spreads the lure 
Of a sky serene and pure; 
Creature none can she decoy 
Into open sign of joy: 90 

Is it that they have a fear 
Of the dreary season near ? 



TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND 



3i7 



Or that other pleasures be 
Sweeter even than gaiety ? 

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell 
In the impenetrable cell 
Of the silent heart which Nature 
Furnishes to every creature ; 
Whatsoe'er we feel and know 
Too sedate for outward show, 
Such a light of gladness breaks, 
Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks, — 
Spreads with such a living grace 
O'er my little Dora's face; 
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, 
That almost I could repine 
That your transports are not mine, 
That I do not wholly fare 
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair ! 
And I will have my careless season 
Spite of melancholy reason, 
Will walk through life in such a way 
That, when time brings on decay, 
Now and then I may possess 
Hours of perfect gladsomeness. 
— Pleased by any random toy; 
By a kitten's busy joy, 
Or an infant's laughing eye 
Sharing in the ecstasy; 
I would fare like that or this, 
Find my wisdom in my bliss; 
Keep the sprightly soul awake, 
And have faculties to take, 
Even from things by sorrow wrought, 
Matter for a jocund thought, 
Spite of care, and spite of grief, 
To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. 



TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND 

(AN AGRICULTURIST) 

COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING 
TOGETHER IN HIS PLEASURE-GROUND 

1804. 1807 

This person was Thomas Wilkinson, a quaker 
by religious profession ; by natural constitution 
of mind, or shall I venture to say, by God's 
grace, he was something' better. He had in- 
herited a small estate, and built a house upon 
it near Yanwath, upon the banks of the Emont. 
1 have heard him say that his heart used to 
1 beat, in his boyhood, when he heard the sound 
of a drum and fife. Nevertheless, the spirit of 
enterprise in him confined itself to tilling- his 



ground, and conquering 1 such obstacles as stood 
in the way of its fertility. Persons of his reli- 
gious persuasion do now, in a far greater degree 
than formerly, attach themselves to trade and 
commerce. He kept the old track. As repre- 
sented in this poem, he employed his leisure 
hours in shaping pleasant walks by the side of 
his beloved river, where he also built some- 
thing between a hermitage and a summer- 
house, attaching to it inscriptions after the 
manner of Shenstone at his Leasowes. He used 
to travel from time to time, partly from love of 
nature, and partly with religious friends in the 
service of humanity. His admiration of genius 
in every department did him much honour. 
Through his connection with the family in 
which Edmund Burke was educated, he be- 
came acquainted with that great man, who 
used to receive him with great kindness and 
consideration; and many times have I heard 
Wilkinson speak of those interesting interviews. 
He was honoured also by the friendship of 
Elizabeth Smith, and of Thomas Clarkson and 
his excellent wife, and was much esteemed by 
Lord and Lady Lonsdale, and every member 
of that family. Among his verses (he wrote 
many) are some worthy of preservation — one 
little poem in particular upon disturbing, by 
prying curiosity, a bird while hatching her 
young in his garden. The latter part of this 
innocent and good man's life was melancholy. 
He became blind, and also poor by becoming 
surety for some of his relations. He was a 
bachelor. He bore, as I have often witnessed, 
his calamities with unfailing resignation. I will 
only add that, while working in one of his 
fields, he unearthed a stone of considerable 
size, then another, then two more, and, observ- 
ing that they had been placed in order as if 
forming the segment of a circle, he proceeded 
carefully to uncover the soil, and brought into 
view a beautiful Druid's temple of perfect 
though small dimensions. In order to make 
his farm more compact, he exchanged this 
field for another ; and, I am sorry to add, the 
new proprietor destroyed this interesting relic 
of remote ages for some vulgar purpose. 

Spade ! with which Wilkinson hath tilled 

his lands, 
And shaped these pleasant walks by 

Emont's side, 
Thou art a tool of honour in my hands; 
I press thee through the yielding soil, with 

pride. 

Rare master has it been thy lot to know ; 
Long hast Thou served a man to reason 
true; 



3 i8 



THE SMALL CELANDINE 



Whose life combines the best of high and 

low, 
The labouring many and the resting few; 

Health, meekness, ardour, quietness se- 
cure, 
And industry of body and of mind; 10 

And elegant enjoyments, that are pure 
As nature is; too pure to be refined. 

Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing 
In concord with his river murmuring by; 
Or in some silent field, while timid spring 
Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy. 

Who shall inherit Thee when death has 

laid 
Low in the darksome cell thine own dear 

lord ? 
That man will have a trophy, humble 

Spade ! i 9 

A trophy nobler than a conqueror's sword. 

If he be one that feels, with skill to part 
False praise from true, or, greater from 

the less, 
Thee will he welcome to his hand and 

heart, 
Thou monument of peaceful happiness ! 

He will not dread with Thee a toilsome 

day — 
Thee his loved servant, his inspiring mate ! 
And, when thou art past service, worn 

away, 
No dull oblivious nook shall hide thy fate. 

His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn; 
An heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou 

be : — 30 

High will he hang thee up, well pleased to 

adorn 
His rustic chimney with the last of Thee ! 



THE SMALL CELANDINE 

1804. 1S07 

There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, 
That shrinks, like many more, from cold 

and rain; 
And, the first moment that the sun may 

shine, 
Bright as the sun himself, 't is out again ! 



When hailstones have been falling, swarm 

on swarm, 
Or blasts the green field and the trees 

distrest, 
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm, 
In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest. 

But lately, one rough day, this Flower I 

passed 
And recognised it, though an altered form, 
Now standing forth an offering to the blast, 
And buffeted at will by rain and storm. 

I stopped, and said with inly- muttered 

voice, 
" It doth not love the shower, nor seek the 

cold : 
This neither is its courage nor its choice, 
But its necessity hi being old. 

" The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the 

dew ; 
It cannot help itself in its decay; 
Stiff in its members, withered, changed of 

hue." 
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was 

grey. 

To be a Prodigal's Favourite — then, worse 

truth, 
A Miser's Pensioner — behold our lot ! 
O Man, that from thy fair and shining 

youth 
Age might but take the things Youth 

needed not ! 



AT APPLETHWAITE, NEAR 
KESWICK 

1804. 1842 

This place was presented to me by Sir 
George Beaumont with a view to the erection 
of a house upon it, for the sake of being near 
to Coleridge, then living, and likely to remain, 
at Greta Hall near Keswick. The severe neces- 
sities that prevented this arose from his do- 
mestic situation. This little property, with a 
considerable addition that still leaves it very 
small, lies beautifully upon the banks of a rill 
that gurgles down the side of Skiddaw, and the 
orchard and other parts of the grounds com- 
mand a magnificent prospect of Derwent 
Water, and of the mountains of Borrowdale and 
Newlands. Many years ago I gave the place 
to my daughter. 



ODE TO DUTY 



3 r 9 



Beaumont ! it was thy wish that I should 

rear 
A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell, 
On favoured ground, thy gift, where I 

might dwell 
In neighbourhood with One to me most 

dear, 
That undivided we from year to year 
Might work in our high Calling — a bright 

hope 
To which our fancies, mingling, gave free 

scope 
Till checked by some necessities severe. 
And should these slacken, honoured Beau- 
mont ! still 
Even then we may perhaps in vain implore 
Leave of our fate thy wishes to fulfil. 
Whether this boon be granted us or not, 
Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot 
With pride, the Muses love it evermore. 



TO THE SUPREME BEING 

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO 
1S04. 1807 

Tee prayers I make will then be sweet 

indeed 
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray: 
My unassisted heart is barren clay, 
That of its native self can nothing feed: 
Of good and pious works thou art the seed, 
That quickens only where thou say'st it 

may: , 

Unless Thou show to us thine own true way 
No man can find it: Father ! Thou must 

lead. 
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts 

into my mind 
By which such virtue may in me be bred 
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread; 
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, 
That I may have the power to sing of thee, 
And sound thy praises everlastingly. 



ODE TO DUTY 
1805. 1807 

This ode is on the model of Gray's Ode to 
Adversity, which is copied from Horace's Ode 
to Fortune. Many and many a time have I 
been twitted by my wife and sister for having 1 
forgotten this dedication of myself to the stern 
lawgiver. Transgressor indeed I have been, 



from hour to hour, from day to day : I would 
fain hope, however, not more flagrantly or in a 
worse way than most of my tuneful brethren. 
But these last words are in a wrong strain. We 
should be rigorous to ourselves and forbearing, 
if not indulgent, to others, and, if we make 
comparisons at all, it ought to be with those 
who have morally excelled us. 

" Jam non consilio bonus, sed more e6 per- 
ductus, tit non tantum recte facere possim, sed 
nisi recte facere non possim." 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 

Duty ! if that name thou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 
To check the erring, and reprove; 
Thou, who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe; 
From vain temptations dost set free; 

And calm'st the weary strife of frail hu- 
manity ! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them; who, in love and truth, 10 

Where no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth: 
Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot 
Who do thy work, and know it not: 
Oh ! if through confidence misplaced 
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! 
around them cast. 

Serene will be our days and bright, 
And happy will our nature be, 
When love is an unerring light, 
And joy its own security. 20 

And they a blissful course may hold 
Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
Live in the spirit of this creed; 
Yet seek thy firm support, according to 
their need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried; 
No sport of every random gust, 
Yet being to myself a guide, 
Too blindly have reposed my trust: 
And oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferred 30 

The task, in smoother walks to stray; 
But thee I now would serve more strictly, 
if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul, 
Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

1 supplicate for thy control; 
But in the quietness of thought: 



320 



TO A SKY-LARK 



Me this unchartered freedom tires; 

I feel the weight of chance-desires: 

My hopes no more must change their name, 

I long for a repose that ever is the same. 4 o 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face: 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
And fragrance in thy footing treads; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; 
And the most ancient heavens, through 
Thee, are fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power ! 
I call thee: I myself commend 50 

Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
The spirit of self-sacrifice; 
The confidence of reason give; 
And hi the light of truth thy Bondman let 
me live ! 

TO A SKY-LARK 

1805. 1807 

Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 

For thy song, Lark, is strong; 
Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! 

Singing, singing, 
With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 

Lift me, guide me till I find 
That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 

I have walked through wildernesses dreary 

And to-day my heart is weary; 

Had I now the wings of a Faery, 10 

Up to thee would I fly. 

There is madness about thee, and joy divine 

In that song of thine ; 

Lift me, guide me high and high 

To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 

Joyous as morning 
Thou art laughing and scorning; 
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
And, though little troubled with sloth, 
Drtmken Lark ! thou would'st be loth 20 
To be such a traveller as I. 
Happy, happy Liver, 

With a soul as strong as a mountain river 

Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 

Joy and jollity be with us both ! 



Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven, 
Tlirough prickly moors or dusty ways must 

wind ; 
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, 
As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 
I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 30 
And hope for higher raptures, when life's 

day is done. 



FIDELITY 

1805. 1807 

The young' man -whose death gave occasion 
to this poem was named Charles Gough, and 
had come early in the spring' to Paterdale for 
the sake of angling. While attempting to 
cross over Helvellyn to Grasmere he slipped 
from a steep part of the rock where the ice 
was not thawed, and perished. His hody was 
discovered as is told in this poem. Walter 
Scott heard of the accident, and both he and 
I, without either of us knowing that the other 
had taken up the subject, each wrote a poem 
in admiration of the dog's fidelity. His con- 
tains a most beautiful stanza : — 

" How long didst thou think that his silence was slum- 
ber, 

When the wind waved his garment how oft didst thou 
start." 

I will add that the sentiment in the last four 
lines of the last stanza in my verses was uttered 
by a shepherd with such exactness, that a 
traveller, who afterwards reported his account 
in print, was induced to question the man 
whether he had read them, which he had not. 

A barking sound the Shepherd hears, 
A cry as of a dog or fox; 
He halts — and searches with his eyes 
Among the scattered rocks: 
And now at distance can discern 
A stirring in a brake of fern; 
And instantly a dog is seen, 
Glancing through that covert green. 

The Dog is not of mountain breed; 

Its motions, too, are wild and shy; 10 

With something, as the Shepherd thinks, 

Unusual in its cry: 

Nor is there any one in sight 

All round, in hollow or on height; 

Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; 

What is the creature doing here ? 

It was a cove, a huge recess, 

That keeps, till June, December's snow; 



INCIDENT 



321 



A lofty precipice in front, 

A silent tarn below ! 30 

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 

Remote from public road or dwelling, 

Pathway, or cultivated land; 

From trace of human foot or hand. 

There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; 
The crags repeat the raven's croak, 
In symphony austere; 
Thither the rainbow comes — the cloud — 
And mists that spread the flying shroud; 30 
And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, 
That, if it could, would hurry past; 
But that enormous barrier holds it fast. 

Not free from boding thoughts, a while 

The Shepherd stood; then makes his way 

O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog 

As quickly as he may; 

Nor far had gone before he found 

A human skeleton on the ground; 

The appalled Discoverer with a sigh 40 

Looks round, to learn the history. 

From those abrupt and perilous rocks 

The Man had fallen, that place of fear ! 

At length upon the Shepherd's mind 

It breaks, and all is clear: 

He instantly recalled the name, 

And who he was, and whence he came; 

Remembered, too, the very day 

On which the Traveller passed this way. 

But hear a wonder, for whose sake 50 

This lamentable tale I tell ! 

A lasting monument of words 

This wonder merits well. 

The Dog which still was hovering nigh, 

Repeating the same timid cry, 

This Dog had been through three months' 

space 
A dweller in that savage place. 

Yes, proof was plain that, since the day 

When this ill-fated Traveller died, 

The Dog had watched about the spot, 60 

Or by his master's side: 

How nourished here through such long 

time 
He knows, who gave that love sublime; 
And gave that strength of feeling, great 
Above all human estimate ! 



INCIDENT 

CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVOURITE DOG 

1805. 1807 

This Dog I knew well. It belonged to Mrs. 
Wordsworth's brother, Mr. Thomas Hutchin- 
son, who then lived at Sockburn on the Tees, a 
beautiful retired situation where I used to visit 
him and his sisters before my marriage. My 
sister and I spent many months there after our 
return from Germany in 179'J. 

On his morning rounds the Master 
Goes to learn how all things fare; 
Searches pasture after pasture, 
Sheep and cattle eyes with care; 
And, for silence or for talk, 
He hath comrades in his walk ; 
Four dogs, each pair a different breed, 
Distinguished two for scent, and two for 
speed. 

See a hare before him started ! 

— Off they fly hi earnest chase; 10 

Every dog is eager-hearted, 

All the four are in the race: 

And the hare whom they pursue, 

Knows from instinct what to do; 

Her hope is near: no turn she makes; 

But, like an arrow, to the river takes. 

Deep the river was, and crusted 
Thinly by a one night's frost; 
But the nimble Hare hath trusted 
To the ice, and safely crost; 20 

She hath crost, and without heed 
All are following at full speed, 
When, lo ! the ice, so thinly spread, 
Breaks — and the greyhound, Dart, is over- 
head ! 

Better fate have Prince and Swallow — 
See them cleaving to the sport ! 
Music has no heart to follow, 
Little Music, she stops short. 
She hath neither wish nor heart, 
Hers is now another part: 3° 

A loving creature she, and brave ! 
And fondly strives her struggling friend to 
save. 

From the brink her paws she stretches, 
Very hands as 3011 would say ! 
And afflicting moans she fetches, 
As he breaks the ice away. 



TRIBUTE 



For herself she hath no fears, — 
Him alone she sees and hears, — 
Makes efforts with 'complainings ; nor gives 
o'er 39 

Until her fellow sinks to re-appear no more. 



TRIBUTE 

TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG 

1805. 1807 

Lie here, without a record of thy worth, 
Beneath a covering of the common earth ! 
It is not from unwillingness to praise, 
Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise ; 
More thou deserv'st; hut this man gives to 

man, 
Brother to brother, this is all we can. 
Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee 

dear 
Shall find thee through all changes of the 

year: 
This Oak points out thy grave; the silent 

tree 
Will gladly stand a monument of thee. 10 
We grieved for thee, and wished thy end 

were past; 
And willingly have laid thee here at last: 
For thou hadst lived till everything that 

cheers 
In thee had yielded to the weight of years; 
Extreme old age had wasted thee away, 
And left thee but a glimmering of the day : 
Thy ears were deaf, and feeble were thy 

knees, — 
I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze, 
Too weak to stand against its sportive 

breath, 
And ready for the gentlest stroke of death. 
It came, and we were glad; yet tears were 

shed ; 2 1 

Both man and woman wept when thou wert 

dead; 
Not only for a thousand thoughts that were, 
Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst 

thy share; 
But for some precious boons vouchsafed to 

thee, 
Found scarcely anywhere in like degree ! 
For love, that comes wherever life and sense 
Are given by God, in thee was most intense ; 
A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind, 
A tender sympathy, which did thee bind 30 
Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind: 



Yea, for thy fellow-brutes in thee we saw 
A soul of love, love's intellectual law: — 
Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame ; 
Our tears from passion and from reason 

came, """^ 

And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured 

name ! 



"WHEN TO THE ATTRACTIONS 
OF THE BUSY WORLD" 

1805. 1815 

The grove still exists, but the plantation has 
been walled in, and is not so accessible as when 
my brother John wore the path in the manner 
here described. The grove was a favourite 
haunt with us all while we lived at Town-end. 

When, to the attractions of the busy world, 
Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen 
A habitation hi this peaceful Vale, 
Sharp season followed of continual storm 
In deepest whiter ; and, from week to week, 
Pathway, and lane, and public road, were 

clogged 
With frequent showers of snow. Upon a 

hill 
At a short distance from my cottage, stands 
A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont 
To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof. 10 
Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place 
Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor. 
Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, 
And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth, 
The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I 

loth 
To sympathise with vulgar coppice birds 
That, for protection from the nipping blast, 
Hither repaired. — A single beech-tree grew 
Within this grove of firs ! and, on the fork 
Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's 

nest ; 20 

A last year's nest, conspicuously built 
At such small elevation from the ground 
As gave sure sign that they, who in that 

house 
Of nature and of love had made their home 
Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long 
Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes, 
A few sheep, stragglers from some moun- 
tain-flock, 
Would watch my motions with suspicious 

stare, 
From the remotest outskirts of the grove, — 



"WHEN TO THE ATTRACTIONS OF THE BUSY WORLD" 323 



Some, nook where they had made their final 

stand, 30 

Huddling together from two fears — the 

fear 
Of me and of the storm. Full many an 

hour 
Here did I lose. But in this grove the 

trees 
Had been so thickly planted, and had 

thriven 
In such perplexed and intricate array ; 
That vainly did I seek, beneath their stems 
A length of open space, where to and fro 
My feet might move without concern or 

care; 
And, baffled thus, though earth from day 

to day 
Was fettered, and the air by storm dis- 
turbed, 40 
I ceased the shelter to frequent, — and 

prized, 
Less than I wished to prize, that calm 

recess. 
The snows dissolved, and genial Spring 

returned 
To clothe the fields with verdure. Other 

haunts 
Meanwhile were mine ; till, one bright 

April day, 
By chance retiring from the glare of noon 
To this forsaken covert, there I found 
A hoary pathway traced between the trees, 
And winding on with such an easy line 
Along a natural opening, that I stood 50 
Much wondering how I could have sought 

in vain 
For what was now so obvious. To abide, 
For an allotted interval of ease, 
Under my cottage-roof, had gladly come 
From the wild sea a cherished Visitant ; 
And with the sight of this same path — 

begun, 
Begun and ended, in the shady grove, 
Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind 
That, to this opportune recess allured, 
He had surveyed it with a finer eye, 60 

A heart more wakeful ; and had worn the 

track 
By pacing here, unwearied and alone, 
In that habitual restlessness of foot 
That haunts the Sailor measuring o'er and 

o'er 
His short domain upon the vessel's deck, 
While she pursues her course through the 

dreary sea. 



When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's 

pleasant shore, 
And taken thy first leave of those green 

hills 
And rocks that were the play-ground of thy 

youth, 
Year followed year, my Brother ! and we 

tWO, 70 

Conversing not, knew little in what mould 
Each other's mind was fashioned; and at 

length, 
When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, 
Between us there was little other bond 
Than common feelings of fraternal love. 
But thou, a Schoolboy, to the sea hadst 

carried 
Undying recollections ! Nature there 
Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she 

still 
Was with thee; and even so didst thou 

become 
A silent Poet; from the solitude 80 

Of the vast sea didst bring a -watchful 

heart 
Still couchant, an inevitable ear, 
Aud an eye practised like a blind man's 

touch. 
— Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone; 
Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours 
Could I withhold thy honoured name, — ■ 

and now 
I love the fir-grove with a perfect love. 
Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suna 
Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and 

strong; 
And there I sit at evening, when the steep 
Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful 

lake, 91 

And one green island, gleam between the 

stems 
Of the dark firs, a visionary scene ! 
And, while I gaze upon the spectacle 
Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like 

sight 
Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee, 
My Brother, and on all which thou hast 

lost. 
Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou, 
Muttering the verses which I muttered first 
Among the mountains, through the mid- 
night watch 100 
Art pacing thoughtfully the vessel's deck 
In some far region, here, while o'er my 

head, 
At every impulse of the moving breeze, 



3 2 4 



ELEGIAC VERSES 



The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like 

sound, 
Alone I tread this path ; — for aught I 

know, 
Timing my steps to thine; and, with a 

store 
Of undistinguishable sympathies, 
Mingling most earnest wishes for the day 
When we, and others whom we love, shall 

meet 
A second time, in Grasrnere's happy Vale. 1 10 



ELEGIAC VERSES 

IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, JOHN 
WORDSWORTH, 

COMMANDER OF THE E. I. COMPANY'S SHIP THE 
EARL OF ABERGAVENNY, IN WHICH HE PER- 
ISHED BY CALAMITOUS SHIPWRECK, FEB. 6, 
1S05 

I805. I845 

Composed near the Mountain track that 
leads from Grasmere through Grisdale Hawes, 
where it descends towards Paterdale. 
" Here did we stop ; and here looked round, 
While each into himself descends." 

The point is two or three yards below the 
outlet of Grisdale tarn, on a foot-road hy 
which a horse may pass to Paterdale — a ridge 
of Helvellyn on the left, and the summit of 
Fairfield on the right. 



The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo ! 
That instant, startled by the shock, 
The Buzzard mounted from the rock 
Deliberate and slow: 
Lord of the air, he took his flight; 
Oh ! could he on that woeful night 
Have lent his wing, my Brother dear, 
For one poor moment's space to Thee, 
And all who struggled with the Sea, 
When safety was so near. 



Thus in the weakness of my heart 

I spoke (but let that pang be still) 

When rising from the rock at will, 

I saw the Bird depart. 

And let me calmly bless the Power 

That meets me in this unknown Flower. 

Affecting type of him I mourn ! 

With calmness suffer and believe, 

And grieve, and know that I must grieve, 

Not cheerless, though forlorn. j< 



in 

Here did we stop; and here looked round 

While each into himself descends, 

For that last thought of parting Friends 

That is not to be found. 

Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight, 

Our home and his, his heart's delight, 

His quiet heart's selected home. 

But time before him melts away, 

And he hath feeling of a day 

Of blessedness to come. 3 o 

IV 

Full soon in sorrow did I weep, 

Taught that the mutual hope was dust, 

In sorrow, but for higher trust, 

How miserably deep ! 

All vanished hi a single word, 

A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard: 

Sea — Ship — drowned — Shipwreck — so 

it came, 
The meek, the brave, the good, was gone ; 
He who had been our living John 
Was nothing but a name. 4 o 



That was indeed a parting ! oh, 

Glad am I, glad that it is past; 

For there were some on whom it cast 

Unutterable woe. 

But they as well as I have gains ; — 

From many a humble source, to pains 

Like these, there comes a mild release; 

Even here I feel it, even this Plant 

Is in its beauty ministrant 

To comfort and to peace. 



He would have loved thy modest grace, 

Meek Flower ! To Him I would have said, 

" It grows upon its native bed 

Beside our Parting-place; 

There, cleaving to the ground, it lies 

With multitude of purple eyes, 

Spangling a cushion green like moss ; 

But we will see it, joyful tide ! 

Some day, to see it in its pride, 

The mountain will we cross." 60 



— Brother and Friend, if verse of mine 
Have power to make thy virtues known, 
Here let a monumental Stone 
Stand — sacred as a Shrine ; 



ELEGIAC STANZAS 



3 2 5 



And to the few who pass this way, 

Traveller or Shepherd, let it say, 

Long as these mighty rocks endure, - 

Oh do not Thou too fondly brood, 

Although deserving of all good, 

On any earthly hope, however pure ! 70 

TO THE DAISY 

1805. 1S15 

Sweet Flower ! belike one day to have 

A place upon thy Poet's grave, 

I welcome thee once more; 

But He, who was on land, at sea, 

My Brother, too, in loving thee, 

Although he loved more silently, 

Sleeps by his native shore. 

Ah ! hopeful, hopeful was the day 

When to that Ship he bent his way, 

To govern and to guide: 10 

His wish was gained: a little time 

Would bring him back in manhood's prime 

And free for life, these hills to climb; 

With all his wants supplied. 

And full of hope day followed day 

While that stout Ship at anchor lay 

Beside the shores of Wight; 

The May had then made all things green; 

And, floating there, in pomp serene, 

That Ship was goodly to be seen, 20 

His pride and his delight ! 

Yet then, when called ashore, he sought 
The tender peace of rural thought: 
In more than happy mood 
To your abodes, bright daisy Flowers ! 
He then would steal at leisure hours, 
And loved you glittering hi your bowers 
A starry multitude. 

But hark the word ! — the ship is gone ; — 

Returns from her long course: — anon 30 

Sets sail : — in season due, 

Once more on English earth they stand: 

But, when a third time from the laud 

They parted, sorrow was at hand 

For Him and for his crew. 

Ill-fated Vessel ! — ghastly shock ! 

— At length delivered from the rock, 

The deep she hath regained; 

And through the stormy night they steer; 

Labouring for life, in hope and fear, 40 



To reach a safer shore — how near, 
Yet not to be attained ! 

" Silence ! " the brave Commander cried: 
To that calm word a shriek replied, 
It was the last death-shriek. 
— A few (my soul oft sees that sight) 
Survive upon the tall mast's height; 
But one dear remnant of the night — 
For Him hi vain I seek. 

Six weeks beneath the moving sea 5c 

He lay hi slumber quietly; 

Unforced by wind or wave 

To quit the Ship for which he died, 

(All claims of duty satisfied;) 

And there they found him at her side; 

And bore him to the grave. 

Vain service ! yet not vainly done 

For this, if other end were none, 

That He, who had been cast 

Upon a way of life unmeet 60 

For such a gentle Soul and sweet, 

Should find an undisturbed retreat 

Near what he loved, at last — 

That neighbourhood of grove and field 

To Him a resting-place should yield, 

A meek man and a brave ! 

The birds shall sing and ocean make 

A mournful murmur for his sake; 

And Thou, sweet Flower, shalt sleep and 

wake 
Upon his senseless grave. 70 

ELEGIAC STANZAS 

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE 
CASTLE, IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR 
GEORGE BEAUMONT 

1805. 1807 

Sir George Beaumont painted two pictures 
of this subject, one of which he gave to Mrs. 
Wordsworth, saying she ought to have it ; 
but Lady Beaumont interfered, and after Sir 
George's death she gave it to Sir Uvedale 
Price, in whose house at Foxley I have seen it. 

I WAS thy neighbour once, thou rugged 

Pile! 
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of 

thee: 
I saw thee every day; and all the while 
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 



326 



LOUISA 



So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 
So like, so very like, was day to day ! 
Wheue'er I looked, thy linage still was 

there ; 
It trembled, but it never passed away. 

How perfect was the calni ! it seemed no 

sleep; 
No mood, which season takes away, or 

brings : 10 

I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. 

Ah ! then, if mine had been the Painter's 

hand, 
To express what then I saw; and add the 

gleam, 
-The light that never was, on sea or land, 
The consecration, and the Poet's dream ; 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary 

Pile 
Amid a world how different from this ! 
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; 
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 20 

Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure- 
house divine 
Of peaceful years ; a chronicle of heaven ; — 
Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine 
The very sweetest had to thee been given. 

A Picture had it been of lasting ease, 
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; 
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, 
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, 
Such Picture would I at that time have 
made: 30 

And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
A stedfast peace that might not be betrayed. 

So once it would have been, — 't is so no 
more; 

I have submitted to a new control: 

A power is gone, which nothing can re- 
store ; 

A deep distress hath humanised my Soul. 

Not for a moment could I now behold 
A smiling sea, and be what I have been: 
The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old; 
This, which I know, I speak with mind 
serene. 40 



Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have 
been the Friend, 

If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, 

This work of thine I blame not, but com- 
mend; 

This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

't is a passionate Work ! — yet wise and 

well, 
Well chosen is the spirit that is here; 
That Hulk which labours in the deadly 

swell, 
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 

And this huge Castle, standing here sub- 
lime, 49 

1 love to see the look with which it braves, 
-Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time, 

The lightning, the fierce wind, and tram- 
pling waves. 

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives 

alone, 
.Housed in a dream, at distance from the 

Kind ! 
Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind. 

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, 
And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! 
Such sights, or worse, as are before me 
_ here. — 59 

Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 



LOUISA 

AFTER ACCOMPANYING HER ON A 
MOUNTAIN EXCURSION 

1805. 1807 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. 

I met Louisa in the shade, 

And, having seen that lovely Maid, 

Why should I fear to say 

That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong, 

And down the rocks can leap along 

Like rivulets in May ? 

She loves her fire, her cottage-home; 
Yet o'er the moorland will she roam 
In weather rough and bleak; 
And, when against the wind she strains, 
Oh ! might I kiss the mountain rains 
That sparkle on her cheek. 



VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA 



327 



Take all that 's mine " beneath the moon," 

If I with her but half a noon 

May sit beneath the walls 

Of some old cave, or mossy nook, 

When up she winds along the brook 

To hunt the waterfalls. 



TO A YOUNG LADY 

WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAK- 
ING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY 

1805. 1807 

Composed at the same time and on the same 
view as " I met Louisa in the shade " : indeed 
they were designed to make one piece. 

Dear Child of Nature, let them rail ! 

— There is a nest in a green dale, 

A harbour and a hold; 

Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see 

Thy own heart-stirring days, and be 

A light to young and old. 

There, healthy as a shepherd boy, 

And treading among iiowers of joy 

Which at no season fade, 

Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 

Shalt show us how divine a thing 

A Woman may be made. 

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, 

Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh, 

A melancholy slave; 

But an old age serene and bright, 

And lovely as a Lapland night, 

Shall lead thee to thy grave. 



VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA 

1805. 1820 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Faithfully 
narrated, though with the omission of many 
pathetic circumstances, from the mouth of a 
French lady, who had been an eye-and-ear-wit- 
ness of all that was done and said. Many long- 
years after, I was told that Dupligne was then 
a monk in the Convent of La Trappe. 

The following tale was written as an Episode, 
in a work from which its length may perhaps 
exclude it. The facts are true ; no invention 
as to these has been exercised, as none was 
needed. 



O happy time of youthful lovers (thus 
My story may begin) O balmy time, 
In which a love-knot on a lady's brow 
Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven ! 
To such inheritance of blessed fancy 
(Fancy that sports more desperately with 

minds 
Than ever fortune hath been known to do) 
The high-born Vaudracour was brought, 

by years 
Whose progress had a little overstepjjed 
His stripling prime. A town of small re- 
pute, 10 
Among the vine-clad mountains of Au- 

vergne, 
Was the Youth's birth-place. There he 

wooed a Maid 
Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit 
With answering vows. Plebeian was the 

stock, 
Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock, 
From which her graces and her honours 

sprung: 
And hence the father of the enamoured 

Youth, 
With haughty indignation, spurned the 

thought 
Of such alliance. — From their cradles up, 
With but a step between their several 

homes, 20 

Twins had they been in pleasure; after 

strife 
And petty quarrels, had grown fond again; 
Each other's advocate, each other's stay; 
And, in their happiest moments, not con- 
tent, 
If more divided than a sportive pair 
Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are 

hovering 
Within the eddy of a common blast, 
Or hidden only by the concave depth 
Of neighbouring billows from each other's 

sight. 2g 

Thus, not withoxit concurrence of an age 
Unknown to memory, was an earnest given 
By ready nature for a life of love, 
For endless constancy, and placid truth; 
But whatsoe'er of such rare treasure lay 
Reserved, had fate permitted, for support 
Of their maturer years, his present mind 
Was under fascination ; — he beheld 
A vision, and adored the thing he saw. 
Arabian fiction never filled the world 
With half the wonders that were wrought 
for him. 40 



328 



VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA 



Earth breathed in one great presence of the 

spring; 
Life turned the meanest of her implements, 
Before his eyes, to price above all gold; 
The house she dwelt hi was a sainted 

shrine ; 
Her chamber-window did surpass in glory 
The portals of the dawn; all paradise 
Could, by the simple opening of a door, 
Let itself in upon him : — pathways, walks, 
Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit 

sank, 
Surcharged, within him, overblest to move 
Beneath a sim that wakes a weary world 51 
To its dull round of ordinary cares; 
A man too happy for mortality ! 

So passed the time, till whether through 

effect 
Of some unguarded moment that dissolved 
Virtuous restraint — ah, speak it, think it, 

not! 
Deem rather that the fervent Youth, who 

saw 
So many bars between his present state 
And the dear haven where he wished to be 
In honourable wedlock with his Love, 60 
Was in his judgment tempted to decline 
To perilous weakness, and entrust his cause 
To nature for a happy end of all ; 
Deem that by such fond hope the Youth 

was swayed, 
And bear with their transgression, when I 

add 
That Julia, wanting yet the name of wife, 
Carried about her for a secret grief 
The promise of a mother. 

To conceal 
The threatened shame, the parents of the 

Maid 
Found means to hurry her away by night, 
And unforewarned, that in some distant 

spot 71 

She might remain shrouded in privacy, 
Until the babe was born. When morning 

came 
The Lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss, 
And all uncertain whither he should turn, 
Chafed like a wild beast in the toils; but 

soon 
Discovering traces of the fugitives, 
Their steps he followed to the Maid's re- 
treat. 
Easily may the sequel be divined — 
Walks to and fro — watchings at every 

hour; 80 



And the fair Captive, who, whene'er she 

may, 
Is busy at her casement as the swallow 
Fluttering its pinions, almost within reach, 
About the pendent nest, did thus espy 
Her Lover ! — thence a stolen interview, 
Accomplished under friendly shade of 
night. 
I pass the raptures of the pair; — such 
theme 
Is, by innumerable poets, touched 
In more delightful verse than skill of mine 
Could fashion; chiefly by that darling bard 
Who told of Juliet and her Romeo, 91 

And of the lark's note heard before its 

time, 
And of the streaks that laced the severing 

clouds 
In the unrelenting east. — Through all her 

courts 
The vacant city slept; the busy winds, 
That keep no certain intervals of rest, 
Moved not; meanwhile the galaxy dis- 
played 
Her fires, that like mysterious pulses beat 
Aloft ; — momentous but uneasy bliss ! 
To their full hearts the universe seemed 
hung 100 

On that brief meeting's slender filament ! 
They parted; and the generous Vaudra- 
cour 
Reached speedily the native threshold, bent 
On making (so the Lovers had agreed) 
A sacrifice of birthright to attain 
A final portion from his father's hand; 
Which granted, Bride and Bridegroom then 

would flee 
To some remote and solitary place, 
Shady as night, and beautiful as heaven, 
Where they may live, with no one to be- 
hold 1 10 
Their happiness, or to disturb their love. 
But now of this no whisper; not the less, 
If ever an obtrusive word were dropped 
Touching the matter of his passion, still, 
In his stern father's hearing, Vaudracour 
Persisted openly that death alone 
Should abrogate his human privilege 
Divine, of swearing everlasting truth, 
Upon the altar, to the Maid he loved. 
" You shall be baffled in your mad in- 
tent 120 
If there be justice in the court of France," 
Muttered the Father. — From these words 
the Youth 



VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA 



3 2 9 



Conceived a terror; and, by night or day, 
Stirred nowhere without weapons, that full 

soon 
Found dreadful provocation: for at night 
When to his chamber he retired, attempt 
Was made to seize him by three armed 

men, 
Acting, in furtherance of the father's will, 
Under a private signet of the State. 
One the rash Youth's ungovernable hand 
Slew, and as quickly to a second gave 131 
A perilous wound — he shuddered to be- 
hold 
The breathless corse; then peacefully re- 
signed 
His person to the law, was lodged in prison, 
And wore the fetters of a criminal. 

Have you observed a tuft of winged seed 
That, from the dandelion's naked stalk, 
Mounted aloft, is suffered not to use 
Its natural gifts for purposes of rest, 
Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and 
fro 140 

Through the wide element ? or have you 

marked 
The heavier substance of a leaf-clad bough, 
Within the vortex of a foaming flood, 
Tormented ? by such aid you may con- 
ceive 
The perturbation that ensued; — ah, no ! 
Desperate the Maid — the Youth is stained 

with blood; 
Unmatchable on earth is their disquiet ! 
Yet as the troubled seed and tortured 

bough 
Is Man, subjected to despotic sway. 

For him, by private influence with the 
Court, 150 

Was pardon gained, and liberty procured; 
But not without exaction of a pledge, 
Which liberty and love dispersed in air. 
He flew to her from whom they would 

divide him — 
He clove to her who could not give him 

peace — 
Yea, his first word of greeting was, — "All 

right 
Is gone from me ; my lately-towering hopes, 
To the least fibre of their lowest root, 
Are withered; thou no longer canst be 

mine, 
I thine — the conscience-stricken must not 

WOO 160 

The unruffled Innocent, — I see thy face, 
Behold thee, and my misery is complete ! " 



" One, are we not ? " exclaimed the 

Maiden — " One, 
For innocence and youth, for weal and 

woe ? " 
Then with the father's name she coupled 

words 
Of vehement indignation; but the Youth 
Checked her with filial meekness; for no 

thought 
Uncharitable crossed his mind, no sense 
Of hasty anger rising in the eclipse 
Of true domestic loyalty, did e'er 170 

Find place within his bosom. — Once again 
The persevering wedge of tyranny 
Achieved their separation: and once more 
Were they united, — to be yet again 
Disparted, pitiable lot ! But here 
A portion of the tale may well be left 
In silence, though my memory could add 
Much how the Youth, in scanty space of 

time, 
Was traversed from without; much, too, 

of thoughts 
That occupied his days in solitude 180 

Under privation and restraint; and what, 
Through dark and shapeless fear of things 

to come, 
And what, through strong compunction for 

the past, 
He suffered — breaking down in heart and 

mind ! 
Doomed to a third and last captivity, 
His freedom he recovered on the eve 
Of Julia's travail. When the babe was 

born, 
Its presence tempted him to cherish schemes 
Of future happiness. " You shall return, 
Julia," said he, " and to your father's 

house 190 

Go with the child. — You have been 

wretched; yet 
The silver shower, whose reckless burthen 

weighs 
Too heavily upon the lily's head, 
Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root. 
Malice, beholding you, will melt away. 
Go ! — 't is a town where both of us were 

born ; 
None will reproach you, for our truth is 

known ; 
And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our 

fate 
Remain unpitied, pity is not in man. 
With ornaments — the prettiest, nature 

yields 200 



33° 



VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA 



Or art can fashion, shall you deck our hoy, 
And feed his countenance with your own 

sweet looks 
Till no one can resist him. — Now, even 

now, 
I see him sporting on the sunny lawn; 
My father from the window sees him too; 
Startled, as if some new-created thing 
Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods 
Bounded before him ; — but the unweeting 

Child 
Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's 

heart 209 

So that it shall be softened, and our loves 
End happily, as they began ! " 

These gleams 
Appeared but seldom ; of tener was he seen 
Propping a pale and melancholy face 
Upon the Mother's bosom ; resting thus 
His head upon one breast, while from the 

other 
The Babe was drawing in its quiet food. 

— That pillow is no longer to be thine, 
Fond Youth ! that mournful solace now 

must pass 
Into the list of things that cannot be ! 
Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears 220 
The sentence, by her mother's lip pro- 
nounced, 
That dooms her to a convent. — Who shall 

tell, 
Who dares report, the tidings to the lord 
Of her affections ? so they blindly asked 
Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight 
Of agony had pressed the Sufferer down: 
The word, by others dreaded, he can hear 
Composed and silent, without visible sign 
Of even the least emotion. Noting this, ' 
When the impatient object of his love 230 
Upbraided him with slackness, he returned 
No answer, only took the Mother's hand 
And kissed it; seemingly devoid of pain, 
Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed, 
Was a dependant on the obdurate heart 
Of one who came to disunite their lives 
For ever — sad alternative ! preferred, 
By the unbending Parents of the Maid, 
To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed. 

— So be it ! 

In the city he remained 240 
A season after Julia had withdrawn 
To those religious walls. He, too, de- 
parts — 
Who with him ? — even tli£ senseless Lit- 
tle-one. 



With that sole charge he passed the city- 
gates, 
For the last time, attendant by the side 
Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan, 
In which the Babe was carried. * To a hill, 
That rose a brief league distant from the 

town, 
The dwellers in that house where he had 

lodged 
Accompanied his steps, by anxious love 2,0 
Impelled; — they parted from him there, 

and stood 
Watching below till he had disappeared 
On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely took, 
Throughout that journey, from the vehicle 
(Slow-moving ark of all his hopes ! ) that 

veiled 
The tender infant: and, at every inn, 
And under every hospitable tree 
At which the bearers halted or reposed, 
Laid him with timid care upon his knees, 
And looked, as mothers ne'er were known 
to look, 260 

Upon the nursling which his arms em- 
braced. 
This was the manner in which Vaudra- 
cour 
Departed with his infant; and thus reached 
His father's house, where to the innocent 

child 
Admittance was denied. The young man 

spake 
No word of indignation or reproof, 
But of his father begged, a last request, 
That a retreat might be assigned to him 
Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell, 
With such allowance as his wants required ; 
For wishes he had none. To a lodge that 
stood 271 

Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the 

age 
Of four-and-twenty summers he withdrew; 
And thither took with him his motherless 

Babe, 
And one domestic for their common needs, 
An aged woman. It consoled him here 
To attend upon the orphan, and perform 
Obsequious service to the precious child, 
Which, after a short time, by some mis- 
take 
Or indiscretion of the Father, died. — 280 
The Tale I follow to its last recess 
Of suffering or of peace, I know not which: 
Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, 
not mine ! 



THE WAGGONER 



33i 



From this time forth he never shared a 

smile 
With mortal creature. An Inhabitant 
Of that same town, in which the pair had left 
So lively a remembrance of their griefs, 
By chance of business, coming within 

reach 
Of his retirement, to the forest lodge 
Repaired, but only found the matron there, 
Who told him that his pains were thrown 

away, 291 

For that her Master never uttered word 
To living thing — not even to her. — Be- 
hold ! 
While they were speaking, Vaudracour 

approached; 
But, seeing some one near, as on the latch 
Of the garden-gate his hand was laid, he 

shrunk — 
And, like a shadow, glided out of view. 
Shocked at his savage aspect, from the 

place 
The visitor retired. 

Thus lived the Youth 
Cut off from all intelligence with man, 300 
And shunning even the light of common 

day; 
Nor coidd the voice of Freedom, which 

through France 
Fidl speedily resounded, public hope, 
Or personal memory of his own deep 

wrongs, 
Rouse him : but in those solitary shades 
His days he wasted, an imbecile mind ! 



THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT 

BY MY SISTER 

1805. 1815 

Suggested to her while beside my sleeping 
children. 

The days are cold, the nights are long, 
The north-wind sings a doleful song; 
Then hush again upon my breast; 
All merry things are now at rest, 
Save thee, my pretty Love ! 

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, 
The crickets long have ceased their mirtl ; 
There 's nothing stirring in the house 
Save one loee, hungry, nibbling mouse, 
Then why so busy thou ? 



Nay ! start not at that sparkling light; 
'T is but the moon that shines so bright 
On the window pane bedropped with rain: 
Then, little Darling ! sleep again, 
And wake when it is day. 



THE WAGGONER 

1805. 1815 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The char- 
acters and story from fact. 

In Cairo's crowded streets 
The impatient Merchant, wondering, waits in vain, 
And Mecca saddens at the long delay. 

Thomson. 

TO 

CHARLES LAMB, ESQ. 

My dear Friend, 

When I sent you, a few weeks ago. the tale 
of Peter Bell, you asked " why ' The Wag- 
goner ' was not added ? " — To say the truth 
— from the higher tone of imagination, and 
the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the 
former, I apprehended this little Piece could 
not accompany it without disadvantage. In 
the year 1806, if I am not mistaken, " The 
Waggoner " was read to you in manuscript, 
and, as you have remembered it for so long a 
time, I am the more encouraged to hope, that, 
since the localities on which the Poem partly 
depends did not prevent its being interesting to 
you, it may prove acceptable to others. Being 
therefore in some measure the cause of its 
present appearance, you must allow me the 
gratification of inscribing it to yon ; in ac- 
knowledgment of the pleasure I have derived 
from your Writings, and of the high esteem 
with which 

I am very truly yours, 

William Wordsworth. 

Rtdal Mount, May 20, 1819. 

CANTO FIRST 

'T is spent — this burning day of June ! 
Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is 

stealing; 
The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, 

is wheeling, — 
That solitary bird 
Is all that can be heard 
In silence deeper far than that of deepest 

noon ! 
Confiding Glow-worms, 't is a night 
Propitious to your earth-born light i 



332 



THE WAGGONER 



But, where the scattered stars are seen 
In hazy straits the clouds between, !0 

Each, in his station twinkling not, 
Seems changed into a pallid spot. 
The mountains against heaven's grave 

weight 
Rise up, and grow to wondrous height. 
The air, as in a lion's den, 
Is close and hot; — and now and then 
Comes a tired and sultry breeze 
With a haunting and a panting, 
Like the stifling of disease; 
But the dews allay the heat, 20 

And the silence makes it sweet. 
Hush, there is some one on the stir ! 
'T is Benjamin the Waggoner ; 
Who long hath trod this toil some way, 
Companion of the night and day. 
That far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer, 
Mixed with a faint yet grating sound 
In a moment lost and foimd, 
The Wain announces — by whose side 
Along the banks of Rydal Mere 30 

He paces on, a trusty Guide, — 
Listen ! you can scarcely hear ! 
Hither he his course is bendmg; — 
Now he leaves the lower ground, 
And up the craggy hill ascending 
Many a stop and stay he makes, 
Many a breathing-fit he takes ; — 
Steep the way and wearisome, 
Yet all the while his whip is dumb ! 

The Horses have worked with right 

good-will, 40 

And so have gained the top of the hill; 
He was patient, they were strong, 
And now they smoothly glide along, 
Recovering breath, and pleased to win 
The praises of mild Benjamin. 
Heaven shield him from mishap and snare ! 
But why so early with this prayer ? — 
Is it for threatenings in the sky ? 
Or for some other danger nigh ? 
No; none is near him yet, though he 50 

Be one of much infirmity; 
For at the bottom of the brow, 
Where once the Dove and Olive-bough 
Offered a greeting of good ale 
To all who entered Grasmere Vale; 
And called on him who must depart 
To leave it with a jovial heart; 
There, where the Dove and Olive-bough 
Once hung, a Poet harbours now, 
A simple water-drinking Bard ; 60 

Why need our Hero then (though frail 



His best resolves) be on his guard ? 
He marches by, secure and bold; 
Yet while he thinks on times of old, 
It seems that all looks wondrous cold; 
He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head, 
And, for the honest folk within, 
It is a doubt with Benjamin 
Whether they be alive or dead ! 

Here is no danger, — none at all ! 70 

Beyond his wish he walks secure ; 
But pass a mile — and then for trial, — 
Then for the pride of self-denial; 
If he resist that tempting door, 
Which with such friendly voice will call; 
If he resist those casement panes, 
And that bright gleam which thence will 

fall 
Upon his Leaders' bells and manes, 
Inviting him with cheerful lure: 
For still, though all be dark elsewhere, 80 
Some shining notice will be there, 
Of open house and ready fare. 

The place to Benjamin right well 
Is known, and by as strong a spell 
As used to be that sign of love 
And hope — the Olive-bough and Dove; 
He knows it to his cost, good Man ! 
Who does not know the famous Swan ? 
Object uncouth ! and yet our boast, 
For it was painted by the Host; 90 

His own conceit the figure planned, 
'Twas coloured all by his own hand; 
And that frail Child of thirsty clay, 
Of whom I sing this rustic lay, 
Could tell with self-dissatisfaction 
Quaint stories of the bird's attraction ! 

Well ! that is past — and in despite 
Of open door and shining light. 
And now the conqueror essays 
The long ascent of Dunmail-raise; 100 

And with his team is gentle here 
As when he clomb from Rydal Mere; 
His whip they do not dread — his voice 
They only hear it to rejoice. 
To stand or go is at their pleasure; 
Their efforts and their time they measure 
By generous pride within the breast; 
And, while they strain, and while they rest, 
He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure. 

Now am I fairly safe to-night — no 

And with proud cause my heart is light: 
I trespassed lately worse than ever — 
But Heaven has blest a good endeavour; 
And, to my soul's content, I find 
The evil One is left behind. 



THE WAGGONER 



333 



Yes, let my master fume and fret, 

Here am I — with my horses yet ! 

My jolly team, he finds that ye 

Will work for nobody but me ! 

Full proof of this the Country gained; 120 

It knows how ye were vexed and strained, 

And forced unworthy stripes to bear, 

When trusted to another's care. 

Here was ii; — on this rugged slope, 

Which now ye climh with heart and hope, 

I saw you, between rage and fear, 

Plunge, and fling back a spiteful ear, 

And ever more and more confused, 

As ye were more and more abused: 

As chance would have it, passing by 130 

I saw you in that jeopardy: 

A word from me was like a charm; 

Ye pulled together with one mind; 

And your huge burthen, safe from harm, 

Moved like a vessel in the wind ! 

— Yes, without me, up hills so high 

'T is vain to strive for mastery. 

Then grieve not, jolly team ! though tough 

The road we travel, steep, and rough; 

Though Rydal-heights and Dunmail-raise, 

And all their fellow banks and braes, 141 

Full often make you stretch and strain, 

And halt for breath and halt again, 

Yet to their sturdiness 't is owing 

That side by side we still are going ! 

While Benjamin in earnest mood 
His meditations thus pursued, 
A storm, which had been smothered long, 
Was growing inwardly more strong; 
And, in its struggles to get free, 150 

Was busily employed as he. 
The thunder had begun to growl — 
He heard not, too intent of soul ; 
The air was now without a breath — 
He marked not that 't was still as death. 
But soon large rain-drops on his head 
Fell with the weight of drops of lead ; — 
He starts — and takes, at the admonition, 
A s ige survey of his condition. 
The road is black before his eyes, 160 

Glimmering faintly where it lies; 
Black is the sky — and every hill, 
Up to the sky, is blacker still — 
Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room, 
Hung round and overhung with gloom; 
Save that above a single height 
Is to be seen a lurid light, 
Above Helm-crag — a streak half dead, 
A burning of portentous red; 
And near that lurid light, full well 170 



The Astrologer, sage Sidrophel, 

Where at his desk and book he sits, 

Puzzling aloft his curious wits; 

He whose domain is held hi common 

With no one but the ancient woman, 

Cowering beside her rifted cell, 

As if intent on magic spell ; — 

Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather, 

Still sit upon Helm-crag together ! 

The Astrologer was not unseen 1S0 

By solitary Benjamin; 
But total darkness came anon, 
And he and everything was gone: 
And suddenly a ruffling breeze, 
(That would have rocked the sounding 

trees 
Had aught of sylvan growth been there) 
Swept through the Hollow long and bare: 
The rain rushed down — the road was bat- 
tered, 
As with the force of billows shattered; 
The horses are dismayed, nor know 190 

Whether they should stand or go; 
And Benjamin is groping near them, 
Sees nothing, and can scarcely hear them. 
He is astounded, — wonder not, — 
With such a charge in such a spot; 
Astounded in the mountain gap 
With thunder-peals, clap after clap, 
Close-treading on the silent flashes — 
And somewhere, as he thinks, by crashes 
Among the rocks; with weight of rain, 200 
And sullen motions long and slow, 
That to a dreary distance go — 
Till, breaking hi upon the dying strain, 
A rending o'er his head begins the fray 
again. 

Meanwhile, uncertain what to do, 
And oftentimes compelled to halt, 
The horses cautiously pursue 
Their way, without mishap or fault; 
And now have reached that pile of stones, 
Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones; 
His who had once supreme command, 211 
Last king of rocky Cumberland; 
His bones, and those of all his Power 
Slain here in a disastrous hour ! 

When, passing through this narrow strait, 
Stony, and dark, and desolate, 
Benjamin can faintly hear 
A voice that comes from some one near, 
A female voice: — " Whoe'er you be, 
Stop," it exclaimed, " and pity me ! " 220 
And, less in pity than in wonder, 
Amid the darkness and the thunder, 



334 



THE WAGGONER 



The Waggoner, with prompt command, 
Summons his horses to a stand. 

While, with increasing agitation, 
The Woman urged her supplication, 
In rueful words, with sobs between — 
The voice of tears that fell unseen; 
There came a flash — a startling glare, 
And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare ! 230 

'T is not a time for nice suggestion, 
And Benjamin, without a question, 
Taking her for some way-worn rover, 
Said, " Mount, and get you under cover ! " 

Another voice, in tone as hoarse 
As a swoln brook with rugged course, 
Cried out, " Good brother, why so fast ? 
I 've had a glimpse of you — avast ! 
Or, since it suits you to be civil, 
Take her at once — for good and evil ! " 240 

" It is my Husband," softly said 
The Woman, as if half afraid: 
By this time she was snug within, 
Through help of honest Benjamin; 
She and her Babe, which to her breast 
With thankfulness the Mother pressed; 
And now the same strong voice more near 
Said cordially, " My Friend, what cheer ? 
Bough doings these ! as God 's my judge 
The sky owes somebody a grudge ! 250 

We 've had in half an hour or less 
A twelvemonth's terror and distress ! " 

Then Benjamin entreats the Man 
Would mount, too, quickly as he can: 
The Sailor — ■ Sailor now no more, 
But such he had been heretofore — 
To courteous Benjamin replied, 
" Go you your way, and mind not me; 
For I must have, whate'er betide, 
My Ass and fifty things beside, — 260 

Go, and I '11 follow speedily ! " 

The Waggon moves — and with its load 
Descends along the sloping road; 
And the rough Sailor instantly 
Turns to a little tent hard by: 
For when, at closing-in of day, 
The family had come that way, 
Green pasture and the soft warm air 
Tempted them to settle there. — 
Green is the grass for beast to graze, 270 
Around the stones of Dunmail-raise ! 

The Sailor gathers up his bed, 
Takes down the canvas overhead; 
And, after farewell to the place, 
A parting word — though not of grace, 
Pursues, with Ass and all his store, 
The way the Waggon went before. 



CANTO SECOND 

If Wytheburn's modest House of prayer, 

As lowly as the lowliest dwelling, 

Had, with its belfry's humble stock, 

A little pair that hang in air, 

Been mistress also of a clock, 

(And one, too, not in crazy plight) 

Twelve strokes that clock would have been 

telling 
Under the brow of old Helvellyn — 
Its bead-roll of midnight, 
Then, when the Hero of my tale to 

Was passing by, and, down the vale 
(The vale now silent, hushed I ween 
As if a storm had never been) 
Proceeding with a mind at ease; 
While the old Familiar of the seas, 
Intent to use his utmost haste, 
Gained ground upon the Waggon fast r 
And gives another lusty cheer; 
For spite of rumbling of the wheels, 
A welcome greeting he can hear; — 20 

It is a fiddle in its glee 
Dinning from the Cherry Tree ! 

Thence the sound — the light is there — 
As Benjamin is now aware, 
Who, to his inward thoughts confined, 
Had almost reached the festive door, 
When, startled by the Sailor's roar, 
He hears a sound and sees a light, 
And in a moment calls to mind 
That 't is the village Merry-night ! 30 

Although before in no dejection, 
At this insidious recollection 
His heart with stidden joy is filled, — 
His ears are by the music thrilled, 
His eyes take pleasure in the road 
Glittering before him bright and broad; 
And Benjamin is wet and cold, 
And there are reasons manifold 
That make the good, tow'rds which he 's 

yearning, 
Look fairly like a lawful earning. 4 o 

Nor has thought time to come and go, 
To vibrate between yes and no; 
For, cries the Sailor, " Glorious chance 
That blew us hither ! — let him dance, 
Who can or will ! — my honest soul, 
Our treat shall be a friendly bowl ! " 
He draws him to the door — " Come in, 
Come, come," cries he to Benjamin ! 
And Benjamin — ah, woe is me ! 
Gave the word — the horses heard 50 

And halted, though reluctantly. 



THE WAGGONER 



335 



" Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have 
we, 
Feasting at the Cherry Tree ! " 
This was the outside proclamation, 
This was the inside salutation; 
What bustling — jostling — high and low ! 
A universal overflow ! 
What tankards foaming from the tap ! 
What store of cakes in every lap ! 
What thumping — stumping — overhead ! 
The thunder had not been more busy: 61 
With such a stir you would have said, 
This little place may well be dizzy ! 
'T is who can dance with greatest vigour — 
'Tis what can be most prompt and eager; 
As if it heard the fiddle's call, 
The pewter clatters on the wall; 
The very bacon shows its feeling, 
Swinging from the smoky ceiling ! 

A steaming bowl, a blazing fire, 70 

What greater good can heart desire ? 
'T were worth a wise man's while to try 
The utmost anger of the sky: 
To seek for thoughts of a gloomy cast, 
If such the bright amends at last. 
Now should you say I judge amiss, 
The Cherry Tree shows proof of this; 
For soon of all the happy there, 
Our Travellers are the happiest pair; 
All care with Benjamin is gone — 80 

A Csesar past the Rubicon ! 
He thinks not of his long, long strife ; — 
The Sailor, Man by nature gay, 
Hath no resolves to throw away; 
And he hath now forgot his Wife, 
Hath quite forgotten her — or may be 
Thinks her the luckiest soul on earth, 
Within that warm and peaceful berth, 
Under cover, 

Terror over, 9 o 

Sleeping by her sleeping Baby. 

With bowl that sped from hand to hand, 
The gladdest of the gladsome band, 
Amid their own delight and fun, 
They hear — when every dance is done, 
When every whirling bout is o'er — 
The fiddle's squeak — that call to bliss, 
Ever followed by a kiss; 
They envy not the happy lot, 
But enjoy their own the more ! 100 

While thus oiir jocund Travellers fare, 
Up springs the Sailor from his chair — 
Limps (for I might have told before 
That he was lame) across the floor — 
Is gone — returns — and with a prize; 



With what ? — a Ship of lusty size ; 

A gallant stately Man-of-war, 

Fixed on a smoothly-sliding car. 

Surprise to all, but most surprise 

To Benjamin, who rubs his eyes, no 

Not knowing that lie had befriended 

A Man so gloriously attended ! 

" This," cries the Sador, " a Third-rate 
is — 
Stand back, and you shall see her gratis ! 
This was the Flag-ship at the Nile, 
The Vanguard — you may smirk and smile, 
But, pretty Maid, if you look near, 
You '11 find you 've much in little here ! 
A nobler ship did never swim, 
And you shall see her in full trim: 120 

I '11 set, my friends, to do you honour, 
Set every inch of sail upon her." 
So sakl, so done; and masts, sails, yards, 
He names them all; and interlards 
His speech with uncouth terms of art, 
Accomplished in the showman's part; 
And then, as from a sudden check, 
Cries out — " 'T is there, the quarter-deck 
On which brave Admiral Nelson stood — 
A sight that would have roused your blood ! 
One eye he had, which, bright as ten, 131 
Burned like a fire among his men; 
Let this be land, and that be sea, 
Here lay the French — and thus came we ! " 

Hushed was by this the fiddle's sound, 
The dancers all were gathered round, 
And, such the stillness of the house, 
You might have heard a nibbling mouse; 
While, borrowing helps where'er he may, 
The Sailor through the story rims 140 

Of ships to ships and guns to guns; 
And does his utmost to display 
The dismal conflict, and the might 
And terror of that marvellous night ! 
" A bowl, a bowl of double measure," 
Cries Benjamin, " a draught of length, 
To Nelson, England's pride and treasure 
Her bulwark and her tower of strength ! " 
When Benjamin had seized the bowl, 
The mastiff, from beneath the waggon, 150 
Where he lay, watchful as a dragon, 
Rattled his chain ; — 't was all hi vain, 
For Benjamin, triumphant soul ! 
He heard the monitory growl; 
Heard — and hi opposition quaffed 
A deep, determined, desperate draught ! 
Nor did the battered Tar forget, 
Or flinch from what he deemed his debt: 
Then, like a hero crowned with laurel, 



33^ 



THE WAGGONER 



Back to her place the ship he led; 160 

Wheeled her back in full apparel; 
And so, flag flying at mast head, 
Re-yoked her to the Ass : — anon, 
Cries Benjamin, " We must be gone." 
Thus, after two hours' hearty stay, 
Again behold them on their way ! 

CANTO THIRD 

Right gladly had the horses stirred, 
When they the wished-for greeting heard, 
The whip's loud notice from the door, 
That they were free to move once more. 
You think, those doings must have bred 
In them disheartening doubts and dread; 
No, not a horse of all the eight, 
Although it be a moonless night, 
Fears either for himself or freight; 
For this they know (and let it hide, 10 

In part, the offences of their guide) 
That Benjamin, with clouded brains, 
Is worth the best with all their pains; 
And, if they had a prayer to make, 
The prayer would be that they may take 
With him whatever comes in course, 
The better fortune or the worse ; 
That no one else may have business near 

them, 
And, drunk or sober, he may steer them. 

So, forth in dauntless mood they fare, 20 
And with them goes the guardian pair. 

Now, heroes, for the true commotion, 
The triumph of your late devotion 
Can aught on earth impede delight, 
Still mounting to a higher height; 
And higher still — a greedy flight ! 
Can any low-born care pursue her ? 
Can any mortal clog come to her ? 
No notion have they — not a thought, 
That is from joyless regions brought ! 30 
And, while they coast the silent lake, 
Their inspiration I partake ; 
Share their empyreal spirits — yea, 
With their enraptured vision, see — 
O fancy — what a jubilee ! 
What shifting pictures — clad in gleams 
Of colour bright as feverish dreams ! 
Earth, spangled sky, and lake serene, 
Involved and restless all — a scene 
Pregnant with mutual exaltation, 40 

Rich change, and midtiplied creation ! 
This sight to me the Muse imparts ; — 
And then, what kindness in their hearts ! 
What tears of rapture, what vow-making, 



Profoimd entreaties, and hand-shaking ! 

What solemn, vacant, interlacing, 

As if they 'd fall asleep embracing ! 

Then, in the turbulence of glee, 

And in the excess of amity, 

Says Benjamin, " That Ass of thine, 50 

He spoils thy sport, and hinders mine: 

If he were tethered to the waggon, 

He 'd drag as well what he is dragging, 

And we, as brother should with brother, 

Might trudge it alongside each other ! " 

Forthwith, obedient to command, 
The horses made a quiet stand; 
And to the waggon's skirts was tied 
The Creature, by the Mastiff's side, 
The Mastiff wondering, and perplext 60 
With dread of what will happen next; 
And thinking it but sorry cheer, 
To have such company so near ! 

This new arrangement made, the Wain 
Through the still night proceeds again; 
No Moon hath risen her light to lend; 
But indistinctly may be kenned 
The Vanguard, following close behind, 
Sails spread, as if to catch the wind ! 

" Thy wife and child are snug and warm, 
Thy ship will travel without harm; 71 

I like," said Benjamin, " her shape and 

stature: 
And this of mine — this bulky creature 
Of which I have the steering — this, 
Seen fairly, is not much amiss ! 
We want your streamers, friend, you know; 
But, altogether as we go, 
We make a kind of handsome show ! 
Among these hills, from first to last, 
We 've weathered many a furious blast; 80 
Hard passage forcing on, with head 
Against the storm, and canvas spread. 
I hate a boaster; but to thee 
Will say 't, who know'st both land and 

sea, 
The unluckiest hulk that stems the brine 
Is hardly worse beset than mine, 
When cross- winds on her quarter beat; 
And, fairly lifted from my feet, 
I stagger onward — heaven knows how ; 
But not so pleasantly as now: 90 

Poor pilot I, by snows confounded, 
And many a foundrous pit surrounded ! 
Yet here we are, by night and day 
Grinding through rough and smooth our 

way; 
Through foul and fair our task fulfilling; 
And long shall be so yet — God willing ! " 



THE WAGGONER 



337 



" Ay," said the Tar, " through fair and 
foul — 
But save us from you screeching owl ! " 
That instant was begun a fray 
Which called their thoughts another way: 
The mastiff, ill-conditioned carl ! 101 

What must he do but growl and snarl, 
Still more and more dissatisfied 
With the meek comrade at his side ! 
Till, not mcensed though put to proof, 
The Ass, uplifting a hind hoof, 
Salutes the Mastiff on the head; 
And so were better manners bred, 
And all was calmed and quieted. 

" Yon screech-owl," says the Sailor, 
turning no 

Back to his former cause of mourning, 
" Yon owl ! — pray God that all be well ! 
'T is worse than any f uneral bell ; 
As sure as I 've the gift of sight, 
We shall be meeting ghosts to-night ! " 

— Said Benjamin, " This whip shall lay 
A thousand, if they cross our way. 

I know that Wanton's noisy station, 

I know him and his occupation; 

The jolly bird hath learned his cheer 120 

Upon the banks of Windermere; 

Where a tribe of them make merry, 

Mocking the Man that keeps the ferry; 

Hallooing from an open throat, 

Lute travellers shouting for a boat. 

— The tricks he learned at Windermere 
This vagrant owl is playing here — 
That is the worst of his employment : 
He 's at the top of his enjoyment ! " 

This explanation stilled the alarm, 130 
Cured the foreboder like a charm; 
This, and the manner, and the voice, 
Summoned the Sailor to rejoice; 
His heart is up — he fears no evil 
From life or death, from man or devil ; 
He wheels — and, making many stops, 
Brandished his crutch against the mountain 

tops; 
And, while he talked of blows and scars, 
Benjamin, among the stars, 
Beheld a dancing — and a glancing; 140 
Such retreating and advancing 
As, I ween, was never seen 
In bloodiest battle since the days of Mars ! 

CANTO FOURTH 

Thus they, with freaks of proud delight, 
Beguile the remnant of the night; 



And many a snatch of jovial song 

Regales them as they wind along; 

While to the music, from on high, 

The echoes make a glad reply. — 

But the sage Muse the revel heeds 

No farther than her story needs; 

Nor will she servilely attend 

The loitering journey to its end. 10 

— Blithe spirits of her own impel 
The Muse, who scents the morning air, 
To take of this transported pair 

A brief and unreproved farewell; 
To quit the slow-paced waggon's side, 
And wander down yon hawthorn dell, 
With murmuring Greta for her guide. 

— There doth she ken the awf id form 
Of Raven-crag — black as a storm — 
Glimmering through the twilight pale; 20 
And Ghimmer-crag, his tall twin brother, 
Each peering forth to meet the other : — 
And, while she roves through St. John's 

Vale, 
Along the smooth unpathwayed plain, 
By sheep-track or through cottage lane, 
Where no disturbance comes to intrude 
Upon the pensive solitude, 
Her unsuspecting eye, perchance, 
With the rude shepherd's favoured glance, 
Beholds the faeries hi array, 30 

Whose party-coloiu-ed garments gay 
The silent company betray : 
Red, green, and blue ; a moment's sight ! 
For Skiddaw-top with rosy light 
Is touched — and all the band take flight. 

— Fly also, Muse ! and from the dell 
Mount to the ridge of Nathdale Fell ; 
Thence, look thou forth o'er wood and lawn 
Hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn ; 
Across yon meadowy bottom look, 40 
Where close fogs hide their parent brook; 
And see, beyond that hamlet small, 

The ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall, 

Lurking in a double shade, 

By trees and lingering twilight made ! 

There, at Blencathara's rugged feet, 

Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat 

To noble Clifford; from annoy 

Concealed the persecuted boy, 

Well pleased in rustic garb to feed 50 

His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reed 

Among this multitude of hills, 

Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills; 

Which soon the morning shall enfold, 

From east to west, in ample vest 

Of massy gloom and radiance bold. 



338 



THE WAGGONER 



The mists, that o'er the streamlet's bed 
Hung low, begin to rise and spread ; 
Even while I speak, their skirts of grey- 
Are smitten by a silver ray; 60 
And lo ! — up Castrigg's naked steep 
(Where, smoothly urged, the vapours sweep 
Along — and scatter and divide, 
Like fleecy clouds self-multiplied) 
The stately waggon is ascending, 
With faithful Benjamin attending, 
Apparent now beside his team — 
Now lost amid a glittering steam : 
And with him goes his Sailor-friend, 
By this time near their journey's end; 70 
And, after their high-minded riot, 
Sickening into thoughtful quiet; 
As if the morning's pleasant hour 
Had for their joys a killing power. 
And, sooth, for Benjamin a vein 
Is opened of still deeper pain 
As if his heart by notes were stung 
From out the lowly hedge-rows flung; 
As if the Warbler lost in light 
Reproved his soarings of the night, . 80 
In strains of rapture pure and holy 
Upbraided his distempered folly. 

Drooping is he, his step is dull; 
But the horses stretch and pull; 
With increasing vigour climb, 
Eager to repair lost time; 
Whether, by their own desert, 
Knowing what cause there is for shame, 
They are labouring to avert 
As much as may be of the blame, 90 

Which, they foresee, must soon alight 
Upon his head, whom, in despite 
Of all his failings, they love best; 
Whether for him they are distrest, 
Or, by length of fasting roused, 
Are impatient to be housed: 
Up against the hill they strain 
Tugging at the iron chain, 
Tugging all with might and main, 
Last and foremost, every horse 100 

To the utmost of his force ! 
And the smoke and respiration, 
Rising like an exhalation, 
Blend with the mist — a moving shroud — 
To form an imdissolving cloud; 
Which, with slant ray, the merry sun 
Takes delight to play upon. 
Never golden-haired Apollo, 
Pleased some favourite chief to follow 
Through accidents of peace or war, no 

In a perilous moment threw 



Around the object of his care 
Veil of such celestial hue; 
Interposed so bright a screen — 
Him and his enemies between ! 

Alas ! what boots it ? — who can hide, 
When the malicious Fates are bent 
On working out an ill intent ? 
Can destiny be turned aside ? 
No — sad progress of my story ! 120 

Benjamin, this outward glory 
Cannot shield thee from thy Master, 
Who from Keswick has pricked forth, 
Sour and surly as the north; 
And, in fear of some disaster, 
Comes to give what help he may, 
And to hear what thou canst say; 
If, as needs he must forebode, 
Thou hast been loitering on the road ! 
His fears, his doubts, may now take 
flight — 130 

The wished-for object is in sight; 
Yet, trust the Muse, it rather hath 
Stirred him up to livelier wrath; 
Which he stifles, moody man ! 
With all the patience that he can; 
To the end that, at your meeting, 
He may give thee decent greeting. 

There he is — resolved to stop, 
Till the waggon gams the top; • 
But stop he cannot — must advance : 140 
Him Benjamin, with lucky glance, 
Espies — and instantly is ready, 
Self-collected, poised, and steady: 
And, to be the better seen, 
Issues from his radiant shroud, 
From his close-attending cloud, 
With careless air and open mien. 
Erect his port, and firm his going; 
So struts yon cock that now is crowing; 
And the morning light in grace 150 

Strikes upon his lifted face, 
Hurrying the pallid hue away 
That might his trespasses betray. 
But what can all avail to clear him, 
Or what need of explanation, 
Parley or interrogation ? 
For the Master sees, alas ! 
That unhappy Figure near him, 
Limping o'er the dewy grass, 
Where the road it fringes, sweet, 160 

Soft and cool to way-worn feet; 
And, O indignity ! an Ass, 
By his noble Mastiff's side, 
Tethered to the waggon's tail: 
And the ship 5 in all her pride, 



THE WAGGONER 



339 



Following after in full sail ! 

Not to speak of babe and mother; 

Who, contented with each other, 

And snug as birds in leafy arbour, 

Find, within, a blessed harbour ! 170 

With eager eyes the Master pries; 
Looks in and out, and through and through ; 
Says nothing — till at last he spies 
A wound upon the Mastiff's head, 
A wound, where plainly might be read 
What feats an Ass's hoof can do ! 
But drop the rest: — this aggravation, 
This complicated provocation, 
A hoard of grievances unsealed; 
All past forgiveness it repealed; 180 

And thus, and through distempered blood 
On both sides, Benjamin the good, 
The patient, and the tender-hearted, 
Was from his team and waggon parted; 
When duty of that day was o'er, 
Laid down his whip — and served no more. — 
Nor could the waggon long survive, 
Which Benjamin had ceased to drive: 
It lingered on; — guide after guide 
Ambitiously the office tried; 190 

But each unmanageable hill 
Called for his patience and his skill; — 
And sure it is, that through this night, 
And what the morning brought to light, 
Two losses had we to sustain, 
We lost both Waggoner and Wain ! 



Accept, O Friend, for praise or blame, 

The gift of this adventurous song; 

A record which I dared to frame, 

Though timid scruples checked me long; 

They checked me — and I left the theme 

Untouched — in spite of many a gleam 

Of fancy which thereon was shed, 

Like pleasant sunbeams shifting still 

Upon the side of a distant hill: 

But Nature might not be gainsaid; 10 

For what I have and what I miss 

I sing of these ; — it makes my bliss ! 

Nor is it I who play the part, 

But a shy spirit in my heart, 

That comes and goes — will sometimes 

leap 
From hiding-places ten years deep; 
Or haunts me with familiar face, 
Returning, like a ghost unlaid, 
Until the debt I owe be paid. 
Forgive me, then; for I had been 20 



On friendly terms with this Machine: 

In him, while he was wont to trace 

Our roads, through many a long year's 

space, 
A living almanack had we; 
We had a speaking diary, 
That hi this uneventful place 
Gave to the days a mark and name 
By which we knew them when they came. 
• — Yes, I, and all about me here, 
Through all the changes of the year, 30 
Had seen him through the mountains go, 
In pomp of mist or pomp of snow, 
Majestically huge and slow: 
Or, with a milder grace adorning 
The landscape of a summer's morning; 
While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain 
The moving image to detain; 
And mighty Fairfield, with a chime 
Of echoes, to his march kept time; 
When little other business stirred, 40 

And little other sound was heard; 
In that delicious hour of balm, 
Stillness, solitude, and calm, 
While yet the valley is arrayed, 
On this side with a sober shade; 
On that is prodigally bright — 
Crag, lawn, and wood — with rosy light. 
— But most of all, thou Lordly Wain ! 
I wish to have thee here again, 
When windows flap and chimney roars, 50 
And all is dismal out of doors; 
And, sitting by my fire, I see 
Eight sorry carts, no less a train; 
Unworthy successors of thee, 
Come straggling through the wind and 

rain ! 
And oft, as they pass slowly on, 
Beneath my windows, one by one, 
See, perched upon the naked height 
The summit of a cumbrous freight, 
A single traveller — and there 60 

Another ; then perhaps a pair — 
The lame, the sickly, and the old; 
Men, women, heartless with the cold; 
And babes in wet and starveling plight; 
Which once, be weather as it might, 
Had still a nest within a nest, 
Thy shelter — and their mother's breast! 
Then most of all, then far the most, 
Do I regret what we have lost; 
Am grieved for that unhappy sin 7c 

Which robbed us of good Benjamin; 
And of his stately Charge, which none 
Could keep alive when He was gone ! 



34° 



FRENCH REVOLUTION 



FRENCH REVOLUTION 

AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT 
ITS COMMENCEMENT. REPRINTED FROM 
THE FRIEND 

1805. l8lO 

An extract from the long poem on my own 
poetical education. It was first published by 
Coleridge in his Friend, which is the reason 
of its having had a place in every edition of 
my poems since. 

Oh ! pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! 
For mighty were the auxiliars which then 

stood 
Upon our side, we who were strong in love ! 
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, 
But to be young was very heaven ! — Oh ! 

times, 
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways 
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once 
The attraction of a country in romance ! 
When Reason seemed the most to assert 

her rights, 
When most intent on making of herself 10 
A prime Enchantress — to assist the work, 
Which then was going forward in her 

name ! 
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole 

earth, 
The beauty wore of promise, that which 

sets 
(As at some moment might not be unfelt 
Among the bowers of paradise itself) 
The budding rose above the rose full blown. 
What temper at the prospect did not wake 
To happiness unthought of ? The inert 
Were roused, and lively natures rapt 

away ! 20 

They who had fed their childhood upon 

dreams, 
The playfellows of fancy, who had made 
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and 

strength 
Their ministers, — who in lordly wise had 

stirred 
Among the grandest objects of the sense, 
And dealt with whatsoever they found there 
As if they had within some lurking right 
To wield it; — they, too, who, of gentle 

mood, 
Had watched all gentle motions, and to 

these 
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers 

more mild, 30 



And in the region of their peaceful selves ; — 
Now was it that both found, the meek and 

lofty 
Did both find, helpers to their heart's 

desire, 
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could 

wish ; 
Were called upon to exercise their skill, 
Not in Utopia, subterranean fields, 
Or some secreted island, Heaven knows 

where ! 
But in the very world, which is the world 
Of all of us, — the place where in the 

end 
We find our happiness, or not at all ! 40 



CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY 
WARRIOR 

1806. 1807 

The course of the great war with the French 
naturally fixed one's attention upon the mili- 
tary character, and, to the honour of our coun- 
try, there were many illustrious instances of the 
qualities that constitute its highest excellence. 
Lord Nelson carried most of the virtues that 
the trials he was exposed to in his department 
of the service necessarily call forth and sus- 
tain, if they do not produce the contrary vices. 
But his public life was stained with one great 
crime, so that, though many passages of these 
lines were suggested by what was generally 
known as excellent in his conduct, I have not 
been able to connect his name with the poem 
as I could wish, or even to think of him with 
satisfaction in reference to the idea of what a 
warrior ought to be. For the sake of such of 
my friends as may happen to read this note I 
will add, that many elements of the character 
here pourtrayed were found in my brother John, 
who perished by shipwreck as mentioned else- 
where. His messmates used to call him the 
Philosopher, from which it must be inferred 
that the qualities and dispositions I allude to 
had not escaped their notice. He often ex- 
pressed his regret, after the war had continued 
some time, that he had not chosen the Naval, 
instead of the East India Company's service, to 
which his family connection had led him. He 
greatly valued moral and religious instruction 
for youth, as tending to make good sailors. 
The best, he used to say, came from Scotland; 
the next to them, from the North of England, 
especially from Westmoreland and Cumber- 
land, where, thanks to the piety and local at- 
tachments of our ancestors, endowed, or. as 
they are commonly calk-d, free, schools abound. 



CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR 



34i 



Who is the happy Warrior ? Who is he 
That every man in arms should wish to be ? 

— It is the generous Spirit, who, when 

brought 

Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 

Upon the plan that pleased his boyish 
thought: 

Whose high endeavours are an inward light 

That makes the path before him always 
bright: 

Who, with a natural instinct to discern 

What knowledge can perform, is diligent 
to learn; 

Abides by this resolve, and stops not 
there, 10 

But makes his moral being his prime care; 

Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, 

And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! 

Turns his necessity to glorious gain; 

In face of these doth exercise a power 

Which is our human nature's highest dower; 

Controls them and subdues, transmutes, 
bereaves 

Of their bad influence, and their good re- 
ceives : 

By objects, which might force the soul to 
abate 

Her feeling, rendered more compassion- 
ate; 20 

Is placable — ■ because occasions rise 

So often that demand such sacrifice; 

More skilful in self-knowledge, even more 
pure, 

As tempted more; more able to endure, 

As more exposed to suffering and distress; 

Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 

— 'T is he whose law is reason ; who de- 

pends 
Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 
Whence, in a state where men are tempted 

still 
To evil for a guard against worse ill, 30 
And what in quality or act is best 
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
He labours good on good to fix, and owes 
To virtue every triumph that he knows: 

— Who, if he rise to station of command, 
Rises by open means; and there will stand 
On honourable terms, or else retire, 

And in himself possess his own desire; 
Who comprehends his trust, and to the 

same 
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; 40 
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state ; 



Whom they must follow; on whose head 

must fall, 
Like showers of manna, if they come at all: 
Whose powers shed round him in the com- 
mon strife, 
Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 
But who, if he be called upon to face 
Some awful moment to which Heaven has 

joined 
Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 
Is happy as a Lover; and attired 51 

With sudden brightness, like a Man in- 
spired ; 
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the 

law 
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; 
Or if an unexpected call succeed, 
Come when it will, is equal to the need: 
— He who, though thus endued as with a 

sense 
And facidty for storm and turbulence, 
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 
To homef elt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 
Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be, 61 
Are at his heart; and such fidelity 
It is his darling passion to approve; 
More brave for this, that he hath much to 

love : — 
T is, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, 
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 
Or left imthought-of in obscurity, — 
Who, with a toward or untoward lot, 
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not — 
Plays, hi the many games of life, that one 
Where what he most doth value must be 
won: 71 

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 
Nor thought of tender happiness betray; 
Who, not content that former worth stand 

fast, 
Looks forward, persevering to the last, 
From well to better, daily self-surpast: 
Who, whether praise of him must walk the 

earth 
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, 
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, 
And leave a dead unprofitable name — 80 
Fmds comfort in himself and in his cause; 
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, 

draws 
His breath in confidence of Heaven's 

applause : 
This is the happy Warrior; this is He 
That every Man in arms should wish to be. 



342 



THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE 



THE HORN OF EGREMONT 
CASTLE 

1S06. 1807 

A tradition transferred from the ancient 
mansion of Hutton John, the seat of the Hud- 
lestons, to Egremont Castle. 

Ere the Brothers through the gateway 
Issued forth with old and young, 
To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed 
Which for ages there had hung. 
Horn it was which none could sound, 
No one upon living ground, 
Save He who came as rightful Heir 
To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair. 

Heirs from times of earliest record 
Had the House of Lucie born, 10 

Who of right had held the Lordship 
Claimed by proof upon the Horn: 
Each at the appointed hour 
Tried the Horn, — it owned his power; 
He was acknowledged: and the blast, 
Which good Sir Eustace sounded, was the 
last. 

With his lance Sir Eustace pointed, 

And to Hubert thus said he, 

" What I speak this Horn shall witness 

For thy better memory. 20 

Hear, then, and neglect me not ! 

At this time, and on this spot, 

The words are uttered from my heart, 

As my last earnest prayer ere we depart. 

" On good service we are going 

Life to risk by sea and land, 

In which coiirse if Christ our Saviour 

Do my sinful soul demand, 

Hither come thou back straightway, 

Hubert, if alive that day; 30 

Return, and soiind the Horn, that we 

May have a living House still left in thee ! " 

" Fear not," quickly answered Hubert; 

" As I am thy Father's son, 

What thou askest, noble Brother, 

With God's favour shall be done." 

So were both right well content: 

Forth they from the Castle went, 

And at the head of their Array 

To Palestine the Brothers took their way. 

Side by side they fought (the Lucies 41 

Were a line for valour famed), 



And where'er their strokes alighted, 

There the Saracens were tamed. 

Whence, then, could it come — the 

thought — 
By what evil spirit brought ? 
Oh ! can a brave Man wish to take 
His Brother's life, for Lands' and Castle's 

sake ? 

" Sir ! " the Ruffians said to Hubert, 

" Deep he lies in Jordan flood." 50 

Stricken by this ill assurance, 

Pale and trembling Hubert stood. 

" Take your earnings." — Oh ! that I 

Could have seen my Brother die ! 

It was a pang that vexed him then; 

And oft returned, again, and yet again. 

Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace ! 
Nor of him were tidings heard; 
Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer 
Back again to England steered. 60 

To his Castle Hubert sped; 
Nothing has he now to dread. 
But silent and by stealth he came, 
And at an hour which nobody could name. 

None could tell if it were night-time, 
Night or day, at even or morn; 
No one's eye had seen him enter, 
No one's ear had heard the Horn. 
Bvit bold Hubert lives in glee: 
Months and years went smilingly; 70 

With plenty was his table spread;. 
And bright the Lady is who shares his 
bed. 

Likewise he had sons and daughters; 

And, as good men do, he sate 

At his board by these surrounded, 

Flourishing in fair estate. 

And while thus in open day 

Once he sate, as old books say, 

A blast was uttered from the Horn, 

Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn. 

'T is the breath of good Sir Eustace ! 81 
He is come to claim his right: 
Ancient castle, woods, and mountains 
Hear the challenge with delight. 
Hubert ! though the blast be blown 
He is helpless and alone: 
Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word ! 
And there he may be lodged, and thou be 
Lord. 



STRAY PLEASURES 



343 



Speak ! — astounded Hubert cannot ; 
And, if power to speak he had, 90 

All are daunted, all the household 
Smitten to the heart, and sad. 
'T is Sir Eustace ; if it be 
Living man, it must be he ! 
Thus Hubert thought in his dismay, 
And by a postern-gate he slunk away. 

Long, and long was he unheard of: 

To his Brother then he came, 

Made confession, asked forgiveness, 

Asked it by a brother's name, 100 

And by all the saints in heaven; 

And of Eustace was forgiven: 

Then in a convent went to hide 

His melancholy head, and there he died. 

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels 
Had preserved from murderers' hands, 
And from Pagan chains had rescued, 
Lived with honour on his lands. 
Sons he had, saw sons of theirs: 
And through ages, heirs of heirs, no 

A long posterity renowned, 
Sounded the Horn which they alone could 
soimd. 



A COMPLAINT 

1806. 1807 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Suggested 
by a change in the manner of a friend. 

There is a change — and I am poor; 
Your love hath been, not long ago, 
A fountain at my fond heart's door, 
Whose only business was to flow; 
And flow it did: not taking heed 
Of its own bounty, or my need. 

What happy moments did I count ! 
Blest was I then all bliss above ! 
Now, for that consecrated fount 
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, 
What have I ? shall I dare to tell ? 
A comfortless and hidden well. 

A well of love — it may be deep — 
I trust it is, — and never dry : 
What matter ? if the waters sleep 
In silence and obscurity. 
— Such change, and at the very door 
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor. 



STRAY PLEASURES 
1806. 1807 

" Pleasure is spread through the earth. 

In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find." 

Suggested on the Thames by the sight of 
one of those floating mills that used to be seen 
there. This I noticed on the Surrey side be- 
tween Somerset House and Blackfriars Bridge. 
Charles Lamb was with me at the time ; and I 
thought it remarkable that I should have to 
point out to him, an idolatrous Londoner, a sight 
so interesting as the happy group dancing on 
the platform. Mills of this kind used to be, 
and perhaps still are, not uncommon on the 
Continent. I noticed several upon the river 
Saone in the year 1799, particularly near the 
town of Chalons, where my friend Jones and I 
halted a day when we crossed France ; so far 
on foot : there we embarked, and floated down 
to Lyons. 

By their floating mill, 
That lies dead and still, 
Behold yon Prisoners three, 
The Miller with two Dames, on the breast 

of the Thames ! 
The platform is small, but gives room for 

them all; 
And they 're dancing merrily. 

From the shore come the notes 

To their mill where it floats, 

To their hotise and their mill tethered fast: 

To the small wooden isle where, their work 

to beguile, 10 

They from morning to even take whatever 

is given; — 
And many a blithe day they have past. 

In sight of the spires, 

All alive with the fires 
Of the sun going down to his rest, 
In the broad open eye of the solitary sky, 
They dance, — there are three, as jocund as 

free, 
While they dance on the calm river's breast. 

Man and Maidens wheel, 
They themselves make the reel, 20 
And their music 's a prey which they seize ; 
It plays not for them, — what matter ? 't is 

theirs ; 
And if they had care, it has scattered their 

cares, 
While they dance, crying, " Long as ye 
please ! " 



344 



POWER OF MUSIC 



They dance not for me, 
Yet mine is their glee ! 
Thus pleasure is spread through the earth 
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever 

shall find; 
Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly 

kind, 
Moves all nature to gladness and mirth. 30 

The showers of the spring 
Rouse the birds, and they sing; 
If the wind do but stir for his proper de- 
light, 
Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will 

kiss; 
Each wave, one and t' other, speeds after 

his brother: 
They are happy, for that is their right ! 

POWER OF MUSIC 

1806. 1807 

Taken from life. 

An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! yes, Faith may 
grow bold, 

And take to herself all the wonders of 
old; — 

Near the stately Pantheon you '11 meet with 
the same 

In the street that from Oxford hath bor- 
rowed its name. 

His station is there; and he works on the 

crowd, 
He sways them with harmony merry and 

loud ; 
He fills with his power all their hearts to 

the brim — 
Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and 

him? 

What an eager assembly ! what an empire 

is this ! 
The weary have life, and the hungry have 

bliss; 10 

The mourner is cheered, and the anxious 

have rest; 
And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer 

opprest. 

As the Moon brightens round her the clouds 

of the night, 
So He, where he stands, is a centre of 

light; 



It gleams on the face, there, of dusky- 
browed Jack, 

And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket 
on back. 

That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in 

haste — 
What matter ! he 's caught — and his time 

runs to waste; 
The Newsman is stopped, though he stops 

on the fret; 
And the half-breathless Lamplighter — 

he 's in the net ! 20 

The Porter sits down on the weight which 

he bore; 
The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her 

store ; — 
If a thief could be here he might pilfer at 

ease; 
She sees the Musician, 't is all that she sees ! 

He stands, backed by the wall ; — he abates 
not his din; 

His hat gives him vigour, with boons drop- 
ping in, 

From the old and the young, from the 
poorest ; and there ! 

The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare. 

blest are the hearers, and proud be the 

hand 
Of the pleasure it spreads through so thank- 
ful a band; 30 

1 am glad for him, blind as he is ! — all the 

while 
If they speak 't is to praise, and they praise 
with a smile. 

That tall Man, a giant in bulk and hi 1 

height, 
Not an inch of his body is free from delight; 
Can he keep himself still, if he would ? oh, 

not he ! 
The music stirs in him like wind through a ( 

tree. 

Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch; 

like a tower 
That long has leaned forward, leans hour 

after hour ! — 
That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is 

bound, 
While she dandles the Babe in her arms to 

the sound. 4° 



"YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO" 



345 



Now, coaches and chariots ! roar on like a 

stream; 
Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a 

dream : 
They are deaf to your murmurs — they care 

not for you, 
Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue ! 



STAR-GAZERS 

1806. 1807 

Observed by me in Leicester-square, as here 
described. 

What crowd is this ? what have we here ! 

we must not pass it by; 
A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to 

the sky : 
Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of 

little boat, 
Some little pleasure-skiff, that doth on 

Thames 's water float. 

The Showman chooses well his place, 't is 

Leicester's busy Square; 
And is as happy in his night, for the 

heavens are blue and fair; 
Calm, though impatient, is the crowd; each 

stands ready with the fee, 
And envies him that 's looking; — what an 

insight must it be ! 

Yet, Showman, where can lie the cause ? 

Shall thy Implement have blame, 
A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and 

is put to shame ? 10 

Or is it good as others are, and be their 

eyes in fault ? 
Their eyes, or minds ? or, finally, is yon 

resplendent vault ? 

Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as 

we have here ? 
Or gives a thing but small delight that 

never can be dear ? 
The silver moon with all her vales, and 

hills of mightiest fame, 
Doth she betray us when they 're seen ? or 

are they but a name ? 

Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and 

strong, 
And bounty never yields so much but it 

seems to do her wrong 1 ? 



Or is it, that when human Souls a journey 

long have had 
And are returned into themselves, they 

cannot but be sad ? 20 

Or must we be constrained to think that 

these Spectators rude, 
Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the 

multitude, 
Have souls which never yet have risen, and 

therefore prostrate lie ? 
No, no, this cannot be ; — men thirst for 

power and majesty ! 

Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the 

blissful mind employ 
Of him who gazes, or has gazed ? a grave 

and steady joy, 
That doth reject all show of pride, admits 

no outward sign, 
Because not of this noisy world, but silent 

and divine ! 

Whatever be the cause, 't is sure that they 
who pry and pore 

Seem to meet with little gain, seem less 
happy than before: 30 

One after One they take their turn, nor 
have I one espied 

That doth not slackly go away, as if dis- 
satisfied. 



"YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN 
ECHO" 

1806. 1807 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The echo 
came from Nab-scar, when I was walking; on 
the opposite side of Rydal Mere. I will here 
mention, for my dear Sister's sake, that, while 
she was sitting alone one day high up on this 
part of Lougbrig'g: Fell, she was so affected by 
the voice of the Cuckoo heard from the crag's 
at some distance that she could not suppress a 
wish to have a stone inscribed with her name 
among; the rocks from which the sound pro- 
ceeded. On my return from my walk I recited 
these verses to Mrs. Wordsworth. 

Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 
Solitary, clear, profound, 
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, 
Giving to her sound for sound ! 

Unsolicited reply 

To a babbling wanderer sent; 



346 



"NUNS FRET NOT 



Like her ordinary cry, 

Like — but ok, how different ! 

Hears not also mortal Life ? 
Hear not we, unthinking Creatures ! 
Slaves of folly, love, or strife — 
Voices of two different natures ? 

Have not we too ? — yes, we have 
Answers, and we know not whence; 
Echoes from beyond the grave, 
Recognised intelligence ! 

Such rebounds our inward ear 
Catches sometimes from afar — 
Listen, ponder, hold them dear; 
For of God, — of God they are. 



"NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR 
CONVENT'S NARROW ROOM" 

1806. 1807 

In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one 
afternoon in 1801, my sister read to me the 
Sonnets of Milton. I had long been well ac- 
quainted with them, hut I was particularly 
struck on that occasion with the dignified sim- 
plicity and majestic harmony that runs through 
most of them, — in character so totally dif- 
ferent from the Italian, and still more so from 
Shakspeare's fine Sonnets. I took fire, if I 
may be allowed to say so, and produced three 
Sonnets the same afternoon, the first I ever 
wrote except an irregular one at school. Of 
these three, the only one I distinctly remember 
is — "I grieved • for Buonaparte." One was 
never written down : the third, which was, I 
believe, preserved, I cannot particularise. 

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow 

room ; 
And hermits are contented with their cells ; 
And students with their pensive citadels; 
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, 
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for 

bloom, 
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, 
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : 
In truth the prison, into which we doom"] 
Ourselves, no prison isj] and hence for me, 
~Ih sundry moods, 't was pastime to be bound 
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground; 
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs 

must be) 



Who have felt the weight of too much lib- 
erty, 

Should find brief solace there, as I have 
found. 



PERSONAL TALK 

1806. 1807 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The- last 
line but two stood, at first, better and more 
characteristically, thus : 

" By my half-kitchen and half-parlour fire." 

My Sister and I were in the habit of having the 
tea-kettle in our little sitting-room ; and we 
toasted the bread ourselves, which reminds me 
of a little circumstance not unworthy of being 
set down among these minutiae. Happening 
both of us to be engaged a few minutes one 
morning when we had a young prig of a Scotch 
lawyer to breakfast with us, my clear Sister, with 
her usual simplicity, put the toasting-fork with 
a slice of bread into the hands of this Edin- 
burgh genius. Our little book-case stood on 
one side of the fire. To prevent loss of time, 
he took down a book, and fell to reading, to 
the neglect of the toast, which was burnt to a 
cinder. Many a time have we laughed at this 
circumstance, and other cottage simplicities of 
that day. By the bye, I have a spite at one 
of this series of Sonnets (I will leave the reader 
to discover which) as having been the means 
of nearly putting off for ever our acquaintance 
with dear Miss Fenwick, who has always stig- 
matised one line of it as vulgar, and worthy 
only of having been composed by a country 
squire. 



I am not One who much or oft delight 
To season my fireside with personal talk. — 
Of friends, who live within an easy walk, 
Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight: 
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies 

bright, 
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the 

stalk, 
These all wear out of me, like Forms, with 

chalk 
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast- 
night. 
Better than such discourse doth silence 

long, 
Long, barren silence, square with my de- 
sire; 10 
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, 
Li the loved presence of my cottage-fire, 



"BELOVED VALE!" I SAID, "WHEN I SHALL CON" 347 



And listen to the flapping of the flame, 
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. 



" Yet life," you say, " is life; we have seen 

and see, 
And with a living pleasure we describe; 
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe 
The languid mind into activity. 
Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and 

glee 
Are fostered by the comment and the gibe." 
Even be it so; yet still among your tribe, .21 
Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not 

me ! 
Children are blest, and powerful; their 

world lies 
More justly balanced; partly at their feet, 
And part far from them : sweetest melodies 
Are those that are by distance made more 

sweet; 
Whose mind is but the mind of his own 

eyes, 
He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet ! 



Wings have we, — and as far as we can go, 
We may find pleasure: wilderness and 

wood, 3° 

Blank ocean and mere sky, support that 

mood 
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. 
Dreams, books, are each a world; and 

books, we know, 
Are a substantial world, both pure and 

good : 
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh 

and blood, 
Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 
There find I personal themes, a plenteous 

store, 
Matter wherein right voluble I am, 
To which I listen with a ready ear; 
Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, — 
The gentle Lady married to the Moor; 41 
And heavenly Una with her milk-white 

Lamb. 

IV 

Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote 
From evil-speaking ; rancour, never sought, 
Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. 
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I 



Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joy- 
ous thought: 
And thus from day to day my little boat 
Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 50 
Blessings be with them — and eternal 

praise, 
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler 

cares — 
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs 
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! 
Oh ! might my name be numbered among 

theirs, 
Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 



ADMONITION 

1806. 1807 

Intended more particularly for the perusal of 
those who may have happened to be enamoured 
of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the 
Country of the Lakes. 

Well may'st thou halt — and gaze with 

brightening eye ! 
The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 
Hath stirred thee deeply ; with its own dear 

brook, 
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ? 
But covet not the Abode ; — forbear to sigh, 
As many do, repining while they look ; 
Intruders — who would tear from Nature's 

book 
This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. 
Think what the home must be if it were 

thine, 
Even thine, though few thy wants ! — Roof, 

window, door, 
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 
The roses to the porch which they entwine : 
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the 

day 
Or which it should be touched, would melt 

away. 



"BELOVED VALE!" I SAID, 
"WHEN I SHALL CON " 

1806. 1807 

" Beloved Vale !" I said, "when I shall con 
Those many records of my childish years, 
Remembrance of myself and of my peers 
Will press me down: to think of what is 
gone 



348 "HOW SWEET IT IS, WHEN MOTHER FANCY ROCKS" 



Will be an awful thought, if life have one." 
But, when hito the Vale I came, no fears 
Distressed me ; from mine eyes escaped no 

tears ; 
Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had 

I none. 
By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost 
I stood, of simple shame the blushing 

Thrall; 
So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so 

small ! 
A Juggler's balls old Time about him 

tossed; 
I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; 

and all 
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost. 



"HOW SWEET IT IS, WHEN 
MOTHER FANCY ROCKS" 

1S06. 1807 

How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks 
The wayward brain, to saunter through a 

wood ! 
An old place, full of many a lovely brood, 
Tall trees, green arbours, and ground- 
flowers in flocks; 
And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks, 
Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks 
At Wakes and Fairs with wandering 

Mountebanks, — 
When she stands cresting the Clown's head, 

and mocks 
The crowd beneath her. Verily I think, 
Such place to me is sometimes like a dream 
Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link 

by link, 
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such 

gleam 
Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink, 
And leap at once from the delicious stream. 



"THOSE WORDS WERE UTTERED 
AS IN PENSIVE MOOD" 

1806. 1807 

" they are of tlie sky, 

And from our earthly memory fade away." 

Those words were uttered as in pensive 

mood 
We turned, departing from that solemn 

sight: 



A contrast and reproach to gross delight, 
And life's unspiritual pleasures daily 

wooed ! 
But now upon this thought I cannot brood; 
It is unstable as a dream of night; 
Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright, 
Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. 
Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built 

dome, 
Though clad in colours beautiful and pure, 
Find in the heart of man no natural home : 
The immortal Mind craves objects that 

endure : 
These cleave to it; from these it cannot 

roam, 
Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure. 



COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OF 
GRASMERE LAKE 

1806. 1820 

Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars 
Through the grey west; and lo ! these 

waters, steeled 
By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield 
A vivid repetition of the stars; 
Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars 
Amid his fellows beauteously revealed 
At happy distance from earth's groaning 

field, 
Where ruthless mortals wage incessant 

wars. 
Is it a mirror ? — or the nether Sphere 
Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds 
Her own calm fires ? — But list ! a voice is 

near; 
Great Pan himself low-whispering through 

the reeds, 
" Be thankful, thou ; for, if unholy deeds 
Ravage the world, tranquillity is here ! " 



"WITH HOW SAD STEPS, O MOON, 
THOU CLIMB'ST THE SKY" 

1806. 1807 

"With how sad steps, O Moon, thou 

climb'st the sky, 
How silently, and with how wan a face ! " 
Where art thou ? Thou so often seen on 

high 
Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's 

race i 



TO SLEEP 



349 



Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath 's a 

sigh 
Which they would stifle, move at such a 

pace ! 
The northern Wind, to call thee to the 

chase, 
Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I 
The power of Merlin, Goddess ! this should 

be: 
And all the stars, fast as the clouds were 

riven, 
Should sally forth, to keep thee company, 
Hurry ing and sparkling through the clear 

blue heaven. 
But, Cynthia ! should to thee the palm be 

given, 
Queen both for beauty and for majesty. 



"THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH 
WITH US; LATE AND SOON" 

1806. 1807 

The world is too much with us; late and 

soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our 

powers: 
Little we see in Nature that is ours; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid 

boon ! 
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping 

flowers; 
For this, for everything, we are out of 

tune ; 
It moves us not. — Great God ! I 'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less 

forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 



"WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS 
SPRINKLED FAR AND NIGH " 

1806. 1807 

With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and 

nigh, 
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it 

showed; 



Some lying fast at anchor in the road, 
Some veering up and down, one knew not 

why. 
A goodly Vessel did I then espy 
Come like a giant from a haven broad; 
And lustily along the bay she strode, 
Her tackling rich, and of apparel high. 
This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her, 
Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look; 
This Ship to all the rest did I prefer: 
When will she turn, and whither ? She 

will brook 
No tarrying; where She comes the winds 

must stir: 
On went She, and due north her journey 

took. 



"WHERE LIES THE LAND TO 
WHICH YON SHIP MUST GO?" 

1S06. 1807 

Where lies the Land to which yon Ship 

must go ? 
Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, 
Festively she puts forth in trim array; 
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow ? 
What boots the inquiry ? — Neither friend 

nor foe 
She cares for ; let her travel where she may, 
She finds familiar names, a beaten way 
Ever before her, and a wind to blow. 
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark ? 
And, almost as it was when ships we're rare, 
(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and 

there 
Crossing the waters) doubt, and something 

dark, 
Of the old Sea some reverential fear, 
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark ! 



TO SLEEP 

1806. 1807 

O gentle Sleep ! do they belong to thee, 
These twinklings of oblivion ? Thou dost 

love 
To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, 
A captive never wishing to be free. 
This tiresome night, O Sleep ! thou art to 

me 
A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove 
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above 
Now on the water vexed with mockery. 



35° 



TO SLEEP 



I have no pain that calls for patience, no; 
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child: 
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my 

foe, 
Yet ever willing to be reconciled: 
O gentle Creature ! do not use me so, 
But once and deeply let me be beguiled. 



TO SLEEP 

1806. 1807 

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, 
One after one ; the sound of ram, and bees 
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and 

seas, 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and 

pure sky; 
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do 

lie 
Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' melo- 
dies 
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard 

trees ; 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
Even thus last night, and two nights more, 

I lay, 
And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any 

stealth: 
So do not let me wear to-night away: 
Without Thee what is all the morning's 

wealth ? 
Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous 

health ! 



TO SLEEP 

1806. 1807 

Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, 

Sleep ! 
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest 

names ; 
The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames, 
When thankfulness of heart is strong and 

deep ! 
Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost 

steep 
In rich reward all suffering; Balm that 

tames 
All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and 

aims 
Takest away, and into souls dost creep, 



Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone, 

I surely not a man ungently made, 

Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is 

crost ? 
Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown, 
Mere slave of them who never for thee 

prayed, 
Still last to come where thou art wanted 

most ! 

TWO TRANSLATIONS FROM 
MICHAEL ANGELO, AND A 
TRANSLATION FROM THE 
LATIN OF THOMAS WARTON 

(?). 1882 

Night speaks 

Grateful is Sleep, my life in stone bound 

fast; 
More grateful still: while wrong and shame 

shall last, 
On me can Time no happier state bestow 
Than to be left unconscious of the woe. 
Ah then, lest you awaken me, speak low. 

Grateful is Sleep, more grateful still to be 
Of marble; for while shameless wrong and 

woe 
Prevail, 't is best to neither hear nor see. 
Then wake me not, I pray you. Hush, 

speak low. 

Come, gentle Sleep, Death's image tho' 

thou art, 
Come share my couch, nor speedily depart; 
How sweet thus living without life to lie, 
Thus without death how sweet it is to die. 



FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL 
•ANGELO 

1806. 1807 

Translations from Michael Angelo, done at 
the request of Mr. Duppa, whose acquaintance 
I made through Mr. Southey. Mr. Duppa was 
engaged in writing the life of Michael Angelo, 
and applied to Mr. Southey and myself to fur- 
nish some specimens of his poetic genius. 



Yes ! hope may with my strong desire 

keep pace, 
And I be undeluded, unbetrayed; 



"METHOUGHT I SAW THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE" 351 



For if of our affections none finds grace 
In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath 

God made 
The world which we inhabit ? Better plea 
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee 
Glory to that eternal Peace is paid, 
Who such divinity to thee imparts 
As hallows and makes pure all gentle 

hearts. 
His hope is treacherous only whose love 

dies 
With beauty, which is varying every hour; 
But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the 

power 
Of outward change, there blooms a death- 
less flower, 
That breathes on earth the air of paradise. 



FROM THE SAME 



1806. 1807 



No mortal object did these eyes behold 
When first they met the placid light of 

thine, 
And my Soul felt her destiny divine, 
And hope of endless peace in me grew bold : 
Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven -ward 

course must hold; 
Beyond the visible world she soars to seek 
(For what delights the sense is false and 

weak) 
Ideal Form, the universal mould. 
The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest 
In that which perishes: nor will he lend 
His heart to aught which doth on time de- 
pend. 
'T is sense, unbridled will, and not true 

love, 
That kills the soul : love betters what is 

best, 
Even here below, but more in heaven above. 



TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY 
CALVERT 

1806. 1807 

This young man, Raisley Calvert, to whom I 
was so much indebted, died at Penrith, 1795. 

Calvert ! it must not be unheard by them 
Who may respect my name, that I to thee 



Owed many years of early liberty. 
This care was thine when sickness did con- 
demn 
Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and 

stem — 
That I, if frugal and severe, might stray 
Where'er I liked; and finally array 
My temples with the Muse's diadem. 
Hence, if hi freedom I have loved the 

truth ; 
If there be aught of pure, or good, or 

great, 
In my past verse ; or shall be, in the lays 
Of higher mood, which now I meditate ; — 
It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, 

Youth ! 
To think how much of this will be thy 
praise. 



" METHOUGHT I SAW THE FOOT- 
STEPS OF A THRONE " 

1806. 1S07 

The latter part of this Sonnet was a great 
favourite with my sister S. H. When I saw 
her lying in death, I could not resist the im- 
pulse to compose the Sonnet that follows it. 

[See the editor's note.] 

Methought I saw the footsteps of a 
throne 

Which mists and vapours from mine eyes 
did shroud — 

Nor view of who might sit thereon al- 
lowed ; 

But all the steps and ground about were 
strown 

With sights the ruefullest that flesh and 
bone 

Ever put on; a miserable crowd, 

Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before 
that cloud, 

" Thou art our king, O Death ! to thee we 
groan." 

Those steps I clomb; the mists before me 
gave 

Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one 

Sleeping alone within a mossy cave, 

With her face up to heaven; that seemed 
to have 

Pleasing remembrance of a thought fore- 
gone; 

A lovely Beauty in a summer grave ! 



LINES 



LINES 

1806. 1S07 

Composed at Grasmere, during- a walk one 
Evening, after a stormy day, the Author hav- 
ing just read iu a Newspaper that the dissolu- 
tion of Mr. Fox was hourly expected. 

Loud is the Yale ! the Voice is up 

With which she speaks when storms are 

gone, 
A mighty unison of streams ! 
Of all her Voices, One ! 

Loud is the Vale ; — this inland Depth 
In peace is roaring like the Sea; 
Yon star upon the mountain-top 
Is listening quietly. 

Sad was I, even to pain deprest, 
Importunate and heavy load ! 
The Comforter hath fotmd me here. 
Upon this lonely road; 

And many thousands now are sad — 
Wait the fulfilment of their fear; 
For he must die who is their stay. 
Their glory disappear. 

A Power is passing from the earth 
To breathless Nature's dark abyss; 
But when the great and good depart 
What is it more than this — 

That Man, who is from God sent forth, 
Doth yet again to God return ? — 
Such ebb and flow must ever be, 
Then wherefore should we mourn ? 



NOVEMBER 1806 

1S06. 1S07 

Another year ! — another deadly blow ! 
Another mighty Empire overthrown ! 
And We are left, or shall be left, alone ; 
The last that dare to struggle with the 

Foe. 
'T is well ! from this day forward we shall 

know 
That in ourselves our safety must be sought; 
That by our own right hands it must be 

wrought ; 
That we must stand unpropped, or be laid 

low. 



O dastard whom such foretaste doth not 

cheer ! 
We shall exult, if they who rule the land 
Be men who hold its many blessings dear, 
Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band, 
Who are to judge of danger which they 

fear, 
And honour which they do not understand. 



ADDRESS TO A CHILD 

JDURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING 

BY MY SISTER 

1S06. 1S15 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. 

What way does the wind come ? What 

way does he go ? 
He rides over the water, and over the snow, 
Through w r ood, and through vale ; and, o'er 

rocky height 
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his 

sounding flight; 
He tosses about in every bare tree, 
As, if you look up, you plainly may see; 
But how he will come, and whither he goes, 
There 's never a scholar in England knows. 

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook 
And ring a sharp 'lartim; — but, if you 

should look, 10 

There 's nothing to see but a cushion of snow 
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk, 
And softer than if it were covered with silk. 
Sometimes he '11 hide in the cave of a rock, 
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock; 
— Yet seek him, — and what shall you find 

in the place ? 
Nothing but silence and empty space; 
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves, 
That he 's left, for a bed, to beggars or 

thieves ! 
As soon as 't is daylight to-morrow, with me 
You shall go to the orchard, and then you 

will see 21 

That he has been there, and made a gTeat 

rout, 
And cracked the branches, and strewn them 

about; 
Heaven grant that he spare but that one 

upright twig 
That looked up at the sky so proud and big 
All last summer, as well you know, 
Studded with apples, a beautiful show ! 



ODE 



353 



Hark ! over the roof he makes a pause, 
And growls as if he would fix his claws 
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle 
Drive them down, like men hi a battle: 31 

— But let him range round; he does us no 

harm, 

We build up the fire, we 're snug and warm ; 

Untouched by his breath see the candle 
shines bright, 

And burns with a clear and steady light; 

Books have we to read, — but that half- 
stifled knell, 

Alas ! 't is the sound of the eight o'clock 
bell. 

— Come, now we '11 to bed ! and when we 

are there 
He may work his own will, and what shall 

we care ? 
He may knock at the door, — we '11 not let 

him in; 40 

May drive at the windows, — we '11 laugh at 

his din; 
Let him seek his own home wherever it 

be; 
Here 's a cozie warm house for Edward and 

me. 

ODE 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 
FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF 
EARLY CHILDHOOD 

1803-6. 1807 

This was composed during my residence at 
Town-end, Grasmere. Two years at least 
passed between the writing of the four first 
stanzas and the remaining part. To the atten- 
tive and competent reader the whole suffi- 
ciently explains itself ; but there may he no 
harm in adverting here to particular feelings or 
experiences of my own mind on which the struc- 
ture of the poem parrly rests. Nothing was 
more difficult for me in childhood than to ad- 
mit the notion of death as a state applicable to 
my own being. I have said elsewhere — 

" A simple child, 
That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb, 
What should it know of death ! " — 

But it was not so much from feelings of ani- 
mal vivacity that my difficulty came as from 
a sense of the indomitableness of the Spirit 
within me. I used to brood over the stories of 
Enoch and Elijah, and almost to persuade my- 
self that, whatever might become of others, I 
should be translated, in something of the same 



way, to heaven. With a feeling congenial to 
this, I was often unable to think of external 
things as having external existence, and i com- 
muned with all that I saw as something not 
apart from, but inherent in, my own immate- 
rial nature. Many times while going to school 
have 1 grasped at a wall or tree to recall myself 
from this abyss of idealism to the reality. At 
that time I was afraid of such processes. In 
later periods of life 1 have deplored, as we have 
all reason to do, a subjugation of an opposite 
character, and have rejoiced over the remem- 
brances, as is expressed in the lines — 

" Obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vauishings ; " etc. 

To that dreamdike vividness and splendour 
which invest objects of sight in childhood, 
every one, I believe, if lie would look back, 
could bear testimony, and I need not dwell 
upon it here : but having in the poem regarded 
it as presumptive evidence of a prior state of 
existence. I think it right to protest against a 
I conclusion, which has given pain to some good 
and pious persons, that I meant to inculcate 
such a belief. It is far too shadowy a notion 
to be recommended to faith, as more than an 
element in our instincts of immortality. But 
let us bear in mind that, though the idea is 
not advanced in revelation, there is nothing 
there to contradict it, and the fall of Man pre- 
sents an analogy in its favour. Accordingly, a 
pre-existent state has entered into the popular 
creeds of many nations ; and, among all per- 
sons acquainted with classic literature, is known 
as an ingredient in Platonic philosophy- 
Archimedes said that he could move the world 
if he had a point whereon to rest his machine. 
Who has not felt the same aspirations as re- 
gards the world of his own mind ? Having to 
wield some of its elements when I was im- 
pelled to write this poem on the " Immortality 
of the Soul," I took hold of the notion of pre- 
existence as having sufficient foundation in 
humanity for authorising me to make for my 
purpose the best use of it I could as a poet. 

" The Child is Father of the Man ; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. " 



There was a time when meadow, grove. 

and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight, 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore : — 



354 



ODE 



Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can 
see no more. 

II 
The Rainbow comes and goes, 10 
And lovely is the Rose, 
The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare, 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath past away a glory from the 
earth. 

Ill 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous 

song, 

And while the young lambs bound 20 

As to the tabor's sound, 

To me alone there came a thought of grief : 

A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong: 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the 

steep; 
No more shall grief of mine the season 

wrong; 
I hear the Echoes through the mountains 

throng, 
The Winds come to me from the fields of 
sleep, 

And all the earth is gay; 

Land and sea 30 

Give themselves up to jollity, 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast keep holiday; — 
Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, 
thou happy 

Shepherd-boy ! 



Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you hi your jubilee ; 
My heart is at your festival, 40 

My head hath its coronal, 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it 
all. 
Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning, 

This sweet May-morning, 
And the Children are culling 
On every side, 



In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines 
warm, 
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's 
arm : — 50 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
— But there 's a Tree, of many, one, 
A single Field which I have looked upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is 
gone: 
The Pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat: 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetthig: 
The Sold that rises with us, our life's Star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 61 

And cometh from afar: 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home: 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it 

flows, 70 

He sees it in his joy; 
The Youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 



Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 

Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 

And, even with something of a Mother's 

mind, So 

And no unworthy aim, 

The homely Nurse doth all she can 
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known, ' . 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 



Behold the Child among his new-born 

blisses, 
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he 

lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 



ODE 



355 



With light upon him from his father's 
eyes ! 90 

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human 

life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 
A wedding or a festival, 
A mourning or a funeral; 

And this hath now his heart, 
And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 
But it will not be long 100 

Ere this be thrown aside, 
And with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part; 
Fdling from time to time his " humorous 

stage " 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage; 
As if his whole vocation 
Were endless imiiacion. 



Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
Thy Soul's immensity; no 

Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal 

deep, 
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — 
Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 
On whom those truths do rest, 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by; 121 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's 

height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou 

provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly 

freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 



O joy ! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 
That nature } r et remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 



The thought of our past years in me doth 

breed 
Perpetual benediction: not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest — 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in 
his breast: — 
Not for these I raise 140 

The song of thanks and praise; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings; 
Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realised, 
High instincts before which our mortal 

Nature 
Did tremble like a giulty Thing surprised: 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 150 

Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing; 
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to 
make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 

To perish never; 
Which neither listlessuess, nor mad en- 
deavour, 
Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 160 

Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather 
Though inland far we be, 
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither, 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling ever- 
more. 



Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous 
song ! 
And let the young Lambs bound 170 
As to the tabor's sound ! 

We in thought will join your throng, 
Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May ! 

What though the radiance which was once 
so bright 

Be now for ever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can brinsr back the hour 



356 



A PROPHECY 



Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the 
flower; 

We will grieve not, rather find 180 

Strength in what remains behind; 

In the primal sympathy 

Which having been must ever be; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering; 

In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI 

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and 

Groves, 
Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 
I only have relinquished one delight 191 
To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
I love the Brooks which down their chan- 
nels fret, 
Even more than when I tripped lightly as 

■ they; 
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 

Is lovely yet; 
The Clouds that gather round the setting 

sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms 

are won. 200 

Thanks to the human heart by which we 

live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can 

give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for 

tears. 



A PROPHECY. February 1807 
1807. 1807 

High deeds, O Germans, are to come 

from you ! 
Thus in your books the record shall be 

found, 
" A watchword was pronounced, a potent 

sound — 
Arminius ! — all the people quaked like 

dew 
Stirred by the breeze; they rose, a Nation, 

true, 
True to herself — the mightv Germany, 
She of the Danube and the Northern Sea, 
She rose, and off at once the yoke she threw. 



All power was given her in the dreadful 

trance ; 
Those new-born Kings he withered like a 

flame." 
— Woe to them all ! but heaviest woe and 

shame 
To that Bavarian who could first advance 
His banner in accursed league with France ; 
First open traitor to the German name ! 



THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE 
SUBJUGATION OF SWITZER- 
LAND 

1807. 1807 

This was composed while pacing to and fro 
between the Hall of Coleorton, then rebuilding, 
and the principal Farm- bouse of the Estate, in 
which we lived for nine or ten months. I will 
here mention that the Song on the Restoration 
of Lord Clifford, as well as that on the feast of 
Brougham Castle, were produced on the same 
ground. 

Two Yoices are there; one is of the sea, 
One of the mountains ; each a mighty Voice : 
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 
They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! 
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee 
Thou f ought'st against him ; but hast vainly 

striven: 
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art 

driven, 
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been be- 
reft: 
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is 

left; 
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would 

it be 
That Mountain floods should thunder as be- 
fore, 
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, 
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee ! 



TO THOMAS CLARKSON 

ON THE FINAL PASSING OF THE BILL 
FOR THE ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE 
TRADE 

1807. 1807 

Clarkson ! it was an obstinate hill to 

climb : 
How toilsome — nay, how dire — it was, by 

thee 



GIPSIES 



357 



Is known; by none, perhaps, so feelingly: 
But thou, who, starting in thy fervent 

prime, 
Didst first lead forth that enterprise sub- 
lime, 
Hast heard the constant Voice its charge 

repeat, 
Which, out of thy young heart's oracular 

seat, 
First roused thee. — O true yoke-fellow of 

Time, 
Duty's intrepid liegeman, see, the palm 
Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn ! 
The blood-stained Writing is for ever torn ; 
And thou henceforth wilt have a good man's 

calm, 
A great man's happiness; thy zeal shall find 
Repose at length, firm friend of human 

kind ! 



THE MOTHER'S RETURN 

BY MY SISTER 

1807. 1815 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. 

A month, sweet Little-ones, is past 
Since your dear Mother went away, — 
And she to-morrow will return; 
To-morrow is the happy day. 

blessed tidings ! thought of joy f 
Th3 eldest heard with steady glee; 
Silent he stood; then laughed amain, — 
And shouted, " Mother, come to me." 

Louder and louder did he shout, 
With witless hope to bring her near; k 

" Nay, patience ! patience, little boy ! 
Your tender mother cannot hear." 

1 told of hills, and far-off towns, 

And long, long vales to travel through; — 
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed, 
But he submits; what can he do ? 

No strife disturbs his sister's breast; 
She wars not with the mystery 
Of time and distance, night and day; 
The bonds of our humanity. a< 



Her joy is like an instinct, joy 
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly; 



She dances, runs without an aim, 
She chatters in her ecstasy. 

Her brother now takes up the note, 
And echoes back his sister's glee; 
They hug the infant in my arms, 
As if to force his sympathy. 

Then, settling into fond discourse, 
We rested in the garden bower; 30 

While sweetly shone the evening sun 
In his departing hour. 

We told o'er all that we had done, — 
Our rambles by the swift brook's side 
Far as the willow-skirted pool, 
Where two fair swans together glide. 

We talked of change, of winter gone, 
Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray. 
Of birds that build their nests and sing, 
And all " since Mother went away ! " 40 

To her these tales they will repeat, 
To her our new-born tribes will show, 
The goslings green, the ass's colt, 
The lambs that in the meadow go. 

— But, see, the evening star comes forth ! 
To bed the children must depart; 
A moment's heaviness they feel, 
A sadness at the heart: 

'T is gone — and in a merry fit 

They run upstairs in gamesome race; 50 

I, too, infected by their mood, 

I could have joined the wanton chase. 

Five minutes past — and, O the change ! 
Asleep upon their beds they lie; 
Their busy limbs in perfect rest, 
And closed the sparkling eye. 



GIPSIES 

1807. 1S07 

Composed at Coleorton. I had observed 
them, as here described, near Castle Donning'- 
ton, on my way to and from Derby. 

Yet are they here the same unbroken knot 
Of human Beings, in the self-same spot ! 
Men, women, children, yea the frame 
Of the whole spectacle the same ! 
Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light, 
Now deep and red, the colouring of night; 



3S3 



"O NIGHTINGALE! THOU SURELY ART' 



That on their Gipsy-faces falls, 
Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. 

— Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours 
are gone, while I 

Have been a traveller under open sky, 

Much witnessing of change and cheer, 
Yet as I left I find them here ! 

The weary Sun betook himself to rest; — 

Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west, 
Outshining like a visible God 
The glorious path in which he trod. 

And now, ascending, after one dark hour 

And one night's diminution of her power, 
Behold the mighty Moon ! this way 
She looks as if at them — but they 

Regard not her: — oh better wrong and 
strife 

(Ry nature transient) than this torpid life; 
Life which the very stars reprove 
As on their silent tasks they move ! 

Yet, witness all that stirs hi heaven or earth ! 

In scorn I speak not; — they are what their 
birth 
And breeding suffer them to be; 
Wild outcasts of society ! 



"O NIGHTINGALE! THOU 
SURELY ART" 

1807. 1807 

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. (Mrs. W. 
toys in a note — " At Coleorton.") 

Nightingale ! thou surely art 
A creature of a " fiery heart ": — 

These notes of thine — they pierce and 

pierce ; 
Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 
Thou sing'st as if the God of wine 
Had helped thee to a Valentine; 
A song in mockery and despite 
Of shades, and dews, and silent night; 
And steady bliss, and all the loves 
Now sleeping hi these peaceful groves. 

1 heard a Stock-dove sing or say 
His homely tale, this very day; 
His voice was buried among trees, 
Yet to be come at by the breeze: 

He did not cease ; but cooed — and cooed ; 
And somewhat pensively he wooed: 
He sang of love, with quiet blending, 
Slow to begin, and never ending; 
Of serious faith, and inward glee; 
That was the song — the song for me ! 



TO LADY BEAUMONT 

1807. 1807 

The winter garden of Coleorton, fashioned 
out of an old quarry under the superintendence 
and direction of Mrs. Wordsworth and my sis- 
ter Dorothy, during the winter and spring we 
resided there. 

Lady ! the songs of Spring were in the 
grove 

While I was shaping beds for winter 
flowers ; 

While I was planting green unfading 
bowers, 

And shrubs — to hang upon the warm al- 
cove, 

And sheltering wall; and still, as Fancy 
wove 

The dream, to time and nature's blended 
powers 

I gave this paradise for whiter hours, 

A labyrinth, Lady ! which your feet shall 
rove. 

Yes ! when the sun of life more feebly 
shines, 

Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn 
gloom 

Or of high gladness you shall hither bring; 

And these perennial bowers and murmur- 
ing pines 

Be gracious as the music and the bloom 

And all the mighty ravishment of spring. 



"THOUGH NARROW BE THAT 
OLD MAN'S CARES" 

1S07. 1S07 

" gives to airy nothing 

A local habitation and a name." 

Written at Coleorton. This old man's name 
was Mitchell. He was, in all his ways and con- 
versation, a great curiosity, both individually 
and as a representative of past times. His chief 
employment was keeping watch at night by 
pacing round the house, at that time building, 
to keep off depredators. He has often told me 
gravely of having seen the Seven Whistlers and 
the Hounds as here described. Among the 
groves of Coleorton. where I became familiar 
with the habits and notions of old Mitchell, 
there was also a labourer of whom, I regret, I 
had no personal knowledge ; for, more than 
forty years after, when he was become an old 
man, I learnt that while I was composing 
verses, which I usually did aloud, he took 



SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE 



359 



much pleasure, unknown to me, in following 

my steps that he might catch the words I ut- 
tered ; and, what is not a little remarkable, 
several lines caught in this way kept their place 
in his memory. My volumes have lately been 
given to him by my informant, and surely he 
must have been gratified to meet in print his 
old acquaintances. 

Though narrow be that old Man's cares, 

and near, 
The poor old Man is greater than he seems : 
For he hath waking empire, wide as 

dreams ; 
An ample sovereignty of eye and ear. 
Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer ; 
The region of his inner spirit teems 
With vital sounds and monitory gleams 
Of high astonishment and pleasing fear. 
He the seven birds hath seen, that never 

part, 
Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly 

rounds, 
And counted them: and oftentimes will 

start — 
For overhead are sweeping Gabriel's 

Hounds 
Doomed, with their impious Lord, the 

flying Hart 
To chase for ever, on aerial grounds ! 



SONG AT THE 
FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE 

UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIF- 
FORD, THE SHEPHERD, TO THE ESTATES 
AND HONOURS OF HIS ANCESTORS 

1S07. 1S07 

This poem was composed at Coleorton while 
I was walking to and fro along the path that 
led from Sir George Beaumont's Farm-house, 
where we resided, to the Hall which was build- 
ing at that time. 

High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel 

sate, 
And Emont's murmur mingled with the 

Song. — 
The words of ancient time I thus translate, 
A festal strain that hath been silent 

long: — 
" From town to town, from tower to tower, 
The red rose is a gladsome flower. 
Her thirty years of winter past, 
The red rose is revived at last ; 



She lifts her head for endless spring, 

For everlasting blossoming: 10 

Both roses flourish, red and white: 

In love and sisterly delight 

The two that were at strife are blended, 

And all old troubles now are ended. — 

Joy ! joy to both ! but most to her 

Who is the flower of Lancaster ! 

Behold her how She smiles to-day 

On this great throng, this bright array ! 

Fair greeting doth she send to all 

From every corner of the hall; 20 

But chiefly from above the board 

Where sits in state our rightful Lord, 

A Clifford to his own restored ! 

They came with banner, spear, and shield, 
And it was proved in Bosworth-field. 
Not long the Avenger was withstood — 
Earth helped him with the cry of blood: 
St. George was for us, and the might 
Of blessed Angels crowned the right. 
Loud voice the Land has uttered forth, 30 
We loudest in the faithful north: 
Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, 
Our streams proclaim a welcoming; 
Our strong-abodes and castles see 
The glory of their loyalty. 

How glad is Skipton at this hour — 
Though lonely, a deserted Tower; 
Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and 

groom : 
We have them at the feast of Brough'm. 
How glad Pendragon — though the sleep 40 
Of years be on her ! — She shall reap 
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 
As in a dream her own renewing. 
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem 
Beside her little humble stream; 
And she that keepeth watch and ward 
Her statelier Eden's course to guard; 
They both are happy at this hour, 
Though each is but a lonely Tower: — 
But here is perfect joy and pride 50 

For one fair House by Emont's side, 
This day, distinguished without peer 
To see her Master and to cheer — 
Him, and his Lady-mother dear ! 

Oh ! it was a time forlorn 
When the fatherless was born — 
Give her wings that she may fly, 
Or she sees her infant die ! 
Swords that are with slaughter wild 
Hunt the Mother and the Child. 60 

Who will take them from the light ? 
— Yonder is a man in sight — 



360 



SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE 



Yonder is a house — but where ? 

No, they must not enter there. 

To the caves, and to the brooks, 

To the clouds of heaven she looks; 

She is speechless, but her eyes 

Pray in ghostly agonies. 

Blissful Mary, Mother mild, 

Maid and Mother midefiled, 70 

Save a Mother and her Child ! 

Now Who is he that bounds with joy 
On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy ? 
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that 

pass 
Light as the wind along the grass. 
Can this be He who hither came 
In secret, like a smothered flame ? 
O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 
For shelter, and a poor man's bread ! 
God loves the Child; and God hath willed So 
That those dear words should be fulfilled, 
The Lady's words, when forced away, 
The last she to her Babe did say: 
' My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest 
I may not be; but rest thee, rest, 
For lowly shepherd's life is best ! ' 

Alas ! when evil men are strong 
No life is good, no pleasure long. 
The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves, 
And leave Blencathara's rugged coves, 90 
And quit the flowers that summer brings 
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs; 
Must vanish, and his careless cheer 
Be turned to heaviness and fear. 

— Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! 
Hear it, good man, old in days ! 
Thou tree of covert and of rest 

For this young Bird that is distrest; 
Among thy branches safe he lay, 
And he was free to sport and play, 100 

When falcons were abroad for prey. 
A recreant harp, that sings of fear 
And heaviness in Clifford's ear ! 
I said, when evil men are strong, 
No life is good, no pleasure long, 
A weak and cowardly untruth ! 
Our Clifford was a happy Youth, 
And thankful through a weary time, 
That brought him up to manhood's prime. 

— Again he wanders forth at will, ■ 10 
And tends a flock from hill to hill: 

His garb is humble; ne'er was seen 
Such garb with such a noble mien; 
Among the shepherd grooms no mate 
Hath he, a Child of strength and state ! 
Yet lacks not friends for simple glee, 



Nor yet for higher sympathy. 

To his side the fallow-deer 

Came, and rested without fear; 

The eagle, lord of land and sea, 120 

Stooped down to pay him fealty; 

And both the undying fish that swim 

Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on hhn; 

The pair were servants of his eye 

In their immortality; 

And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, 

Moved to and fro, for his delight. 

He knew the rocks which Angels haunt 

Upon the moimtains visitant; 

He hath kenned them taking wing: 130 

And into caves where Faeries sing 

He hath entered; and been told 

By Voices how men lived of old. 

Among the heavens his eye can see 

The face of thing that is to be; 

And, if that men report hhn right, 

His tongue could whisper words of might. 

— Now another day is come, 

Fitter hope, and nobler doom; 

He hath thrown aside his crook, 140 

And hath buried deep his book; 

Armour rusting hi his halls 

On the blood of Clifford calls; — 

' Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance — 

Bear me to the heart of France, 

Is the longing of the Shield — 

Tell thy name, thou trembling Field; 

Field of death, where'er thou be, 

Groan thou with our victory ! 

Happy day, and mighty hour, 150 

When our Shepherd, in his power, 

Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, 

To his ancestors restored 

Like a re-appearing Star, 

Like a glory from afar, 

First shall head the flock of war ! " 

Alas ! the impassioned minstrel did not 

know 
How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's 

heart was framed, 
How he, long forced ha humble walks to go, 
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and 

tamed. 160 

Love had he found in huts where poor men 

lie; 
His daily teachers had been woods and 

rills, 
The silence that is in the starry sky, 
The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 361 



In him the savage virtue of the Race, 
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were 

dead: 
Nor did he change; but kept in lofty 

place 
The wisdom which adversity had bred. 



Glad were the vales, and every cottage hearth ; 
The Shepherd-lord was honoured more and 

more; 1?a 

And, ages after he was laid in earth, 
" The good Lord Clifford " was the name 

he bore. 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 
OR, THE FATE OF THE NORTONS 

1807. 1S15 

The earlier half of this Poem was composed at Stockton-upon-Tees, when Mrs. Wordsworth and 
I were on a visit to her eldest Brother, Mr. Hutchinson, at the close of the year 1807. The cofin- 
try is flat, and the weather was rough. I was accustomed every day to walk to and fro under 
the shelter of a row of stacks in a field at a small distance from the town, and there poured 
forth my verses aloud as freely as they would come. Mrs. Wordsworth reminds me that her 
brother stood upon the punctilio of not sitting down to dinner till I joined the party ; and it fre- 
quently happened that I did not make my appearance till too late, so that she was made uncom- 
fortable. I here beg her pardon for this and similar transgressions during the whole course of 
our wedded life. To my beloved Sister the same apology is due. 

When, from the visit just mentioned, we returned to Town-end, Grasmere, I proceeded with 
the Poem ; and it may be worth while to note, as a caution to others who may cast their eye on 
these memoranda, that the skin having been rubbed off my heel by my wearing too tight a shoe, 
though I desisted from walking I found that the irritation of the wounded part was kept up, by 
the act of composition, to a degree that made it necessary to give my constitution a holiday. A 
rapid cure was the consequence. Poetic excitement, when accompanied by protracted labour in 
composition, has throughout my life brought on more or less bodily derangement. Nevertheless, 
I am, at the close of my seventy-third year, in what may be called excellent health ; so that in- 
tellectual labour is not necessarily unfavourable to longevity. But perhaps I ought here to add 
that mine has been generally carried on out of doors. 

Let me here say a few words of this Poem in the way of criticism. The subject being taken 
from feudal times has led to its being compared to some of Walter Scott's poems that belong 
to the same age and state of society. The comparison is inconsiderate. Sir Walter pursued the 
customary and very natural course of conducting an action, presenting various turns of fortune, 
to some outstanding point on which the mind might rest as a termination or catastrophe. The 
course I attempted to pursue is entirely different. Everything that is attempted by the prin- 
cipal personages in " The White Doe " fails, so far as its object is external and substantial. So 
far as it is moral and spiritual it succeeds. The Heroine of the Poem knows that her duty is 
not to interfere with the current of events, either to forward or delay them, but 

"To abide 
The shock, and finally secure 
O'er pain and grief a triumph pure." 

This she does in obedience to her brother's injunction, as most suitable to a mind and character 
that, under previous trials, had been proved to accord with his. She achieves this not without 
aid from the communication with the inferior Creature, which often leads her thoughts to revolve 
upon the past with a tender and humanising influence that exalts rather than depresses her. 
The anticipated beatification, if I may so say, of her mind, and the apotheosis'of the companion 
of her solitude, are the points at which the Poem aims, and constitute its legitimate catastrophe, 
far too spiritual a one for instant or widely-spread sympathy, but not therefore the less fitted to 
make a deep and permanent impression upon that class of minds who think and feel more inde- 
pendently, than the many do, of the surfaces of things and interests transitory because belonging 
more to the outward and social forms of life than to its internal spirit. How insignificant a, 
tiling, for example, does personal prowess appear, compared with the fortitude of patience and 
heroic martyrdom ; in other words, with struggles for the sake of principle, in preference to vic- 
tory gloried in for its own sake. 



362 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



CANTO I 



ADVERTISEMENT 

During 1 the Summer of 1S07 I visited, for the 
first time, the beautiful country that surrounds 
Bolton Priory, in Yorkshire ; and the Poem of 
*' The White Doe," founded upon a Tradition 
connected with that place, was composed at 
the close of the same year. 



DEDICATION 

In trellised shed with clustering roses gay, 

And, Mary! oft beside our blaziug fire, 

When years of wedded life were as a day 

Whose current answers to the heart's desire, 

Did we together read in Spenser's Lay 

How Una, sad of soul — in sad attire, 

The gentle Una, of celestial birth, 

To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the earth. 

Ah, then, Beloved ! pleasing was the smart, 

And the tear precious in compassion shed 10 

For Her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart, 

Did meekly bear the pang unmerited ; 

Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart 

The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led, — 

And faithful, loyal in her innocence, 

Like the brave Lion slain in her defence. 

Notes could we hear as of a faery shell 

Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught ; 

Free Fancy prized each specious miracle, 

And all its finer inspiration caught ; 20 

Till in the bosom of our rustic Cell, 

We by a lamentable change were taught 

That " bliss with mortal Man may not abide : " 

How nearly joy and sorrow are allied ! 

For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow, 

For us the voice of melody was mute. 

— But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow, 

And give the timid herbage leave to shoot, 

Heaven's breathing influence failed not to bestow 

A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit, 30 

Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content 

From blossoms wild of fancies innocent. 

It soothed us — it beguiled us — then, to hear 

Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell; 

And griefs whose aery motion comes not near 

The pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel : 

Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer, 

High over hill and low adown the dell 

Again we wandered, willing to partake 

All that she suffered for her dear Lord's sake.' 40 

Then, too, this Song of mine once more could please, 

Where anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep, 

Is tempered and allayed by sympathies 

Aloft ascending, and descending deep, 

Even to the inferior Kinds ; whom forest-trees 

Protect from beating sunbeams, and the sweep 

Of the sharp winds; — fair Creatures! — to whom 

Heaven 
A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given. 

This tragic Story cheered us ; for it speaks 

Of female patience winning firm repose ; 50 

And, of the recompense that conscience seeks, 

A bright, encouraging, example shows ; 

Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest breaks, 

Needful amid life's ordinary woes ; — 

Hence, not for them unfitted who would bless 

A happy hour with holier happiness. 



He serves the Muses erringly and ill, 

Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive : 

Oh, that my mind were equal to fulfil 

The comprehensive mandate which they give — 

Vain aspiration of an earnest will : 

Vet in this mural Strain a power may live, 

Beloved Wife ! such solace to impart 

As it hath yielded to thy tender heart. 

Rydal Mount, Westmoreland, 
April 20, 1815. 



" Action is transitory — a step, a blow, 

The motion of a muscle — this way or that — 

'T is done ; and in the after-vacancy 

We wouder at ourselves like men betrayed : 

Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, 

An 1 lias the nature of infinity. 

Yet through that darkness (infinite though it seem 

And irremoveable) gracious openings lie, 

By which the soul — with patient steps of thought 

Now toiling, wafted now 011 wings of prayer — 

May pass in hope, and, though from mortal bonds 

Yet undelivered, rise with sure ascent 

Even to the fountain-head of peace divine." 



" They that deny a God, destroy Man's no- 
bility : for certainly Man is of kinn to the 
Beast by his Body ; and if he be not of kinn 
to God by his Spirit, he is a base, ignoble 
Creature. It destroys likewise Magnanimity, 
and the raising of humane Nature : for take an 
example of a Dogg, and mark what a generos- 
ity and courage he will put on, when he finds 
himself maintained by a Man. who to him is 
instead of a God, or Melior Natura. Which 
courage is manifestly such, as that Creature 
without that confidence of a better Nature than 
his own could never attain. So Man, when he 
resteth and assureth himself upon Divine pro- 
tection and favour, gathereth a force and faith 
which human Nature in itself could not obtain." 
Lord Bacon. 

CANTO FIRST 

From Bolton's old monastic tower 

The bells ring loud with gladsome power; 

The sun shines bright; the fields are gay 

With people in their best array 

Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf., 

Along the banks of crystal Wharf, 

Through the Vale retired and lowly, 

Trooping to that summons holy. 

And, up among the moorlands, see 

What sprinklings of blithe company ! 10 

Of lasses and of shepherd grooms, 

That down the steep hills force their way, 

Like cattle through the budded brooms; 

Path, or no path, what care they ? 

And thus in joyous mood they hie 

To Bolton's mouldering Priory. 



CANTO I 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



363 



What would they there?— Full fifty 
years 
That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers, 
Too harshly hath been doomed to taste 
The bitterness of wrong and was co: 20 

Its courts are ravaged; but the tower 
Is standing with a voice of power, 
That ancient voice which wont to call 
To mass or some high festival; 
And hi the shattered fabric's heart 
Remaineth one protected part; 
A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest, 
Closely embowered and trimly drest; 
And thither young and old repair, 
This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer. 30 

Fast the churchyard fills ; — anon 
Look again, and they all are gone ; 
The cluster round the porch, and the folk 
Who sate in the shade of the Prior's Oak ! 
And scarcely have they disappeared 
Ere the prelusive hymn is heard: — 
With one consent the people rejoice, 
Filling the church with a lofty voice ! 
They sing a service which they feel: 
For 't is the sunrise now of zeal ; 40 

Of a pure faith the vernal prime — 
In great Eliza's golden time. 

A moment ends the fervent din, 
And all is hushed, without and within; 
For though the priest, more tranquilly, 
Recites the holy liturgy, 
The only voice which you can hear 
Is the river murmuring near. 
— When soft ! — the dusky trees between, 
And down the path through the open green, 
Where is no living thing to be seen; 51 

And through yon gateway, where is found, 
Beneath the arch with ivy bound, 
Free entrance to the churchyard ground — 
Comes gliding in with lovely gleam, 
Comes gliding in serene and slow, 
Soft and silent as a dream, 
A solitary Doe ! 
White she is as lily of June, 
And beauteous as the silver moon 60 

When out of sight the clouds are driven 
And she is left alone in heaven; 
Or like a ship some gentle day 
In sunshine sailing far away, 
A glittering ship, that hath the plain 
Of ocean for her own domain. 

Lie silent in your graves, ye dead ! 
Lie quiet in your churchyard bed ! 
Y^ living, tend your holy cares; 
Ye multitude, pursue your prayers; 70 



And blame not me if my heart and sight 

Are occupied with one delight ! 

'T is a work for sabbath hours 

If I with this bright Creature go: 

Whether she be of forest bowers, 

From the bowers of earth below; 

Or a Spirit for one day given, 

A pledge of grace from purest heaven. 

What harmonious pensive changes 
Wait upon her as she ranges 80 

Round and through this Pile of state 
Overthrown and desolate ! 
Now a step or two her way 
Leads through space of open day, 
Where the enamoured sunny light 
Brightens her that was so bright; 
Now doth a delicate shadow fall, 
Falls upon her like a breath, 
From some lofty arch or wall, 
As she passes underneath: go 

Now some gloomy nook partakes 
Of the glory that she makes, — 
High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell, 
With perfect cunning framed as well 
Of stone, and ivy, and the spread 
Of the elder's bushy head; 
Some jealous and forbidding cell, 
That doth the living stars repel, 
And where no flower hath leave to dwell. 

The presence of this wandering Doe 100 
Fills many a damp obscure recess 
With lustre of a saintly show; 
And, reappearing, she no less 
Sheds on the flowers that round her blow 
A more than sunny liveliness. 
But say, among these holy places, 
Which thus assiduously she paces, 
Comes she with a votary's task, 
Rite to perform, or boon to ask ? 
Fair Pilgrim ! harbours she a sense no 
Of sorrow, or of reverence ? 
Can she be grieved for quire or shrine, 
Crushed as if by wrath divine ? 
For what survives of house where God 
Was worshipped, or where Man abode ; 
For old magnificence undone; 
Or for the gentler work begun 
By Nature, softening and concealing, 
And busy with a hand of healing ? 
Mourns she for lordly chamber's hearth 120 
That to the sapling ash gives birth; 
For dormitory's length laid bare 
Where the wild rose blossoms fair; 
Or altar, whence the cross was rent, 
Now rich with mossy ornament ? 



364 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



CANTO I 



— She sees a warrior carved in stone, 
Among the thick weeds, stretched alone; 
A warrior, with his shield of pride 
Cleaving humbly to his side, 

And hands in resignation prest, 130 

Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast; 
As little she regards the sight 
As a common creature might: 
If she be doomed to inward care, 
Or service, it must lie elsewhere. 

— But hers are eyes serenely bright, 
And on she moves — with pace how light ! 
Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste 
The dewy turf with flowers bestrown; 
And thus she fares, until at last 140 
Beside the ridge of a grassy grave 

In quietness she lays her down; 
Gentle as a weary wave 
Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died 
Against an anchored vessel's side ; 
Even so, without distress, doth she 
Lie down in peace, and lovingly. 
The day is placid in its going, 
To a lingering motion bound, 
Like the crystal stream now flowing 150 
With its softest summer sound: 
So the balmy minutes pass, 
While this radiant Creature Lies 
Couched upon the dewy grass, 
Pensively with downcast eyes. 

— But now again the people raise 
With awful cheer a voice of praise; 
It is the last, the parting song; 

And from the temple forth they throng, 

And quickly spread themselves abroad, 160 

While each pursues his several road. 

But some — a variegated band 

Of middle-aged, and old, and young, 

And little children by the hand 

Upon their leading mothers hung — 

With mute obeisance gladly paid 

Turn towards the spot, where, full in view, 

The white Doe, to her service true, 

Her sabbath couch has made. 

It was a solitary mound; 170 

Which two spears' length of level ground 
Did from all other graves divide: 
As if in some respect of pride; 
Or melancholy's sickly mood, 
Still shy of human neighbourhood; 
Or guilt, that humbly would express 
A penitential loneliness. 

" Look, there she is, my Child ! draw 
near; 
She fears not, wherefore should we fear ? 



She means no harm;" — but still the 
Boy, 180 

To whom the words were softly said, 
Hung back, and smiled, and blushed for 

A shame-faced blush of glowing red ! 
Again the Mother whispered low, 
" Now you have seen the famous Doe ; 
From Rylstone she hath found her way 
Over the hills this sabbath day; 
Her work, whate'er it be, is done, 
And she will depart when we are gone ; 
Thus doth she keep, from year to year, 190 
Her sabbath morning, foid or fair." 

Bright was the Creature, as in dreams 
The Boy had seen her, yea, more bright; 
But is she tridy what she seems ? 
He asks with insecure delight, 
Asks of himself, and doubts, — and still 
The doubt returns against his will: 
Though he, and all the standers-by, 
Could tell a tragic history 
Of facts divulged, wherein appear 200 

Substantial motive, reason clear, 
Why thus the milk-white Doe is found 
Couchant beside that lonely mound ; 
And why she duly loves to pace 
The circuit of this hallowed place. 
Nor to the Child's inquiring mind 
Is such perplexity confined: 
For, spite of sober Truth that sees 
A world of fixed remembrances 
Which to this mystery belong, 210 

If, undeceived, my skill can trace 
The characters of every face, 
There lack not strange delusion here, 
Conjecture vague, and idle fear, 
And superstitious fancies strong, 
Which do the gentle Creature wrong. 

That bearded, ftaff -supported Sire — 
Who in his boyhood often fed 
Full cheerily on convent-bread 
And heard old tales by the convent-fire, 220 
And to his grave will go with scars, 
Relics of long and distant wars — ■ 
That Old Man, studious to expound 
The spectacle, is mounting high 
To days of dim antiquity; 
When Lady Aaliza mourned 
Her Son, and felt in her despair 
The pang of unavailing prayer; 
Her Son in Wharf's abysses drowned, 
The noble Boy of Egremound. 230 

From which affliction — when the grace 
Of God had in her heart found place — 



CANTO I 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



365 



A pious structure, fair to see, 

Rose up, this stately Priory ! 

The Lady's work ; — but now laid low ; 

To the grief of her soul that doth come 

and go, 
In the beautiful form of this innocent 

Doe: 
Which, though seemingly doomed in its 

breast to sustain 
A softened remembrance of sorrow and 

pain, 
Is spotless, and holy, and gentle, and 
bright ; 240 

And glides o'er the earth like an angel of 
light. 
Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door; 
And, through the chink hi the fractured 

floor 
Look down, and see a griesly sight; 
A vault where the bodies are buried up- 
right ! 
There, face by face, and hand by hand, 
The Claphams and Mauleverers stand; 
And, in his place, among son and sire, 
Is John de Clapham, that fierce Esquire, 
A valiant man, and a name of dread 250 
In the ruthless wars of the White and Red ; 
Who dragged Earl Pembroke from Ban- 
bury church 
And smote off his head on the stones of 

the porch ! 
Look down among them, if you dare; 
Oft does the White Doe loiter there, 
Prying into the darksome rent; 
Nor can it be with good intent: 
So thinks that Dame of haughty air, 
Who hath a Page her book to hold, 
And wears a frontlet edged with gold. 260 
Harsh thoughts with her high mood 

agree — 
Who counts among her ancestry 
Earl Pembroke, slam so impiously ! 

That slender Youth, a scholar pale, 
From Oxford come to his native vale, 
He also hath his own conceit: 
It is, thinks he, the gracious Fairy, 
Who loved the Shepherd-lord to meet 
In his wanderings solitary: 
Wild notes she in his hearing sang, 270 

A song of Nature's hidden powers ; 
That whistled like the wind, and rang 
Among the rocks and holly bowers. 
'T was said that She all shapes could wear; 
And oftentimes before him stood, 
Amid the trees of some thick wood, 



In semblance of a lady fair; 

And taught him signs, and showed him 

sights, 
In Craven's dens, on Cumbrian heights; 
When under cloud of fear he lay, 280 

A shepherd clad in homely grey; 
Nor left him at his later day. 
And hence, when he, with spear and shield, 
Rode full of years to Flodden-field, 
His eye could see the hidden spring, 
And how the current was to flow; 
The fatal end of Scotland's King, 
And all that hopeless overthrow. 
But not in wars did he delight, 
This Clifford wished for worthier might; 
Nor in broad pomp, or courtly state; 291 
Him his own thoughts did elevate, — 
Most happy in the shy recess 
Of Barden's lowly quietness. 
And choice of studious friends had he 
Of Bolton's dear fraternity; 
Who, standing on this old church tower, 
In many a calm propitious hour, 
Perused, with him, the starry sky; 
Or, in their cells, with him did pry 300 

For other lore, — by keen desire 
Urged to close toil with chemic fire; 
In quest belike of transmutations 
Rich as the mine's most bright creations. 
But they and their good works are fled, 
And all is now disquieted — 
And peace is none, for living or dead ! 

Ah, pensive Scholar, think not so, 
But look again at the radiant Doe ! 
What quiet watch she seems to keep, 310 
Alone, beside that grassy heap ! 
Why mention other thoughts unmeet 
For vision so composed and sweet ? 
While stand the people in a ring, 
Gazing, doubting, questioning; 
Yea, many overcome in spite 
Of recollections clear and bright; 
Which yet do unto some impart 
An undisturbed repose of heart. 
And all the assembly own a law 320 

Of orderly respect and awe ; 
But see — they vanish one by one, 
And last, the Doe herself is gone. 

Harp ! we have been full long beguiled 
By vague thoughts, lured by fancies wild ; 
To which, with no reluctant strings, 
Thou hast attuned thy murmurings; 
And now before this Pile we stand 
In solitude, and utter peace: 
But, Harp ! thy murmurs may not cease — 



3 66 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



CANTO II 



A Spirit, with his angelic wings, 331 

In soft and breeze-like visitings, 

Has touched thee — and a Spirit's hand : 

A voice is with us — a command 

To chant, in strains of heavenly glory, 

A tale of tears, a mortal story ! 

CANTO SECOND 

The Harp in lowliness obeyed; 

And first we sang of the greenwood shade 

And a solitary Maid; 

Beginning, where the song must end, 

With her, and with her sylvan Friend; 

The Friend who stood before her sight, 

Her only unextinguished light; 

Her last companion in a dearth 

Of love, upon a hopeless earth. 

For She it was — this Maid, who wrought 
Meekly, with foreboding thought, n 

In vermeil colours and hi gold 
An unblest work; which, standing by, 
Her Father did with joy behold, — 
Exulting in its imagery; 
A Banner, fashioned to fulfil 
Too perfectly his headstrong will: 
For on this Banner had her hand 
Embroidered (such her Sire's command) 
The sacred Cross; and figured there 20 

The five dear wounds our Lord did bear; 
Full soon to be uplifted high, 
And float in rueful company ! 

It was the time when England's Queen 
Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign 

dread ; 
Nor yet the restless crown had been 
Disturbed upon her virgin head; 
But now the inly-working North 
Was ripe to send its thousands forth, 
A potent vassalage, to fight 30 

In Percy's and in Neville's right, 
Two Earls fast leagued in discontent, 
Who gave their wishes open vent; 
And boldly urged a general plea, 
The rites of ancient piety 
To be triumphantly restored, 
By the stern justice of the sword ! 
And that same Banner, on whose breast 
The blameless Lady had exprest 
Memorials chosen to give life 40 

And sunshine to a dangerous strife; 
That Banner, waiting for the Call, 
Stood quietly hi Rylstone-hall. 

It came ; and Francis Norton said, 
" Father ! rise not hi this fray — 



The hairs are white upon your head; 

Dear Father, hear me when I say 

It is for you too late a day ! 

Bethink you of your own good name : 

A just and gracious Queen have we, 50 

A pure religion, and the claim 

Of peace on our humanity. — 

'Tis meet that I endure your scorn; 

I am your son, your eldest born; 

But not for lordship or for land, 

My Father, do I clasp your knees; 

The Banner touch not, stay your hand, 

This multitude of men disband, 

And live at home in blameless ease; 

For these my brethren's sake, for me; 60 

And, most of all, for Emily ! " 

Tumultuous noises filled the hall; 
And scarcely could the Father hear 
That name — pronounced with a dying 

fall — 
The name of his only Daughter dear, 
As on the banner which stood near 
He glanced a look of holy pride, 
And his moist eyes were glorified; 
Then did he seize the statt', and say : 
" Thou, Richard, bear'st thy father's name, 
Keep thou this ensign till the day 71 

When I of thee require the same : 
Thy place be on my better hand; — 
And seven as true as thou, I see, 
Will cleave to this good cause and me." 
He spake, and eight brave sons straightway 
All followed him, a gallant band ! 

Thus, with his sons, when forth he came 
The sight was hailed with loud acclaim 
And din of arms and minstrelsy, 80 

From all his warlike tenantry, 
All horsed and harnessed with him to 

ride, — 
A voice to which the hills replied ! 

But Francis, in the vacant hall, 
Stood silent under dreary weight, — 
A phantasm, in which roof and wall 
Shook, tottered, swam before his sight; 
A phantasm like a dream of night ! 
Thus overwhelmed, and desolate, 
He found his way to a postern-gate; 90 

Aud, when he waked, his languid eye 
Was on the calm and silent sky; 
With air about him breathing sweet, 
And earth's green grass beneath his feet; 
Nor did he fail ere long to hear 
A sound of military cheer, 
Faint — but it reached that sheltered spot; 
He heard, and it disturbed him not. 



CANTO II 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



367 



There stood he, leaning on a lance 
Which he had grasped unknowingly, 100 
Had blindly grasped in that strong trance, 
That dimness of heart-agony ; 
There stood he, cleansed from the despair 
And sorrow of his fruitless prayer. 
The past he calmly hath reviewed: 
But where will be the fortitude 
Of this brave man, when he shall see 
That Form beneath the spreading tree, 
And know that it is Emily ? 

He saw her where in open view 1 10 

She sate beneath the spreading yew — 
Her head upon her lap, concealing 
In solitude her bitter feeling: 
" Might ever son command a sire, 
The act were justified to-day." 
This to himself — and to the Maid, 
Whom now he had approached, he said — 
" Gone are they, — they have their desire; 
And I with thee one hour will stay, 
To give thee comfort if I may." 120 

She heard, but looked not up, nor spake; 
And sorrow moved him to partake 
Her silence; then his thoughts turned 

round, 
And fervent words a passage found. 

" Gone are they, bravely, though mis- 
led; 
With a dear Father at their head ! 
The Sons obey a natural lord; 
The Father had given solemn word 
To noble Percy; and a force 
Still stronger, bends him to his course. 130 
This said, our tears to-day may fall 
As at an innocent funeral. 
In deep and awful channel runs 
This sympathy of Sire and Sons; 
Untried our Brothers have been loved 
With heart by simple nature moved; 
And now their faithfulness is proved: 
For faithful we must call them, bearing 
That soul of conscientious daring. 
— There were they all in circle — there 140 
Stood Richard, Ambrose, Christopher, 
John with a sword that will not fail, 
And Marmaduke in fearless mail, 
And those bright Twins were side by side ; 
And there, by fresh hopes beautified, 
Stood He, whose arm yet lacks the power 
Of man, our youngest, fairest flower ! 
I, by the right of eldest born, 
And in a second father's place, 
Presumed to grapple with their scorn, 150 
And meet their pity face to face; 



Yea, trusting in God's holy aid, 
I to my Father knelt and prayed; 
And one, the pensive Marmaduke, 
Methought, was yielding inwardly, 
And would have laid his purpose by, 
But for a glance of his Father's eye, 
Which I myself could scarcely brook. 

Then be we, each and all, forgiven ! 
Thou, chiefly thou, my Sister dear, 160 

Whose pangs are registered in heaven — 
The stifled sigh, the hidden tear, 
And smiles, that dared to take their place, 
Meek filial smiles, upon thy face, 
As that unhallowed Banner grew 
Beneath a loving old Man's view. 
Thy part is done — thy painf ul part ; 
Be thou then satisfied in heart ! 
A further, though far easier, task 
Than thine hath been, my duties ask; 170 
With theirs my efforts cannot blend, 
I cannot for such cause contend; 
Their aims I utterly forswear; 
But I in body will be there. 
Unarmed and naked will I go, 
Be at their side, come weal or woe : 
On kind occasions I may wait, 
See, hear, obstruct, or mitigate. 
Bare breast I take and an empty hand." 
Therewith he threw away the lance, 180 
Winch he had grasped hi that strong 

trance, 
Spurned it, like something that would 

stand 
Between him and the pure intent 
Of love on which his soul was bent. 

" For thee, for thee, is left the sense 
Of trial past without offence 
To God or man; such innocence, 
Such consolation, and the excess 
Of an unmerited distress; 
In that thy very strength must lie. 190 

— O Sister, I could prophesy ! 
The time is come that rings the knell 
Of all we loved, and loved so well: 
Hope nothing, if I thus may sjieak 
To thee, a woman, and thence weak: 
Hope nothing, I repeat; for we 
Are doomed to perish utterly: 
'T is meet that thou with me divide 
The thought while I am by thy side, 
Acknowledging a grace hi this, 200 

A comfort hi the dark abyss. 
But look not for me when I am gone, 
And be no farther wrought upon: 
Farewell all wishes, all debate, 



3 68 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



CANTO III 



All prayers for this cause, or for that ! 
Weep, if that aid thee; but depend 
Upon no help of outward friend; 
Espouse thy doom at once, and cleave 
To fortitude without reprieve. 
For we must fall, both we and ours — 210 
This Mansion and these pleasant bowers, 
Walks, pools, and arbours, homestead, 

hall — 
Our fate is theirs, will reach them all; 
The young horse must forsake his manger, 
And learn to glory in a Stranger; 
The hawk forget his perch; the hound 
Be parted from his ancient ground: 
The blast will sweep us all away — 
One desolation, one decay ! 
And even this Creature ! which words say- 
ing, 220 
He pointed to a lovely Doe, 
A few steps distant, feeding, straying; 
Fair creature, and more white than snow ! 
" Even she will to her peaceful woods 
Return, and to her murmuring floods, 
And be hi heart and soul the same 
She was before she hither came; 
Ere she had learned to love us all, 
Herself beloved in Rylstone-hall. 
— But thou, my Sister, doomed to be 230 
The last leaf on a blasted tree; 
If not in vain we breathed the breath 
Together of a purer faith; 
If hand in hand we have been led, 
And thou, (O happy thought this day!) 
Not seldom foremost in the way; 
If on one thought our minds have fed, 
And we have hi one meaning read; 
If, when at home our private weal 
Hath suffered from the shock of zeal, 240 
Together we have learned to prize 
Forbearance and self-sacrifice ; 
If we like combatants have fared, 
And for this issue been prepared; 
If thou art beautiful, and youth 
And thought endue thee with all truth — 
Be strong; — be worthy of the grace 
Of God, and fill thy destined place : 
A Soul, by force of sorrows high, 
Uplifted to the purest sky 250 
Of undisturbed humanity ! " 

He ended, — or she heard no more ; 
He led her from the yew-tree shade, 
And at the mansion's silent door, 
He kissed the consecrated Maid; 
And down the valley then pursued, 
Alone, the armed Multitude. 



CANTO THIRD 

Now joy for you who from the towers 
Of Brancepeth look in doubt and fear, 
Telling melancholy hours ! 
Proclaim it, let your Masters hear 
That Norton with his band is near ! 
The watchmen from their station high 
Pronounced the word, — and the Earls de-- 

scry, 
Well-pleased, the armed Company 
Marching down the banks of Were. 

Said fearless Norton to the pair ic 

Gone forth to greet him on the plain — 
" This meeting, noble Lords ! looks fair, 
I bring with me a goodly train; 
Their hearts are with you: hill and dale 
Have helped us: Ure we crossed, and Swale, 
And horse and harness followed — see 
The best part of their Yeomanry ! 
— Stand forth, my Sons ! — these eight are 

mine, 
Whom to this service I commend; 
Which way soe'er our fate incline, 20 

These will be faithful to the end; 
They are my all " — voice failed him 

here — 
" My all save one, a Daughter dear ! 
Whom I have left, Love's mildest birth, 
The meekest Child on this blessed earth. 
I had — but these are by my side, 
These Eight, and this is a day of pride ! 
The time is ripe. With festive din 
Lo ! how the people are nocking in, — 
Like hungry fowl to the feeder's hand 30 
When snow lies heavy upon the land." 

He spake bare truth; for far and near 
From every side came noisy swarms 
Of Peasants in their .homely gear; 
And, mixed with these, to Brancepeth came 
Grave Gentry of estate and name, 
And Captains known for worth in arms 
And prayed the Earls hi self-defence 
To rise, and prove their innocence. — 
" Rise, noble Earls, put forth your might 40 
For holy Church, and the People's right ! " 

The Norton fixed, at this demand, 
His eye upon Northumberland, 
And said; " The Minds of Men will own 
No loyal rest while England's Crown 
Remains without an Heir, the bait 
Of strife and factions desperate; 
Who, paying deadly hate in kind 
Through all things else, in this can find 
A mutual hope, a common mind; 50 



CANTO III 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



369 



And plot, and pant to overwhelm 
All ancient honour in the realm. 

— Brave Earls ! to whose heroic veins 
Our noblest blood is given hi trust, 
To you a suffering State complains, 
And ye must raise her from the dust. 
With wishes of still bolder scope 

On you we look, with dearest hope; 

Even for our Altars — for the prize, 

In Heaven, of life that never dies; 60 

For the old and holy Church we mourn, 

And must in joy to her return. 

Behold ! " — and from his Son whose stand 

Was on his right, from that guardian hand 

He took the Banner, and unfurled 

The precious folds — " behold," said he, 

" The ransom of a sinful world ; 

Let this your preservation be; 

The wounds of hands and feet and side, 

And the sacred Cross on which Jesus died. 

— This bring I from an ancient hearth, 71 
These Records wrought in pledge of love 
By hands of no ignoble birth, 

A Maid o'er whom the blessed Dove 
Vouchsafed in gentleness to brood 
While she the holy work pursued." 
" Uplift the Standard ! " was the cry 
From all the listeners that stood round, 
" Plant it, — by this we live or die." 
The Norton ceased not for that sound, 80 
But said ; " The prayer which ye have 

heard, 
Much-injured Earls ! by these preferred, 
Is offered to the Saints, the sigh 
Of tens of thousands, secretly." 
" Uplift it ! " cried once more the Band, 
And then a thoughtful pause ensued: 
" Uplift it ! " said Northumberland — 
Whereat, from all the multitude 
Who saw the Banner reared on high 
In all its dread emblazonry, 9 o 

A voice of uttermost joy brake out: 
The transport was rolled down the river of 

Were, 
And Durham, the time-honoured Durham, 

did hear, 
And the towers of Saint Cuthbert were 

stirred by the shout ! 
Now was the North in arms : — they shine 
In warlike trim from Tweed to Tyne, 
At Percy's voice: and Neville sees 
His Followers gathering in from Tees, 
From Were, and all the little rills 
Concealed among the forked hills — 100 
Seven hundred Knights, Retainers all 



Of Neville, at their Master's call 
Had sate together in Raby Hall ! 
Such strength that Earldom held of yore; 
Nor wanted at this time rich store 
Of well-appointed chivalry. 
— Not loth the sleepy lance to wield, 
And greet the old paternal shield, 
They heard the summons ; — and, further- 
more, 
Horsemen and Foot of each degree, no 

Unbound by pledge of fealty, 
Appeared, with free and open hate 
Of novelties in Church and State; 
Knight, burgher, yeoman, and esquire; 
And Romish priest, in priest's attire. 
And thus, hi arms, a zealous Band 
Proceeding under joint command, 
To Durham first their course they bear; 
And in Saint Cuthbert's ancient seat 
Sang mass, — and tore the book of prayer, — 
And trod the bible beneath their feet. 121 
Thence marching southward smooth and 
free 
" They mustered their host at Wetherby, 
Full sixteen thousand fair to see," 
The Choicest Warriors of the North ! 
But none for beauty and for worth 
Like those eight Sons — who, in a ring, 
(Ripe men, or blooming in life's spring) 
Each with a lance, erect and tall, 
A falchion, and a buckler small, 130 

Stood by their Sire, on Clifford-moor, 
To guard the Standard which he bore. 
On foot they girt their Father round; 
And so will keep the appointed ground 
Where'er their march: no steed will he 
Henceforth bestride; — triumphantly, 
He stands upon the grassy sod, 
Trusting himself to the earth, and God. 
Rare sight to embolden and inspire ! 
Proud was the field of Sons and Sire; 140 
Of him the most; and, sooth to say, 
No shape of man in all the array 
So graced the sunshine of that day. 
The monumental pomp of age 
Was with this goodly Personage; 
A stature undepressed in size, 
Unbent, which rather seemed to rise, 
In open victory o'er the weight 
Of seventy years, to loftier height; 
Magnific limbs of withered state; 15a 

A face to fear and venerate ; 
Eyes dark and strong; and on his head 
Bright locks of silver hair, thick spread, 
Which a brown morion half-concealed, 



37° 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



CANTO III 



Light as a hunter's of the field; 
And thus, with girdle round his waist, 
Whereon the Bauner-staff might rest 
At need, he stood, advancing high 
The glittering, floating Pageantry. 

Who sees him? — thousands see, and One 
With unparticipated gaze; 161 

Who, 'mong those thousands, friend hath 

none, 
And treads in solitary ways. 
He, following wheresoe'er he might, 
Hath watched the Banner from afar, 
As shepherds watch a lonely star, 
Or mariners the 'distant light 
That guides them through a stormy night. 
And now, upon a chosen plot 
Of rising ground, yon heathy spot ! 170 

He takes alone his far-off stand, 
With breast unmailed, unweaponed hand. 
Bold is his aspect; but his eye 
Is pregnant with anxiety, 
While, like a tutelary Power, 
He there stands fixed from hour to hour: 
Yet sometimes hi more humble guise, 
Upon the turf-clad height he lies 
Stretched, herdsman-like, as if to bask 
In sunshine were his only task, 180 

Or by his mantle's help to find 
A shelter from the nipping wind: 
And thus, with short oblivion blest, 
His weary spirits gather rest. 
Again he lifts his eyes; and lo ! 
The pageant glancing to and fro; 
And hope is wakened by the sight, 
He thence may learn, ere fall of night, 
Which way the tide is doomed to flow. 

To London were the Chief tarns bent; 190 
But what avails the bold intent ? 
A Royal army is gone forth 
To quell the Rising of the North ; 
They march with Dudley at their head, 
And, in seven days' space, will to York be 

led ! — 
Can such a mighty Host be raised 
Thus suddenly, and brought so near ? 
The Earls upon each other gazed, 
And Neville's cheek grew pale with fear; 
For, with a high and valiant name, 200 

He bore a heart of timid frame; 
And bold if both had been, yet they 
"Against so many may not stay." 
Back therefore will they hie to seize 
A strong Hold on the banks of Tees; 
There wait a favourable hour, 
Until Lord Dacre with his power 



From Naworth come; and Howard's aid 
Be with them openly displayed. 

While through the Host, from man to 

man, 210 

A rumour of this purpose ran, 
The Standard trusting to the care 
Of him who heretofore did bear 
That charge, impatient Norton sought 
The Chieftains to unfold his thought, 
And thus abruptly spake; — " We yield 
(And can it be ?) an unf ought field ! — 
How oft has strength, the strength of 

heaven, 
To few triumphantly been given ! 
Still do our very children boast 220 

Of mitred Thurston — what a Host 
He conquered ! — Saw we not the Plain 
(And flying shall behold again) 
Where faith was proved ? — while to battle 

moved 
The Standard, on the Sacred Wain 
That bore it, compassed round by a bold 
Fraternity of Barons old; 
And with those grey-haired champions 

stood, 
Under the saintly ensigns three, 
The infant Heir of Mowbray's blood — 230 
All confident of victory ! — 
Shall Percy blush, then, for his name ? 
Must Westmoreland be asked with shame 
Whose were the numbers, where the loss, 
In that other day of Neville's Cross ? 
When the Prior of Durham with holy hand 
Raised, as the Vision gave command, 
Saint Cuthbert's Relic — far and near 
Kenned on the point of a lofty spear; 
While the Monks prayed hi Maiden's 

Bower 240 

To God descending hi his power. 
Less would not at our need be due 
To us, who war against the Untrue; — 
The delegates of Heaven we rise, 
Convoked the impious to chastise: 
We, we, the sanctities of old 
Would re-establish and uphold: 
Be warned " — His zeal the Chiefs con- 
founded, 
But word was given, and the trumpet 

sounded : 
Back through the melancholy Host 250 

Went Norton, and resumed his post. 
Alas ! thought he, and have I borne 
This Banner raised with joyful pride, 
This hope of all posterity, 
By those dread symbols sanctified; 



CANTO IV 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



37i 



Thus to become at once the scorn 
Of babbling winds as they go by, 
A spot of shame to the sun's bright eye, 
To the light clouds of mockery ! 

— " Even these poor eight of mine woidd 

stem — " 260 

Half to himself, and half to them 
He spake — " would stem, or quell, a force 
Ten times their number, man and horse: 
This by their own unaided might, 
Without their father in their sight, 
Without the Cause for which they fight; 
A Cause, which on a needful day 
Would breed us thousands brave as they." 

— So speaking, he his reverend head 
Raised towards that Imagery once more: 
But the familiar prospect shed 271 
Despondency unfelt before: 

A shock of intimations vain, 

Dismay, and superstitious pain, 

Fell on him, with the sudden thought 

Of her by whom the work was wrought: — 

Oh wherefore was her countenance bright 

With love divine and gentle light ? 

She would not, could not, disobey, 

But her Faith leaned another way. 2S0 

111 tears she wept; I saw them fall, 

I overheard her as she spake 

Sad words to that mute Animal, 

The White Doe, hi the hawthorn brake; 

She steeped, but not for Jesu's sake, 

This Cross hi tears: by her, and One 

Unworthier far we are undone — 

Her recreant Brother — he prevailed 

Over that tender Spirit — assailed 

Too oft, alas ! by her whose head 290 

In the cold grave hath long been laid: 

She first, in reason's dawn beguiled 

Her docile, unsuspecting Child: 

Far back — far back my mind must go 

To reach the well-spring of this woe ! 

While thus he brooded, music sweet 
Of border tunes was played to cheer 
The footsteps of a quick retreat; 
But Norton lingered in the rear, 
Stung with sharp thoughts; and ere the 
last 300 

From his distracted brain was cast, 
Before his Father, Francis stood, 
And spake in firm and earnest mood. 

" Though here I bend a suppliant knee 
In reverence, and unarmed, I bear 
In your indignant thoughts my share ; 
Am grieved this backward march to see 
So careless and disorderly. 



I scorn your Chiefs — men who would lead, 

And yet want courage at their need: 310 

Then look at them with open eyes ! 

Deserve they further sacrifice ? — 

If — when they shrmk, nor dare oppose 

In open field their gathering foes, 

(And fast, from this decisive day, 

Yon multitude must melt away;) 

If now I ask a grace not claimed 

While ground was left for hope; unblamed 

Be an endeavour that can do 

No injury to them or you. 320 

My Father ! I would help to find 

A place of shelter, till the rage 

Of cruel men do like the wind 

Exhaust itself and sink to rest; 

Be Brother now to Brother joined ! 

Admit me in the equipage 

Of your misfortunes, that at least, 

Whatever fate remain behind, 

I may bear witness hi my breast 

To your nobility of mind ! " 330 

" Thou Enemy, my bane and blight ! 
Oh ! bold to fight the Coward's fight 
Against all good " — but why declare, 
At length, the issue of a prayer 
Which love had prompted, yielding scope 
Too free to one bright moment's hope ? 
Suffice it that the Son, who strove 
With fruitless effort to allay 
That passion, prudently gave way; 
Nor did he turn aside to prove 340 

His Brothers' wisdom or their love — 
But calmly from the spot withdrew; 
His best endeavours to renew, 
Should e'er a kindlier time ensue. 

CANTO FOURTH 

'T is night : in silence looking down, 
The Moon, from cloudless ether, sees 
A Camp, and a beleaguered Town, 
And Castle, like a stately crown 
On the steep rocks of winding Tees; — 
And southward far, with moor between, 
Hill-top, and flood, and forest green, 
The bright Moon sees that valley small 
Where Rylstone's old sequestered Hall 
A venerable image yields ic 

Of quiet to the neighbouring fields; 
While from one pillared chimney breathes 
The smoke, and mounts in silver wreaths. 
— The courts are hushed; — for timely 

sleep 
The greyhounds to their kennel creep; 



372 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



CANTO IV 



The peacock in the broad ash tree 

Aloft is roosted for the night, 

He who in proud prosperity 

Of colours manifold and bright 

Walked round, affronting the daylight; 20 

And higher still, above the bower 

Where he is perched, from yon lone Tower 

The hall-clock in the clear moonshine 

With glittering finger points at nine. 

Ah ! who could think that sadness here 
Hath any sway ? or pain, or fear ? 
A soft and lulling sound is heard 
Of streams inaudible by day; 
The garden pool's dark surface, stirred 
By the night bisects in their play, 30 

Breaks into dimples small and bright; 
A thousand, thousand rings of light 
That shape themselves and disappear 
Almost as soon as seen : — and lo ! 
Not distant far, the milk-white Doe — 
The same who quietly was feeding 
On the green herb, and nothing heeding, 
When Francis, uttering to the Maid 
His last words in the yew-tree shade, 
Involved whate'er by love was brought 40 
Out of his heart, or crossed his thought, 
Or chance presented to his eye, 
In one sad sweep of destiny — ■ 
The same fair Creature, who hath found 
Her way into forbidden ground; 
Where now — within this spacious plot 
For pleasure made, a goodly spot, 
With lawns and beds of flowers, and shades 
Of trellis-work in long arcades, 
And cirque and crescent framed by wall 50 
Of close-clipt foliage green and tall, 
Converging walks, and fountains gay, 
And terraces in trim array — 
Beneath yon cypress spiring high, 
With pine and cedar spreading wide 
Their darksome boughs on either side, 
* In open moonlight doth she lie; 
Happy as others of her kind, 
That, far from human neighbourhood, 
Range unrestricted as the wind, 60 

Through park, or chase, or savage wood. 

But see the consecrated Maid 
Emerging from a cedar shade 
To open moonshine, where the Doe 
Beneath the cypress-spire is laid; 
Like a patch of April snow — 
Upon a bed of herbage green, 
Lingering in a woody glade 
Or behind a rocky screen — 
Lonely relic ! which, if seen 70 



By the shepherd, is passed by 

With an inattentive eye. 

Nor more regard doth She bestow 

Upon the uncomplaining Doe 

Now couched at ease, though oft tliis day 

Not unperplexed nor free from pain, 

When she had tried, and tried hi vain, 

Approaching in her gentle way, 

To win some look of love, or gain 

Encouragement to sport or play — 80 

Attempts which still the heart-sick Maid 

Rejected, or with slight repaid. 

Yet Emily is soothed ; — the breeze 
Came fraught with kindly sympathies. 
As she approached yon rustic Shed 
Hung with late-flowering woodbine, spread 
Along the walls and overhead, 
The fragrance of the breathing flowers 
Revived a memory of those hours 
When here, hi this remote alcove, 90 

(While from the pendent woodbine came 
Like odours, sweet as if the same) 
A fondly-anxious Mother strove 
To teach her salutary fears 
And mysteries above her years. 
Yes, she is soothed: an Image faint, 
And yet not faint — a presence bright 
Returns to her — that blessed Saint 
Who with mild looks and language mild 
Instructed here her darling Child, 100 

While yet a prattler on the knee, 
To worship in simplicity 
The invisible God, and take for guide 
The faith reformed and purified. 

'T is flown — the Vision, and the sense 
Of that beguiling influence, 
" But oh ! thou Angel from above, 
Mute Spirit of maternal love, 
That stood'st before my eyes, more clear 
Than ghosts are fabled to appear no 

Sent upon embassies of fear; 
As thou thy presence hast to me 
Vouchsafed, in radiant ministry 
Descend on Francis ; nor forbear 
To greet him with a voice, and say; — 
' If hope be a rejected stay, 
• Do thou, my christian Son, beware 
' Of that most lamentable snare, 
' The self-reliance of despair ! ' " 

Then from within the embowered retreat 
Where she had found a grateful seat 1 121 
Perturbed she issues. She will go ! 
Herself will follow to the war, 
And clasp her Father's knees; — ah, no ! 
She meets the insuperable bar, 



CANTO V 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



373 



The injunction by her Brother laid; 

His parting charge — but ill obeyed — 

That interdicted all debate, 

All prayer for this cause or for that; 

All efforts that would turn aside 130 

The headstrong current of their fate: 

Her duty is to stand and wait • 

In resignation to abide 

The shock, and finally secure 

O'er pain and grief a triumph pure. 

— She feels it, and her pangs are checked. 
But now, as silently she paced 

The turf, and thought by thought was 

chased, 
Came One who, with sedate respect, 
Approached, and, greeting her, thus spake; 
" An old man's privilege I take: 141 

Dark is the time — a woeful day ! 
Dear daughter of affliction, say 
How can I serve you ? point the way." 

" Rights have you, and may well be 
bold; 
You with my Father have grown old 
In friendship — strive — for his sake go — 
Turn from us all the coming woe: 
This would I beg; but on my mind 
A passive stillness is enjoined. 150 

On you, if room for mortal aid 
Be left, is no restriction laid; 
You not forbidden to recline 
With hope upon the Will divine." 

" Hope," said the old Man, " must abide 
With all of us, whate'er betide. 
In Craven's Wilds is many a den, 
To shelter persecuted men: 
Far mxler ground is many a cave, 
Where they might lie as in the grave, 160 
Until this storm hath ceased to rave: 
Or let them cross the River Tweed, 
And be at once from peril freed ! " 

" Ah tempt me not ! " she faintly sighed; 
" I will not counsel nor exhort, 
With my condition satisfied; 
But you, at least, may make report 
Of what befalls ; — be this your task — 
This may be done ; — 't is all I ask ! " 

She spake — and from the Lady's sight 
The Sire, unconscious of his age, 171 

Departed promptly as a Page 
Bound on some errand of delight. 

— The noble Francis — wise as brave, 
Thought he, may want not skill to save. 
With hopes in tenderness concealed, 
Unarmed he followed to the field; 
Him will I seek: the insurgent Powers 



Are now besieging Barnard's Towers, — 
" Grant that the Moon which shines this 

night 180 

May guide them in a prudent flight ! " 

But quick the turns of chance and change, 
And knowledge has a narrow range; 
Whence idle fears, and needless pain, 
And wishes blind, and efforts vain. — 
The Moon may shine, but cannot be 
Their guide in flight — already she 
Hath witnessed their captivity. 
She saw the desperate assault 
Upon that hostile castle made ; — 190 

But dark and dismal is the vault 
Where Norton and his sons are laid ! 
Disastrous issue ! — he had said 
"This night yon faithless Towers must 

yield, 
Or we for ever quit the field. 

— Neville is utterly dismayed, 
For promise fails of Howard's aid; 
And Dacre to our call replies 
That he is miprepared to rise. 

My heart is sick ; — this weary pause 200 

Must needs be fatal to our cause. 

The breach is open — on the wall, 

This night, the Banner shall be planted ! " 

— 'T was done: his Sons were with him — 

all; 
They belt him round with hearts undaunted 
And others follow; — Sire and Son 
Leap down into the court; — " 'T is won " — 
They shout aloud — but Heaven decreed 
That with their joyful shout should close 
The triumph of a desperate deed 210 

Which struck with terror friends and foes ! 
The friend shrinks back — the foe recoils 
From Norton and his filial band; 
But they, now caught within the toils, 
Against a thousand cannot stand ; — 
The foe from numbers courage drew, 
And overpowered that gallant few. 
" A rescue for the Standard ! " cried 
The Father from within the walls; 
But, see, the sacred Standard falls ! — 220 
Confusion through the Camp spread wide: 
Some fled; and some their fears detained: 
But ere the Moon had sunk to rest 
In her pale chambers of the west, 
Of that rash levy nought remained. 

CANTO FIFTH 

High on a point of rugged ground 
Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell 



374 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



CANTO V 



Above the loftiest ridge or mound 
Where foresters or shepherds dwell, 
An edifice of warlike frame 
Stands single — Norton Tower its name — 
It fronts all quarters, and looks round 
O'er path and road, and plain and dell, 
Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream, 
Upon a prospect without bound. 10 

The summit of this bold ascent — 
Though bleak and bare, and seldom free 
As Pendle-hill or Pennygent 
From wind, or frost, or vapours wet — 
Had often heard the sound of glee 
When there the youthful Nortons met, 
To practise games and archery: 
How proud and happy they ! the crowd 
Of Lookers-on how pleased and proud ! 
And from the scorching noon-tide sun, 20 
From showers, or when the prize was won, 
They to the Tower withdrew, and there 
Would mirth run round, with generous 

fare; 
And the stern old Lord of Rylstone-hall 
Was happiest, proudest, of them all ! 

But now, his Child, with anguish pale, 
Upon the height walks to and fro; 
'T is well that she hath heard the tale, 
Received the bitterness of woe: 
For she had hoped, had hoped and feared, 
Such rights did feeble nature claim; 31 

And oft her steps had hither steered, 
Though not unconscious of self -blame; 
For she her brother's charge revered, 
His farewell words; and by the same, 
Yea by her brother's very name, 
Had, in her solitude, been cheered. 

Beside the lonely watch-tower stood 
That grey-haired Man of gentle blood, 
Who with her Father had grown old 40 
In friendship; rival hunters they, 
And fellow warriors in their day; 
To Rylstone he the tidings brought; 
Then on this height the Maid had sought, 
And, gently as he could, had told 
The end of that dire Tragedy, 
Which it had been his lot to see. 

To him the Lady turned ; " You said 
That Francis lives, he is not dead ? " 
" Your noble brother hath been spared; 50 
To take his life they have not dared; 
On him and on his high endeavour 
The light of praise shall shine for ever ! 
Nor did he (such Heaven's will) in vain 
His solitary course maintain; 
Not vainly struggled in the might 



Of duty, seeing with clear sight; 
He was their comfort to the last, 
Their joy till every pang was past. 

I witnessed when to York they came — 
What, Lady, if their feet were tied; 61 

They might deserve a good Man's blame; 
But marks of infamy and shame — 
These were their triumph, these their pride, 
Nor wanted 'mid the pressing crowd 
Deep feeling, that found utterance loud, 
' Lo, Francis comes,' there were who cried, 
' A Prisoner once, but now set free ! 
'T is well, for he the worst defied 
Through force of natural piety; 70 

He rose not in this quarrel; he, 
For concord's sake and England's good, 
Suit to his Brothers often made 
With tears, and of his Father prayed — 
And when he had in vain withstood 
Their purpose — then did he divide, 
He parted from them; but at their side 
Now walks in unanimity. 
Then peace to cruelty and scorn, 
While to the prison they are borne, 80 

Peace, peace to all indignity ! ' 

And so in Prison were they laid — 
Oh hear me, hear me, gentle Maid, 
For I am come with power to bless, 
By scattering gleams, through your dis- 
tress, 
Of a redeeming happiness. 
Me did a reverent pity move 
And privilege of ancient love; 
And, in your service, making bold, 
Entrance I gained to that stronghold. 90 

Your Father gave me cordial greeting; 
But to his purposes, that burned 
Within him, instantly returned: 
He was commanding and entreating, 
And said — ' We need not stop, my Son ! 
Thoughts press, and time is hurrying 

on ' — 
And so to Francis he renewed 
His words, more calmly thus pursued. 

' Might this our enterprise have sped, 
Change wide and deep the Land had seen, 100 
A renovation from the dead, 
A spring-tide of immortal green: 
The darksome altars wovdd have blazed 
Like stars when clouds are rolled away; 
Salvation to all eyes that gazed, 
Once more the Rood had been upraised 
To spread its arms, and stand for aye. 
Then, then — had I survived to see 
New life in Bolton Priory; 



CANTO VI 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



375 



The voice restored, the eye of Truth no 

Re-opened that inspired my youth; 

To see her in her 'pomp arrayed — 

This Banner (for such vow I made) 

Should on the consecrated breast 

Of that same Temple have found rest: 

I would myself have hung it high, 

Fit offering of glad victory ! 

A shadow of such thought remains 
To cheer this sad and pensive time; 
A solemn fancy yet sustains 120 

One feeble Being — bids me climb 
Even to the last — one effort more 
To attest my Faith, if not restore. 

Hear then,' said he, ' while I impart, 
My Son, the last wish of my heart. 
The Banner strive thou to regain; 
And, if the endeavour prove not vain, 
Bear it — to whom if not to thee 
Shall I this lonely thought consign ? — 
Bear it to Bolton Priory, 130 

And lay it on Saint Mary's shrine; 
To wither in the sun and breeze 
'Mid those decaying sanctities. 
There let at least the gift be laid, 
The testimony there displayed; 
Bold proof that with no selfish aim, 
But for lost Faith and Christ's dear name, 
I hehneted a brow though white, 
And took a place hi all men's sight; 
Yea offered up this noble Brood, 140 

This fair unrivalled Brotherhood, 
And turned away from thee, my Son ! 
And left — but be the rest unsaid, 
The name untouched, the tear unshed; — 
My wish is known, and I have done: 
Now promise, grant this one request, 
This dying prayer, and be thou blest ! ' 

Then Francis answered — 'Trust thy 
Son, 
For, with God's will, it shall be done ! ' — 

The pledge obtained, the solemn word 
Thus scarcely given, a noise was heard, 151 
And Officers appeared in state 
To lead the prisoners to their fate. 
They rose, oh ! wherefore should I fear 
To tell, or, Lady, you to hear ? 
They rose — embraces none were given — 
They stood like trees when earth and 

heaven 
Are calm; they knew each other's worth, 
And reverently the Band went forth. 
They met, when they had reached the door, 
One with profane and harsh intent 161 

Placed there — that he might sro before 



And, with that rueful Banner borne 

Aloft in sign of taunting scorn, 

Conduct them to their punishment: 

So cruel Sussex, unrestrained 

By human feeling, had ordained. 

The unhappy Banner Francis saw, 

And, with a look of calm command 

Inspiring universal awe, 170 

He took it from the soldier's hand; 

And all the people that stood round 

Confirmed the deed in peace profound. 

— High transport did the Father shed 

Upon his Son — and they were led, 

Led on, and yielded up their breath ; 

Together died, a happy death ! — 

But Francis, soon as he had braved 

That insult, and the Banner saved, 

Athwart the unresisting tide 180 

Of the spectators occupied 

In admiration or dismay, 

Bore instantly his Charge away." 

These things, which thus had in the sight 
And hearing passed of Him who stood 
With Emily, on the Watch-tower height, 
In Rylstone's woeful neighbourhood, 
He told; and oftentimes with voice 
Of power to comfort or rejoice ; 
For deepest sorrows that aspire, 190 

Go high, no transport ever higher. 
" Yes — God is rich in mercy," said 
The old Man to the silent Maid, 
" Yet, Lady ! shines, through this black 

night, 
One star of aspect heavenly bright; 
Your Brother lives — he lives — is come 
Perhaps already to his home; 
Then let us leave this dreary place." 
She yielded, and with gentle pace, 
Though without one uplifted look, 200 

To Rylstone-hall her way she took. 

CANTO SIXTH 

Why comes not Francis ? — From the dole- 
ful City 
He fled, — and, in his flight, could hear 
The death-sounds of the Minster-bell: 
That sullen stroke pronounced farewell 
To Marmaduke, cut off from pity ! 
To Ambrose that ! and then a knell 
For him, the sweet half-open Flower ! 
For all — all dying in one hour ! 
— Why comes not Francis ? Thoughts of 

love 
Should bear him to his Sister dear 10 



376 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



CANTO VI 



With the fleet motion of a dove ; 

Yea, like a heavenly messenger 

Of speediest wing, should he appear. 

Why comes he not ? — for westward fast 

Along the plain of York he past; 

Reckless of what impels or leads, 

Unchecked he hurries' on ; — nor heeds 

The sorrow, through the Villages, 

Spread by triumphant cruelties 

Of vengeful military force, 20 

And punishment without remorse. 

He marked not, heard not, as he fled, 

All but the suffering heart was dead 

For him abandoned to blank awe, 

To vacancy, and horror strong: 

And the first object which he saw, 

With conscious sight, as he swept along — 

It was the Banner hi his hand ! 

He felt — and made a sudden stand. 

He looked about like one betrayed: 30 
What hath he done ? what promise made ? 
Oh weak, weak moment ! to what end 
Can such a vain oblation tend, 
And he the Bearer ? — Can he go 
Carrying this instrument of woe, 
And find, find anywhere, a right 
To excuse him in his Country's sight ? 
No; will not all men deem the change 
A downward course, perverse and strange ? 
Here is it ; — but how ? when ? must she, 40 
The unoffending Emily, 
Again this piteous object see ? 

Such conflict long did he maintain, 
Nor liberty nor rest coidd gain: 
His own life into danger brought 
By this sad burden — even that thought, 
Exciting self-suspicion strong 
Swayed the brave man to his wrong. 
And how — unless it were the sense 
Of all-disposing Providence, 50 

Its will unquestionably shown — 
How has the Banner clung so fast 
To a palsied, and unconscious hand; 
Clung to the hand to which it passed 
Without impediment ? And why, 
But that Heaven's purpose might be known, 
Doth now no hindrance meet his eye, 
No intervention, to withstand 
Fulfilment of a Father's prayer 
Breathed to a Son forgiven, and blest 60 
When all resentments were at rest, 
And life in death laid the heart bare ? — 
Then, like a spectre sweeping by, 
Rushed through his mind the prophecy 
Of utter desolation made 



To Emily in the yew-tree shade: 

He sighed, submitting will and power 

To the stern embrace of that grasping hour. 

" No choice is left, the deed is mine — 

Dead are they, dead ! — and I will go, 70 

And, for their sakes, come weal or woe, 

Will lay the Relic on the shrine." 

So forward with a steady will 
He went, and traversed plain and hill; 
And up the vale of Wharf his way 
Pursued; — and, at the dawn of day, 
Attained a summit whence his eyes 
Could see the Tower of Bolton rise. 
There Francis for a moment's space 
Made halt — but hark ! a noise behind 80 
Of horsemen at an eager pace ! 
He heard, and with misgiving mind. 
— 'T is Sir George Bowes who leads the 

Band: 
They come, by cruel Sussex sent; 
Who, when the Nortons from the hand 
Of death had drunk their punishment, 
Bethought him, angry and ashamed, 
How Francis, with the Bamier claimed 
As his own charge, had disappeared, 
By all the standers-by revered. 90 

His whole bold carriage (which had quelled 
Thus far the Opposer, and repelled 
All censure, enterprise so bright 
That even bad men had vainly striven 
Against that overcoming light) 
Was then reviewed, and prompt word given 
That to what place soever fled 
He should be seized, alive or dead. 

The troop of horse have gamed the height 
Where Francis stood in open sight. 100 

They hem him round — " Behold the proof," 
They cried, " the Ensign hi his hand ! 
He did not arm, he walked aloof ! 
For why ? — to save his Father's land; — 
Worst Traitor of them all is he, 
A Traitor dark and cowardly ! " 

" I am no Traitor," Francis said, 
"Though this unhappy freight I bear; 
And must not part with. But beware; — 
Err not by hasty zeal misled, no 

Nor do a suffering Spirit wrong, 
Whose self-reproaches are too strong ! " 
At this he from the beaten road 
Retreated towards a brake of thorn, 
That like a place of vantage showed; 
And there stood bravely, though forlorn. 
In self-defence with warlike brow 
He stood, — nor weaponless was now; 
He from a Soldier's hand had snatched 



CANTO VII 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



377 



A spear, — and, so protected, watched 120 
The Assailants, turning round and round ; 
But from behind with treacherous wound 
A Spearman brought him to the ground. 
The guardian lance, as Francis fell, 
Dropped from him; but his other hand 
The Banner clenched; till, from out the 

Band, 
One, the most eager for the prize, 
Rushed in ; and — while, O grief to tell ! 
A glimmering sense still left, with eyes 
Unclosed the noble Francis lay — 130 

Seized it, as hunters seize their prey; 
But not before the warm life-blood 
Had tinged more deeply, as it flowed, 
The wounds the broidered Banner showed, 
Thy fatal work, O Maiden, innocent as good ! 

Proudly the Horsemen bore away 
The Standard; and where Francis lay 
There was he left alone, unwept, 
And for two days unnoticed slept. 
For at that time bewildering fear 140 

Possessed the country, far and near; 
But, on the third day, passing by 
One of the Norton Tenantry 
Espied the uncovered Corse; the Man 
Shrunk as he recognised the face, 
And to the nearest homesteads ran 
And called the people to the place. 
— How desolate is Rylstone-hall ! 
This was the instant thought of all; 
And if the lonely Lady there 150 

Should be; to her they cannot bear 
This weight of anguish and despair. 
So, when upon sad thoughts had prest 
Thoughts sadder still, they deemed it best 
That, if the Priest should yield assent 
And no one hinder their intent, 
Then, they, for Christian pity's sake, 
In holy ground a grave would make; 
And straightway buried he should be 
In the Churchyard of the Priory. 160 

Apart, some little space, was made 
The grave where Francis must be laid. 
In no confusion or neglect 
This did they, — but in pure respect 
That he was born of gentle blood; 
And that there was no neighbourhood 
Of kindred for him in that ground : 
So to the Churchyard they are bound, 
Bearing the body on a bier; 
And psalms they sing — a holy sound 170 
That hill and vale with sadness hear. 

But Emily hath raised her head, 
And is again disquieted; 



She must behold ! — so many gone, 

Where is the solitary One ? 

And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she, — 

To seek her Brother forth she went, 

And tremblingly her course she bent 

Toward Bolton's ruined Priory. 

She comes, and in the vale hath heard 180 

The funeral dirge; — she sees the knot 

Of people, sees them hi one spot — 

And darting like a wounded bird 

She reached the grave, and with her breast 

Upon the ground received the rest, — 

The consummation, the whole ruth 

And sorrow of this final truth ! 



CANTO SEVENTH 

" Powers there are 
That touch each other to the quick — in modes 
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive, 
No soul to dream of." 

Thou Spirit, whose angelic hand 

Was to the harp a strong command, 

Called the submissive strings to wake 

In glory for this Maiden's sake, 

Say, Spirit ! whither hath she fled 

To hide her poor afflicted head ? 

What mighty forest hi its gloom 

Enfolds her ? — is a rifted tomb 

Within the wilderness her seat ? 

Some island which the wild waves beat — 10 

Is that the Sufferer's last retreat ? 

Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds 

Its perilous front in mists and clouds ? 

High-climbing rock, low sunless dale, 

Sea, desert, what do these avail ? 

Oh take her anguish and her fears 

Into a deep recess of years ! 

'Tis done; — despoil and desolation 
O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown; 
Pools, terraces, and walks are sown 20 

With weeds; the bowers are overthrown, 
Or have given way to slow mutation, 
While, in their ancient habitation 
The Norton name hath been unknown. 
The lordly Mansion of its pride 
Is stripped; the ravage hath spread wide 
Through park and field, a perishing 
That mocks the gladness of the Spring ! 
And, with this silent gloom agreeing, 
Appears a joyless human Being, 30 

Of aspect such as if the waste 
Were under her dominion placed. 
Upon a primrose bank, her throne 
Of quietness, she sits alone; 



378 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



CANTO VII 



Among the ruins of a wood, 

Erewhile a covert bright and green, 

And where full many a brave tree stood, 

That used to spread its boughs, and ring 

With the sweet bird's carolling. 

Behold her, like a virgin Queen, 40 

Neglecting hi imperial state 

These outward images of fate, 

And carrying inward a serene 

And perfect sway, through many a thought 

Of chance and change, that hath been 

brought 
To the subjection of a holy, 
Though stern and rigorous, melancholy ! 
The like authority, with grace 
Of awfulness, is hi her face, — 
There hath she fixed it; yet it seems 50 
To o'ershadow by no native right 
That face, which cannot lose the gleams, 
Lose utterly the tender gleams, 
Of gentleness and meek delight, 
And loving-kindness ever bright: 
Such is her sovereign mien: — her dress 
(A vest with woollen cincture tied, 
A hood of mountain-wool undyed) 
Is homely, — fashioned to express 
A wandering Pilgrim's humbleness. 60 

And she hath wandered, long and far, 
Beneath the light of sun and star; 
Hath roamed hi trouble and in grief, 
Driven forward like a withered leaf, 
Yea like a ship at random blown 
To distant places and unknown. 
But now she dares to seek a haven 
Among her native wilds of Craven; 
Hath seen again her Father's roof, 
And put her fortitude to proof; 70 

The mighty sorrow hath been borne, 
And she is thoroughly forlorn: 
Her soul doth in itself stand fast, 
Sustained by memory of the past 
And strength of Reason; held above 
The infirmities of mortal love; 
Undaunted, lofty, calm, and stable, 
And awfully impenetrable. 

And so — beneath a mouldered tree, 
A self-surviving leafless oak 80 

By unregarded age from stroke 
Of ravage saved — sate Emily. 
There did she rest, with head reclined, 
Herself most like a stately flower, 
(Such have I seen) whom chance of birth 
Hath separated from its kind, 
To live and die in a shady bower, 
Single on the gladsome earth. 



When, with a noise like distant thunder, 
A troop of deer came sweeping by; 90 

And, suddenly, behold a wonder ! 
For One, among those rushing deer, 
A single One, in mid career 
Hath stopped, and fixed her large full 

eye 
Upon the Lady Emily; 
A Doe most beautiful, clear-white, 
A radiant creature, silver-bright ! 

Thus checked, a little while it stayed; 
A little thoughtful pause it made ; 
And then advanced with stealth-like pace, 
Drew softly near her, and more near — 101 
Looked round — but saw no cause for 

fear; 
So to her feet the Creature came, 
And laid its head upon her knee, 
And looked into the Lady's face, 
A look of pure benignity, 
And fond unclouded memory. 
It is, thought Emily, the same, 
The very Doe of other years ! — 
The pleading look the Lady viewed, no 
And, by her gushing thoughts subdued, 
She melted hito tears — 
A flood of tears, that flowed apace, 
Upon the happy Creature's face. 

Oh, moment ever blest ! O Pair 
Beloved of Heaven, Heaven's chosen care, 
This was for you a precious greeting; 
And may it prove a fruitful meeting ! 
Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe 
Can she depart ? can she forego 120 

The Lady, once her playful peer, 
And now her sainted Mistress dear ? 
And will not Emily receive 
This lovely chronicler of things 
Long past, delights and sorrowings ? 
Lone Sufferer ! will not she believe 
The promise in that speaking face; 
And welcome, as a gift of grace, 
The saddest thought the Creature brings ? 

That day, the first of a re-union 130 

Which was to teem with high communion, 
That day of balmy April weather, 
They tarried in the wood together. 
And when, ere fall of evening dew, 
She from her sylvan haunt withdrew, 
The White Doe tracked with faitlif ul pace 
The Lady to her dwelling-place ; 
That nook where, on paternal ground, 
A habitation she had found, 
The Master of whose humble board 140 

Once owned her Father for his Lord; 



CANTO VII 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



379 



A hut, by tufted trees defended, 
Where Rylstone brook with Wharf is 
blended. 
When Emily by morning light 
Went forth, the Doe stood there in sight. 
She shrunk: — with one frail shock of pain 
Received and followed by a prayer, 
She saw the Creature once again; 
Shim will she not, she feels, will bear; — 
But, wheresoever she looked round, 150 

All now was trouble-haunted ground; 
And therefore now she deems it good 
Once more this restless neighbourhood 
To leave. — Unwooed, yet unforbidden, 
The White Doe followed up the vale, 
Up to another cottage, hidden 
In the deep fork of Amerdale; 
And there may Emily restore 
Herself, hi spots unseen before. 

— Why tell of mossy rock, or tree, 160 
By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side, 
Haunts of a strengthening amity 

That calmed her, cheered, and fortified ? 

For she hath ventured now to read 

Of time, and place, and thought, and 

deed — 
Endless history that lies 
In her silent Follower's eyes; 
Who with a power like human reason 
Discerns the favourable season, 
Skilled to approach or to retire, — 170 

From looks conceiving her desire; 
From look, deportment, voice, or mien, 
That vary to the heart within. 
If she too passionately wreathed 
Her arms, or over-deeply breathed, 
Walked quick or slowly, every mood 
In its degree was understood; 
Then well may their accord be true, 
And kindliest intercourse ensue. 

— Oh ! surely 't was a gentle rousing 180 
When she by sudden glimpse espied 

The White Doe on the mountain browsing, 

Or hi the meadow wandered wide ! 

How pleased, when down the Straggler sank 

Beside her, on some sunny bank ! 

How soothed, when in thick bower enclosed, 

They, like a nested pair, reposed ! 

Fair Vision ! when it crossed the Maid 

Within some rocky cavern laid, 

The dark cave's portal gliding by, 190 

White as whitest cloud on high 

Floating through the azure sky. 

— What now is left for pain or fear ? 
That Presence, dearer and more dear, 



While they, side by side, were straying, 

And the shepherd's pipe was playing, 

Did now a very gladness yield 

At morning to the dewy field, 

And with a deeper peace endued 

The hour of moonlight solitude. 200 

With her Companion, in such frame 
Of mmd, to Rylstone back she came; 
And, ranging through the wasted groves, 
Received the memory of old loves, 
Undisturbed and undistrest, 
Into a soul which now was blest 
With a soft spring-day of holy, 
Mild, and grateful, melancholy: 
Not sunless gloom or unenlightened, 
But by tender fancies brightened. 210 

When the bells of Rylstone played 
Their sabbath music — " «J5ob uji apDc ! " 
That was the sound they seemed to speak; 
Inscriptive legend which I ween 
May on those holy bells be seen, 
That legend and her Grandsire's name; 
And oftentimes the Lady meek 
Had hi her childhood read the same; 
Words which she slighted at that day; 
But now, when such sad change was 
wrought, 220 

And of that lonely name she thought — 
The bells of Rylstone seemed to say, 
While she sate listening hi the shade, 
With vocal music, " 45ob us ap&c ; " 
And all the hills were glad to bear 
Their part hi this effectual prayer. 

Nor lacked she Reason's firmest power; 
But with the White Doe at her side 
Up would she climb to Norton Tower, 
And thence look round her far and wide, 230 
Her fate there measuring ; — all is stilled, — 
The weak One hath subdued her heart; 
Behold the prophecy fulfilled, 
Fulfilled, and she sustains her part ! 
But here her Brother's words have failed; 
Here hath a milder doom prevailed; 
That she, of him and all bereft, 
Hath yet this faithful Partner left; 
This one Associate, that disproves 
His words, remains for her, and loves. 240 
If tears are shed, they do not fall 
For loss of him — for one, or all; 
Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep 
Moved gently in her soul's soft sleep; 
A few tears down her cheek descend 
For this her last and living Friend. 

Bless, tender Hearts, their mutual lot, 
And bless for both this savage spot; 



3 So 



THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE 



CANTO VII 



Which Emily cloth sacred hold 

For reasons dear and manifold — 250 

Here hath she, here before her sight, 

Close to the summit of this height, 

The grassy rock-encircled Pound 

In which the Creature first was found. 

So beautiful the timid Thrall 

(A spotless Youngling white as foam) 

Her youngest Brother brought it home ; 

The youngest, then a lusty boy, 

Bore it, or led, to Rylstone-hall 

With heart brimful of pride and joy ! 260 

But most to Bolton's sacred Pile, 
On f avouring nights, she loved to go ; 
There ranged through cloister, court, and 

aisle, 
Attended by the soft-paced Doe ; 
Nor feared she in the still moonshine 
To look upon Saint Mary's shrine; 
Nor on the lonely turf that showed 
Where Francis slept in his last abode. 
For that she came; there oft she sate 
Forlorn, but not disconsolate: 270 

And, when she from the abyss returned 
Of thought, she neither shrunk nor 

mourned ; 
Was happy that she lived to greet 
Her mute Companion as it lay 
In love and pity at her feet; 
How happy in its turn to meet 
The recognition ! the mild glance 
Beamed from that gracious countenance; 
Communication, like the ray 
Of a new morning, to the nature 280 

And prospects of the inferior Creature ! 

A mortal Song we sing, by dower 
Encouraged of celestial power; 
Power which the viewless Spirit shed 
By whom we were first visited; 
Whose voice we heard, whose hand and 

wings 
Swept like a breeze the conscious strings, 
When, left in solitude, erewhile 
We stood before this ruined Pile, 
And, quitting unsubstantial dreams, 290 
Sang in this Presence kindred themes; 
Distress and desolation spread 
Through human hearts, and pleasure 

dead, — 
Dead — but to live again on earth, 
A second and yet nobler birth; 
Dire overthrow, and yet how high 
The re-ascent in sanctity ! 
From fair to fairer; day by day 
A more divine and loftier way ! 



Even such this blessed Pilgrim trod, 300 

By sorrow lifted towards her God; 

Uplifted to the purest sky 

Of undisturbed mortality. 

Her own thoughts loved she; and could 

bend 
A dear look to her lowly Friend; 
There stopped; her thirst was satisfied 
With what this innocent spring supplied: 
Her sanction inwardly she bore, 
And stood apart from human cares: 
But to the world returned no more, 310 
Although with no unwilling mind 
Help did she give at need, and joined 
The Wharfdale peasants in their prayers. 
At length, thus faintly, faintly tied 
To earth, she was set free, and died. 
Thy soid, exalted Emily, 
Maid of the blasted family, 
Rose to the God from whom it came ! 
— In Rylstone Church her mortal frame 
Was buried by her Mother's side. 320 

Most glorious sunset ! and a ray 
Survives — the twilight of this day — 
In that fair Creature whom the fields 
Support, and whom the forest shields; 
Who, having filled a holy place, 
Partakes, hi her degree, Heaven's grace; 
And bears a memory and a mind 
Raised far above the law of kind; 
Haimting the spots with lonely cheer 
Which her dear Mistress once held dear: 
Loves most what Emily loved most — 331 
The enclosure of this churchyard ground; 
Here wanders like a gliding ghost, 
And every sabbath here is found ; 
Comes with the people when the bells 
Are heard among the moorland dells, 
Finds entrance through yon arch, where 

way 
Lies open on the sabbath-day; 
Here walks amid the mournful waste 
Of prostrate altars, shrines defaced, 340 
And floors encumbered with rich show 
Of fret- work imagery laid low; 
Paces softly, or makes halt, 
By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault; 
By plate of monumental brass 
Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass, 
And sculptured Forms of Warriors brave: 
But chiefly by that single grave, 
That one sequestered hillock green, 
The pensive visitant is seen. 350 

There doth the gentle Creature lie 
With those adversities unmoved; 



THE FORCE OF PRAYER 



38i 



Calm spectacle, by earth and sky- 
In their benignity approved ! 
And aye, methinks, this hoary Pile, 
Subdued by outrage and decay, 



Looks down upon her with a smile, 
A gracious smile, that seems to say — 
" Thou, thou art not a Child of Time, 
But Daughter of the Eternal Prime ! " 36c 



THE FORCE OF PRAYER 

OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY 

A TRADITION 

1807. 1815 

An Appendage to the " White Doe." My 
friend, Mr. Rogers, has also written on the 
subject. The story is preserved in Dr. Whit- 
aker's History of Craven — a topographical 
writer of first-rate merit in all that concerns 
the past ; but such was his aversion from the 
modern spirit, as shown in the spread of manu- 
factories in those districts of which he treats, 
that his readers are left entirely ignorant both 
of the progress of these arts and their real 
bearing upon the comfort, virtues, and happi- 
ness of the inhabitants. While wandering 
on foot through the fertile valleys and over 
the moorlands of the Apennine that divides 
Yorkshire from Lancashire, I used to be de- 
lighted with observing the number of substan- 
tial cottages that had sprung up on every side, 
each having its little plot of fertile ground Avon 
from the surrounding waste. A bright and 
warm fire, if needed, was always to be found 
in these dwellings. The father was at his 
loom ; the children looked healthy and happy. 
Is it not to be feared that the increase of 
mechanic power has done away with many 
of these blessings, and substituted many evils ? 
Alas ! if these evils grow, how are they to be 
checked, and where is the remedy to be found ? 
Political economy will not supply it ; that is 
certain, we must look to something deeper, 
purer, and higher. 

" ^hat iff good for a bootleg bene ? " 
With these dark words begins my Tale; 
And their meaning is, whence can comfort 

spring 
When Prayer is of no avail ? 

" What ii 000b for a booths bene 7 " 
The Falconer to the Lady said; 
And she made answer " endless SORROW I " 
For she knew that her Son was dead. 

She knew it by the Falconer's words, 
And from the look of the Falconer's eye ; 10 



And from the love which was in her soul 
For her youthful Romilly. 

— Young Romilly through Barden woods 

Is ranging high and low; 

And holds a greyhound in a leash, 

To let slip upon buck or doe. 

The pair have reached that fearful chasm, 

How tempting to bestride ! 

For lordly Wharf is there pent in 

With rocks on either side. 20 

This striding-place is called The Strid, 
A name which it took of yore: 
A thousand years hath it borne that name, 
And shall a thousand more. 

And hither is young Romilly come, 
And what may now forbid 
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, 
Shall bound across The Strid ? 

He sprang in glee, — for what cared he 
That the river was strong, and the rocks 
were steep ? — 30 

But the greyhound in the leash hung back. 
And checked him in his leap. 

The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, 
And strangled by a merciless force; 
For never more was young Romilly seen 
Till he rose a lifeless corse. 

Now there is stillness in the vale, 
And long, unspeaking, sorrow: 
Wharf shall be to pitying hearts 
A name more sad than Yarrow. 



If for a lover the Lady wept, 

A solace she might borrow 

From death, and from the passion 

death ; — 
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 

She weeps not for the wedding-day 
Which was to be to-morrow : 
Her hope was a further-looking hope, 
And hers is a mother's sorrow. 



40 



of 



382 



CONVENTION OF CINTRA 



He was a tree that stood alone, 
And proudly did its branches wave; 
And the root of this delightful tree 
Was hi her husband's grave ! 

Long, long in darkness did she sit, 
And her first words were, " Let there be 
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, 
A stately Priory ! " 

The stately Priory was reared; 
And Wharf, as he moved along, 
To matins joined a mournful voice, 
Nor failed at evensong. 

And the Lady prayed in heaviness 
That looked not for relief ! 
But slowly did her succour come, 
And a patience to her grief. 

Oh ! there is never sorrow of heart 
That shall lack a timely end, 
If but to God we turn, and ask 
Of Him to be our friend ! 



COMPOSED WHILE THE AUTHOR 
WAS ENGAGED IN WRITING A 
TRACT OCCASIONED BY THE 
CONVENTION OF CINTRA 

1808. 1815 

Not 'mid the world's vain objects that en- 
slave 
The free-born Soul — that World whose 

vaunted skill 
In selfish interest perverts the will, 
Whose factions lead astray the wise and 

brave — 
Not there ; but in dark wood and rocky cave, 
And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill 
With omnipresent murmur as they rave 
Down their steep beds, that never shall be 

still: 
Here, mighty Nature ! in this school sub- 
lime 
I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering 

Spain; 
For her consult the auguries of time, 
And through the human heart explore my 

way; 
And look and listen — gathering, whence I 

may, 
Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can re- 
strain. 



COMPOSED AT THE SAME TIME 
AND ON THE SAME OCCASION 

1808. 1815 

I dropped my pen; and listened to the 

Wind 
That sang of trees uptorn and vessels 

tost — 
A midnight harmony ; and wholly lost 
To the general sense of men by chains con- 
fined 
Of business, care, or pleasure ; or resigned 
To timely sleep. Thought I, the impas- 
sioned strain, 
Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain, 
Like acceptation from the World will find. 
Yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink 
A dirge devoutly breathed o'er sorrows 

past; 
And to the attendant promise will give 

heed — 
The prophecy, — like that of this wild blast, 
Which, while it makes the heart with sad- 
ness shrink, 
Tells also of bright calms that shall suc- 
ceed. 



GEORGE AND SARAH GREEN 
1808. 1839 

Who weeps for strangers ? Many wept 
For George and Sarah Green; 

Wept for that pair's imhappy fate, 
Whose grave may here be seen. 

By night, upon these stormy fells, 
Did wife and husband roam; 

Six little ones at home had left, 
And could not find that home. 

For any dwelling-place of man 

As vainly did they seek. 10 

He perish'd ; and a voice was heard — 

The widow's lonely shriek. 

Not many steps, and she was left 

A body without life — 
A few short steps were the chain that bound 

The husband to the wife. 

Now do those sternly-featured hills 

Look gently on this grave ; 
And quiet now are the depths of air, 

As a sea without a wave. 20 



"ALAS! WHAT BOOTS THE LONG LABORIOUS QUEST" 383 



But deeper lies the heart of peace 

In quiet more profound; 
The heart of quietness is here 

Within this churchyard bound. 

And from all agony of mind 

It keeps them safe, and far 

From fear and grief, and from all need 
Of sun or guiding star. 

O darkness of the grave ! how deep, 
After that living night — 

That last and dreary living one 
Of sorrow and affright ? 

O sacred marriage-bed of death, 
That keeps them side by side 

In bond of peace, in bond of love, 
That may not be untied ! 



HOFFER 

1809. 181 5 

Of mortal parents is the Hero born 

By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led ? 

Or is it Tell's great Spirit, from the dead 

Returned to animate an age forlorn ? 

He comes like Phcebus through the gates 

of morn 
When dreary darkness is discomfited, 
Yet mark his modest state ! upon his head, 
That simple crest, a heron's plume, is worn. 
O Liberty ! they stagger at the shock 
From van to rear — and with one mind 

would flee, 
But half their host is buried: — rock on rock 
Descends: — beneath this godlike Warrior, 

see ! 
Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock 
The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty. 



"ADVANCE — COME FORTH 
FROM THY TYROLEAN GROUND " 

1809. 1815 

Advance — come forth from thy Tyrolean 
ground, 

Dear Liberty ! stern Nymph of soul un- 
tamed ; 

Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains 
named ! 

Through the long chain of Alps from mound 
to mound 



And o'er the eternal snows, like Echo, 
bound ; 

Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn 

Have roused her from her sleep: and for- 
est-lawn, 

Cliffs, woods and caves, her viewless steps 
resound 

And babble of her pastime ! — On, dread 
Power ! 

With such invisible motion speed thy flight, 

Through hanging clouds, from craggy height 
to height, 

Through the green vales and through the 
herdsman's bower — 

That all the Alps may gladden in thy might, 

Here, there, and hi all places at one hour. 



FEELINGS OF THE TYROLESE 
1809. 1815 

The Land we from our fathers had in trust, 
And to our children will transmit, or die: 
This is our maxim, this our piety; 
And God and Nature say that it is just. 
That which we would perform hi arms — we 

must ! 
We read the dictate in the infant's eye; 
In the wife's smile; and in the placid sky; 
And, at our feet, amid the silent dust 
Of them that were before us. — Sing aloud 
Old songs, the precious music of the heart ! 
Give, herds and flocks, your voices to the 

wind ! 
While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd, 
With weapons grasped hi fearless hands, to 

assert 
Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind. 



"ALAS ! WHAT BOOTS THE LONG 
LABORIOUS QUEST" 

1809. 1815 

Alas ! what boots the long laborious quest 
Of moral prudence, sought through good 

and ill; 
Or pains abstruse — to elevate the will, 
And lead us on to that transcendent rest 
Where every passion shall the sway attest 
Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill; 
What is it but a vain and curious skill, 
If sapient Germany must lie deprest, 
Beneath the brutal sword ? — Her haughty 

Schools 



384 "AND IS IT AMONG RUDE UNTUTORED DALES" 



Shall blush; and may not we with sorrow 

say — 
A few strong instincts and a few plain 

rules, 
Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have 

wrought 
More for mankind at this unhappy day 
Than all the pride of intellect and thought ? 



"AND IS IT AMONG RUDE 
UNTUTORED DALES" 

1809. 1S15 

And is it among rude untutored Dales, 
There, and there only, that the heart is 

true ? 
And, rising to repel or to subdue, 
Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails ? 
Ah no ! though Nature's dread protection 

fails, 
There is a bulwark in the soul. This knew 
Iberian Burghers when the sword they drew 
In Zaragoza, naked to the gales 
Of fiercely-breathing war. The truth was 

felt 
By Palafox, and many a brave compeer, 
Like him of noble birth and noble mind ; 
By ladies, meek-eyed women without fear; 
And wanderers of the street, to whom is 

dealt 
The bread which without industry they 

find. 



"O'ER THE WIDE EARTH, ON 
MOUNTAIN AND ON PLAIN" 

1809. 1815 

O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on 

plain, 
Dwells in the affections and the soul of man 
A Godhead, like the universal Pan; 
But more exalted, with a brighter train: 
And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain, 
Showered equally on city and on field, 
And neither hope nor steadfast promise 

yield 
In these usurping times of fear and pain ? 
Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it 

Heaven ! 
We know the arduous strife, the eternal 

laws 
To which the triumph of all good is given, 
High sacrifice, and labour without pause, 



Even to the death: — else whei'efore should 

the eye 
Of man converse with immortality ? 



ON THE FINAL SUBMISSION OF 
THE TYROLESE 

1S09. 1 81 5 

It was a moral end for which they fought ; 
Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to 

shame, 
Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved 

an aim, 
A resolution, or enlivening thought ? 
Nor hath that moral good been vainly 

sought ; 
For in their magnanimity and fame 
Powers have they left, an impulse, and a 

claim 
Which neither can be overturned nor 

bought. 
Sleep, Warriors, sleep ! among your hills 



repose 



We know that ye, beneath the stern control 
Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished 

soul : 
And when, impatient of her guilt and woes, 
Europe breaks forth; then, Shepherds ! shall 

ye rise 
For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies. 



"HAIL, ZARAGOZA! IF WITH 
UNWET EYE" 

1809. 1815 

Hail, Zaragoza ! If with unwet eye 
We can approach, thy sorrow to behold, 
Yet is the heart not pitiless nor cold; 
Such spectacle demands not tear or sigh. 
These desolate remains are trophies high 
Of more than martial courage in the breast 
Of peaceful civic virtue: they attest 
Thy matchless worth to all posterity. 
Blood flowed before thy sight without 

remorse ; 
Disease consumed thy vitals; War up- 
heaved 
The ground beneath thee with volcanic 

force : 
Dread trials ! yet encountered and sus- 
tained 
Till not a wreck of help or hope remained, 
And law was from necessity received. 



"LOOK NOW ON THAT ADVENTURER WHO HATH PAID" 385 



" SAY, WHAT IS HONOUR ? — 'T IS 
THE FINEST SENSE" 

1809. 1815 

Say, what is Honour ? — 'T is the finest 

sense 
Of justice which the human mind can 

frame, 
Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim, 
And guard the way of life from all offence 
Suffered or done. When lawless violence 
Invades a Realm, so pressed that in the 

scale 
Of perilous war her weightiest armies fail, 
Honour is hopeful elevation, — whence 
Glory, and triumph. Yet with politic skill 
Endangered States may yield to terms 

unjust; 
Stoop their proud heads, but not unto the 

dust — 
A Foe's most favourite purpose to fulfil: 
Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust 
Are forfeited; but infamy doth kill. 



"THE MARTIAL COURAGE OF A 
DAY IS VAIN" 

1809. 1S15 

The martial courage of a day is vain, 
An empty noise of death the battle's roar, 
If vital hope be wanting to restore, 
Or fortitude be wanting to sustain, 
Armies or kingdoms. We have heard a 

strain 
Of triumph, how the labouring Danube bore 
A weight of hostile corses; drenched with 

gore 
Were the wide fields, the hamlets heaped 

with slain. 
Yet see (the mighty tumult overpast) 
Austria a daughter of her Throne hath sold ! 
And her Tyrolean Champion we behold 
Murdered, like one ashore by shipwreck cast, 
Murdered without relief. Oh ! blind as bold, 
To think that such assurance can stand fast ! 



"BRAVE SCHILL! BY DEATH 
DELIVERED" 

1809. 1S15 

Brave Schill ! by death delivered, take 

thy flight 
From Prussia's timid region. Go, and rest 



With heroes, 'mid the islands of the Blest, 
Or in the fields of empyrean light. 
A meteor wert thou crossing a dark night: 
Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sub- 
lime, 
Stand in the spacious firmament of time, 
Fixed as a star: such glory is thy right. 
Alas ! it may not be: for earthly fame 
Is Fortune's frail dependant; yet there lives 
A Judge, who, as man claims by merit, 

gives; 
To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim, 
Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed; 
In whose pure sight all virtue doth suc- 
ceed. 



"CALL NOT THE ROYAL SWEDE 
UNFORTUNATE" 

1809. 1815 

Call not the royal Swede unfortunate, 
Who never did to Fortune bend the knee ; 
Who slighted fear; rejected steadfastly 
Temptation; and whose kingly name and 

state 
Have " perished by his choice, and not his 

fate ! " 
Hence lives He, to his inner self endeared; 
And hence, wherever virtue is revered, 
He sits a more exalted Potentate, 
Throned in the hearts of men. Should 

Heaven ordain 
That this great Servant of a righteous cause 
Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to 

endure, 
Yet may a sympathising spirit pause, 
Admonished by these truths, and quench 

all pain 
In thankful joy and gratulation pure. 



"LOOK NOW ON THAT ADVEN- 
TURER WHO HATH PAID" 

1809. 1 81 5 

Look now on that Adventurer who hath 

paid 
His vows to Fortune; who, in cruel slight 
Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right, 
Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was made 
By the blind Goddess, — ruthless, undis- 
mayed ; 
And so hath gamed at length a prosperous 
height, 



386 "IS THERE A POWER THAT CAN SUSTAIN AND CHEER" 



Round which the elements of worldly 
might 

Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are 
laid. 

joyless pQwer that stands by lawless 
force ! 

Curses are his dire portion, scorn, and hate, 

Internal darkness and unquiet breath; 

And, if old judgments keep their sacred 
course, 

Him from that height shall Heaven pre- 
cipitate 

By violent and ignominious death. 



"IS THERE A POWER THAT CAN 
SUSTAIN AND CHEER" 

1S09. 181 5 

Is there a power that can sustain and cheer 
The captive chieftain, by a tyrant's doom, 
Forced to descend into his destined tomb — 
A dmigeon dark ! where he must waste the 

year, 
And lie cut off from all his heart holds 

dear; 
What time his injured country is a stage 
Whereon deliberate Valour and the rage 
Of righteous Vengeance side by side ap- 
pear, 
Filling from morn to night the heroic scene 
With deeds of hope and everlasting 

praise : — 
Say can he think of this with mind serene 
And silent fetters ? Yes, if visions bright 
Shine on his soul, reflected from the days 
When he himself was tried in open light. 



"AH! WHERE IS PALAFOX? NOR 
TONGUE NOR PEN" 

1810. 1815 

Ah ! where is Palafox ? Nor tongue nor 

pen 
Reports of him, his dwelling or his grave ! 
Does yet the unheard-of vessel ride the 

wave ? 
Or is she swallowed up, remote from ken 
Of pitying human nature ? Once again 
Methinks that we shall hail thee, Champion 

brave, 
Redeemed to baffle that imperial Slave, 
And through all Europe cheer desponding 

men 



With new-born hope. Unbounded is the 
might 

Of martyrdom, and fortitude, and right. 

Hark, how thy Country triumphs ! — Smil- 
ingly 

The Eternal looks upon her sword that 
gleams, 

Like his own lightning, over mountains 
high, 

On rampart, and the banks of all her 
streams. 



"IN DUE OBSERVANCE OF AN 
ANCIENT RITE" 

18.10. 18 1 5 

In due observance of an ancient rite, 
The rude Biscayans, when their children lie 
Dead in the sinless time of infancy, 
Attire the peaceful corse in vestments 

white ; 
And, in like sign of cloudless triumph 

bright, 
They bind the unoffending creature's brows 
With happy garlands of the pure white 

rose: 
Then do a festal company unite 
In choral song; and, while the uplifted 

cross 
Of Jesus goes before, the child is borne 
Uncovered to his grave: 't is closed, — her 

loss 
The Mother then mourns, as she needs 

must mourn; 
But soon, through Christian faith, is grief 

subdued ; 
And joy returns, to brighten fortitude. 



FEELINGS OF A NOBLE BIS- 
CAYAN AT ONE OF THOSE 
FUNERALS 

1S10. 1815 

Yet, yet, Biscayans ! we must meet our 

Foes 
With firmer soul, yet labour to regain 
Our ancient freedom; else 'twere worse 

than vain 
To gather round the bier these festal shows. 
A garland fashioned of the pure white rose 
Becomes not one whose father is a slave: 
Oh, bear the infant covered to his grave ! 
These venerable mountains now enclose 



INDIGNATION OF A HIGH-MINDED SPANIARD 



337 



A people sunk in apathy and fear. 
If this endure, farewell, for us, all good ! 
The awful light of heavenly innocence 
Will fail to illuminate the inf ant's bier; 
And guilt and shame, from which is no 

defence, 
Descend on all that issues from our blood. 



ON A CELEBRATED EVENT IN 
ANCIENT HISTORY 

1810. 1815 

A Roman Master stands on Grecian 

ground, 
And to the people at the Isthmian Games 
Assembled, He, by a herald's voice, pro- 
claims 
The Liberty of Greece: — the words 

rebound 
Until all voices in one voice are drowned; 
Glad acclamation by which air was rent ! 
And birds, high-flying in the element, 
Dropped to the earth, astonished at the 

sound ! 
Yet were the thoughtful grieved; and still 

that voice 
Haunts, with sad echoes, musing Fancy's 

ear: 
Ah ! that a Conqueror's words should be so 

dear: 
Ah ! that a- boon could shed such rapturous 

joys ! 
A gift of that which is not to be given 
By all the blended powers of Earth and 

Heaven. 



UPON THE SAME EVENT 
1810. 1815 

When, far and wide, swift as the beams 

of morn 
The tidings past of servitude repealed, 
And of that joy which shook the Isthmian 

Field, 
The rough iEtolians smiled with bitter 

scorn. 
" 'T is known," cried they, " that he, who 

would adorn 
His envied temples with the Isthmian 

crown, 
Must either win, through effort of his 

own, 
The prize, or be content to see it worn 



By more deserving brows. — Yet so ye 

prop, 
Sons of the brave who fought at Marathon, 
Your feeble spirits ! Greece her head hath 

bowed, 
As if the wreath of liberty thereon 
Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud, 
Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's 

top." 



THE OAK OF GUERNICA 

1S10. 1815 

The ancient oak of Guernica, says Laborde 
in his account of Biscay, is a most venerable 
natural monument Ferdinand and Isabella, 
in the year 1476, after hearing 1 mass in the 
church of Santa Maria de la Antigua, repaired 
to this tree, under which they swore to the 
Biscayans to maintain their fueros (privileges). 
What other interest belongs to it in the minds 
of this people will appear from the following 

SUPPOSED ADDRESS TO THE SAME 

Oak of Guernica ! Tree of holier power 
Than that which in Dodona did enshrine 
(So faith too fondly deemed) a voice divine 
Heard from the depths of its aerial 

bower — 
How canst thou flourish at this blighting 

hour ? 
What hope, what joy can sunshine bring to 

thee, 
Or the soft breezes from the Atlantic sea, 
The dews of morn, or April's tender 

shower ? 
Stroke merciful and welcome would that be 
Which should extend thy branches on the 

ground, 
If never more within their shady round 
Those lofty-minded Lawgivers shall meet, 
Peasant and lord, in their appointed seat, 
Guardians of Biscay's ancient liberty. 



INDIGNATION OF A HIGH- 
MINDED SPANIARD 

1S10. 1815 

We can endure that He should waste our 

lands, 
Despoil our temples, and by sword and 

flame 
Return us to the dust from which we came; 



3 S8 



"AVAUNT ALL SPECIOUS PLIANCY OF MIND 1 



Such food a Tyrant's appetite demands: 
And we can brook the thought that by his 

hands 
Spain may be overpowered, and he possess, 
For his delight, a solemn wilderness 
Where all the brave lie dead. But, when 

of bands 
Which he will break for us he dares to 

speak, 
Of benefits, and of a future day 
When our enlightened minds shall bless his 

• sway; 
Then, the strained heart of fortitude proves 

weak; 
Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks 

declare 
That he has power to inflict what we lack 

strength to bear. 



"AVAUNT ALL SPECIOUS 
PLIANCY OF MIND" 

1S10. 1815 

A VAUNT all specious pliancy of mind 

In men of low degree, all smooth pretence ! 

I better like a blunt indifference, 

And self-respecting slowness, disinclined 

To win me at first sight: and be there 

joined 
Patience and temperance with this high 

reserve, 
Honour that knows the path and will not 

swerve ; 
Affections, which, if put to proof, are kind ; 
And piety towards God. Such men of old 
Were England's native growth; and, 

throughout Spam 
(Thanks to high God) forests of such re- 
main : 
Then for that Coimtry let our hopes be bold ; 
For matched with these shall policy prove 

vain, 
Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her 

gold. 



"O'ERWEENING STATESMEN 
HAVE FULL LONG RELIED" 

1810. 1S15 

O'erweening Statesmen have full long 

relied 
On fleets and armies, and external wealth: 
But from within proceeds a Nation's health; 



Which shall not fail, though poor men 

cleave with pride 
To the paternal floor; or turn aside, 
In the thronged city, from the walks of 

gam, 
As being all unworthy to detain 
A Soul by contemplation sanctified. 
There are who cannot languish in this strife, 
Spaniards of every rank, by whom the good 
Of such high course was felt and under- 
stood ; 
Who to their Country's cause have bound a 

life 
Erewhile, by solemn consecration, given 
To labour and to prayer, to nature, and to 
heaven. 



THE FRENCH AND THE SPANISH 
GUERILLAS 

1810. 1815 

Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast 
From bleak hill-top, and length of march 

by night 
Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad 

height — 
These hardships ill-sustained, these dangers 

past, 
The roving Spanish Bands are reached at 

last, ' 
Charged, and dispersed like foam: but as 

a flight 
Of scattered quails by signs do reunite, 
So these, — and, heard of once again, are 

chased 
With combinations of long-practised art 
And newly -kindled hope; but they are 

fled — 
Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead : 
Where now ? — Their sword is at the Foe- 
man's heart; 
And thus from year to year his walk they 

thwart, 
And hang like dreams around his guilty bed. 

EPITAPHS 

TRANSLATED FROM CHIABRERA 

1S10 

Those from Chiabrera were chiefly trans- 
lated when Mr. Coleridge was writing his 
Friend, in which periodical my " Essay on 
Epitaphs," written about that time, was first 



EPITAPHS 



3S9 



published. For further notice of Chiabrera, 
in connection with his Epitaphs, see " Musings 
at Aquapendente." 

I 

1810. 1837 

Weep not, beloved Friends ! nor let the air 
For ine with sighs be troubled. Not from 

life 
Have I been taken; this is genuine life 
And this alone — the life which now I live 
In peace eternal; where desire and joy 
Together move in fellowship without end. — 
Francesco Ceni willed that, after death, 
His tombstone thus should speak for him. 

And surely 
Small cause there is for that fond wish of 

ours 
Long to continue in this world; a world 
That keeps not faith, nor yet can point a 

hope 
To good, whereof itself is destitute. 

II 

1810. 1810 

Perhaps some needful service of the State 
Drew Titus from the depth of studious 

bowers, 
And doomed him to contend in faithless 

courts, 
Where gold determines between right and 

wrong. 
Yet did at length his loyalty of heart, 
And his pure native genius, lead him back 
To wait upon the bright and gracious 

Muses, 
Whom he had early loved. And not in 

vain 
Such course he held ! Bologna's learned 

schools 
Were gladdened by the Sage's voice, and 

hung 
With fondness on those sweet Nestorian 

strains. 
There pleasure crowned his days; and all 

his thoughts 
A roseate fragrance breathed. — O human 

life, 
That never art secure from dolorous change ! 
Behold a high injunction suddenly 
To Arno's side hath brought him, and he 

charmed 
A Tuscan audience: but full soon was 

called 



To the perpetual silence of the grave. 
Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood 
A Champion stedfast and invincible, 
To quell the rage of literary War ! 

Ill 

1810. 1810 

O Thou who movest onward with a mind 

Intent upon thy way, pause, though in 
haste ! 

'T will be no fruitless moment. I was born 

Within Savona's walls, of gentle blood. 

On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate 

To sacred studies; and the Roman Shep- 
herd 

Gave to my charge Urbmo's numerous 
flock. 

Well did I watch, much laboured, nor had 
power 

To escape from many and strange indigni- 
ties; 

Was smitten by the great ones of the 
world, 

But did not fall; for Virtue braves all 
shocks, 

Upon herself resting immoveably. 

Me did a kindlier fortune then invite 

To serve the glorious Henry, King of 
France, 

And in his hands I saw a high reward 

Stretched out for my acceptance, — but 
Death came. 

Now, Reader, learn from this my fate, how 
false, 

How treacherous to her promise, is the 
world ; 

And trust in God — to whose eternal doom 

Must bend the sceptred Potentates of earth. 



1810. 1815 

There never breathed a man who, when 

his life 
Was closing, might not of that life relate 
Toils long and hard. — The warrior will 

report 
Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in 

the field, 
And blast of trumpets. He who hath been 

doomed 
To bow his forehead in the courts of kings, 
Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate, 
Envy and heart-inquietude, derived 



39° 



EPITAPHS 



From intricate cabals of treacherous friends. 
I, who on shipboard lived from earliest 

youth, 
Could represent the countenance horrible 
Of the vexed waters, and the indignant 

rage 
Of Auster and Bootes. Fifty years 
Over the well-steered galleys did I rule: — 
From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars, 
Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown; 
And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and 

oft: 
Of every cloud which in the heavens might 

stir 
I knew the force; and hence the rough 

sea's pride 
Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow. 
What noble pomp and frequent have not I 
On regal decks beheld ! yet in the end s 
I learned that one poor moment can suffice 
To equalise the lofty and the low. 
We sail the sea of life — a Calm One finds, 
And One a Tempest — and, the voyage o'er, 
Death is the quiet haven of us all. 
If more of my condition ye would know, 
Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang 
Of noble parents; seventy years and three 
Lived I — then yielded to a slow disease. 



1810. 1837 

True is it that Ambrosio Salinero 

With an untoward fate was long involved 

In odious litigation; and full long, 

Fate harder still ! had he to endure assaults 

Of racking malady. And true it is 

That not the less a frank courageous heart 

And buoyant spirit triumphed over pain; 

And he was strong to follow in the steps 

Of the fair Muses. Not a covert path 

Leads to the dear Parnassian forest's shade, 

That might from him be hidden; not a 

track 
Mounts to pellucid Hippocrene, but he 
Had traced its windings. — This Savona 

knows, 
Yet no sepulchral honours to her Son 
She paid, for hi our age the heart is ruled 
Only by gold. And now a simple stone 
Inscribed with this memorial here is raised 
By his bereft, his lonely, Chiabrera. 
Think not, O Passenger ! who read'st the 

lines, 
That an exceeding love hath dazzled me; 



No — he was One whose memory ought to 

spread 
Where'er Permessus bears an honoured 

name, 
And live as long as its pure stream shall 

flow. 

VI 

1S10. 1815 

Destined to war from very infancy 
Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took 
In Malta the white symbol of the Cross: 
Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun 
Hazard or toil; among the sands was 

seen 
Of Libya; and not seldom, on the banks 
Of wide Hungarian Danube, 't was my lot 
To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded. 
So lived I, and repined not at such fate: 
This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong, 
That stripped of arms I to my end am 

brought 
On the soft down of my paternal home. 
Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause 
To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor 

halt 
In thy appointed way, and bear in mind 
How fleeting and how frail is human life ! 



1810. 1837 

O flower of all that springs from gentle 

blood, 
And all that generous nurture breeds to 

make 
Youth amiable ; O friend so true of soul 
To fair Aglaia; by what envy moved, 
Lelius ! has death cut short thy brilliant 

day 
In its sweet opening ? and what dire mis- 
hap 
Has from Savona torn her best delight ? 
For thee she mourns, nor e'er will cease to 

mourn ; 
And, should the out-pourings of her eyes 

suffice not 
For her heart's grief, she will entreat Se- 

beto 
Not to withhold his bounteous aid, Sebeto 
Who saw thee, on his margin, yield to 

death, 
In the chaste arms of thy beloved Love ! 
What profit riches ? what does youth avail ! 
Dust are our hopes; — I, weeping bitterly, 



MATERNAL GRIEF 



39i 



Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to 

pray 
That every gentle Spirit hither led 
May read them, not without some bitter 

tears. 

VIII 

1810. 1S15 

Not without heavy grief of heart did He 
On whom the duty fell (for at that time 
The father sojourned in a distant land) 
Deposit hi the hollow of this tomb 
A brother's Child, most tenderly beloved ! 
Francesco was the name the Youth had 

borne, 
Pozzobonxelli his illustrious house; 
And, when beneath this stone the Corse 

was laid, 
The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears. 
Alas ! the twentieth April of his life 
Had scarcely flowered: and at this early 

time, 
By genuine virtue he inspired a hope 
That greatly cheered his country: to his 

kin 
He promised comfort; and the flattering 

thoughts 
His friends had in their fondness enter- 
tained, 
He suffered not to languish or decay. 
Now is there not good reason to break 

forth 
Into a passionate lament ? — O Soul ! 
Short while a Pilgrim in our nether world, 
Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal ah'; 
And round this earthly tomb let roses rise, 
An everlasting spring ! in memory 
Of that delightful fragrance which was 

once 
From thy mild manners quietly exhaled. 



1810. 1815 

Pause, courteous Spirit ! — Balbi suppli- 
cates 

That Thou, with no reluctant voice, for 
him 

Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst pre- 
fer 

A prayer to the Redeemer of the world. 

This to the dead by sacred right belongs; 

All else is nothing. — Did occasion suit 

To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb 

Would ill suffice: for Plato's lore sublime, 



And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite, 
Enriched and beautified his studious mind: 
With Archimedes also he conversed 
As with a chosen friend; nor did he leave 
Those laureat wreaths ungathered which 

the Nymphs 
Twine near their loved Permessus. — 

Finally, 
Himself above each lower thought uplift- 
ing, 
His ears he closed to listen to the songs 
Which Sion's Kings did consecrate of old; 
And his Permessus found on Lebanon. 
A blessed Man ! who of protracted days 
Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep ; 
But truly did He live his life. Urbino, 
Take pride hi him ! — O Passenger, fare- 
well ! 



MATERNAL GRIEF 

1S10. 1842 

This was in part an overflow from the Soli- 
tary's description of his own and his wife's feel- 
ings upon the decease of their children. (See 
"Excursion," book III.) 

Departed Child ! I could forget thee 

once 
Though at my bosom nursed; this woeful 

gain 
Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul 
Is present and perpetually abides 
A shadow, never, never to be displaced 
By the returning substance, seen or touched, 
Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my em- 
brace. 
Absence and death how differ they ! and 

how 
Shall I admit that nothing can restore 
What one short sigh so easily re- 
moved ? — 10 
Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought, 
Assist me, God, their boundaries to know, 
O teach me calm submission to thy Will ! 
The Child she mourned had overstepped 
the pale 
Of Infancy, but still did breathe the air 
That sanctifies its confines, and partook 
Reflected beams of that celestial light 
To all the Little-ones on sinful earth 
Not unvouchsafed — a light that warmed 

and cheered 
Those several qualities of heart and mind 20 



392 CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE YEARS OLD 



Which, in her own blest nature, rooted 

deep, . 
Daily before the Mother's watchful eye, 
And not hers only, their peculiar charms 
Unfolded, — beauty, for its present self, 
And for its promises to future years, 
With not unfrequent rapture fondly hailed. 

Have you espied upon a dewy lawn 
A pair of Leverets each provoking each 
To a continuance of their fearless sport, 
Two separate Creatures in their several 

gifts 30 

Abounding, but so fashioned that, hi all 
That Nature prompts them to display, 

their looks, 
Their starts of motion and their fits of 

rest, 
An undistinguishable style appears 
And character of gladness, as if Spring 
Lodged in their innocent bosoms, and the 

spirit 
Of the rejoicing morning were their own ? 
Such union, in the lovely Girl maintained 
And her twin Brother, had the parent 

seen, 
Ere, pouncing like a ravenous bird of 

prey, 40 

Death in a moment parted them, and left 
The Mother, hi her turns of anguish, worse 
Than desolate; for oft-times from the 

sound 
Of the survivor's sweetest voice (dear child, 
He knew it not) and from his happiest 

looks, 
Did she extract the food of self-reproach, 
As one that lived ungrateful for the stay 
By Heaven afforded to uphold her maimed 
And tottering spirit. And full oft the Boy, 
Now first acquainted with distress and 

grief, 50 

Shrunk from his Mother's presence, shunned 

with fear 
Her sad approach, and stole away to find, 
In his known haunts of joy where'er he 

might, 
A more congenial object. But, as time 
Softened her pangs and reconciled the child 
To what he saw, he gradually returned, 
Like a scared Bird encouraged to renew 
A broken intercourse; and, while his eyes 
Were yet with pensive fear and gentle awe 
Turned upon her who bore him, she would 
. stoop 60 

To imprint a kiss that lacked not power to 

spread 



Faint colour over both their pallid cheeks, 
And stilled his tremulous lip. Thus they 

were calmed 
And cheered; and now together breathe 

fresh air 
In open fields; and when the glare of day 
Is gone, and twilight to the Mother's wish 
Befriends the observance, readily they join 
In walks whose boundary is the lost One's 

grave, 
Which he with flowers hath planted, find- 
ing there 
Amusement, where the Mother does not 

miss 70 

Dear consolation, kneeling on the turf 
In prayer, yet blending with that solemu 

rite 
Of pious faith the vanities of grief; 
For such, by pitying Angels aud by Spirits 
Transferred to regions upon which the 

clouds 
Of our weak nature rest not, must be 

deemed 
Those willing tears, and unforbidden sighs, 
And all those tokens of a cherished sorrow, 
Which, soothed and sweetened by the 

grace of Heaven 
As now it is, seems to her own fond heart, 
Immortal as the love that gave it being. 8i 



CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD 
THREE YEARS OLD 

1811. 1815 

Written at Allanbank, Grasmere. Picture 
of my Daughter Catharine, who died the year 
after. 

Loving she is, and tractable, though wild; 
And Innocence hath privilege in her 
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes; 
And feats of cunning; and the pretty round 
Of trespasses, affected to provoke 
Mock-chastisement and partnership in play. 
And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth, 
Not less if unattended and alone 
Than when both young and old sit gathered 

round 
And take delight in its activity; 
Even so this happy Creature of herself 
Is all-sufficient, solitude to her 
Is blithe society, who fills the air 
With gladness and involuntary songs. 
Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's 



EPISTLE 



393 



Forth-startled from the fern where she lay 

couched ; 
Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir 
Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow- 
flowers, 
Or from before it chasing wantonly 
The many-coloured images imprest 
Upon the bosom of a placid lake. 



SPANISH GUERILLAS 
1S11. 1815 

They seek, are sought; to daily battle led, 
Shrink not, though far outnumbered by 

their Foes, 
For they have learnt to open and to close 
The ridges of grim war; and at their head 
Are captains such as erst their country 

bred 
Or fostered, self -supported chiefs, — like 

those 
Whom hardy Rome was fearful to oppose; 
Whose desperate shock the Carthaginian 

fled. 
In One who lived unknown a shepherd's 

life 
Redoubted Viriatus breathes again; 
And Mina, nourished in the studious shade, 
With that great Leader vies, who, sick of 

strife 
And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid 
In some green island of the western main. 



"THE POWER OF ARMIES IS A 
VISIBLE THING" 

1811. 1815 

The power of Armies is a visible thing, 
Formal, and circumscribed hi time and 

space ; 
But who the limits of that power shall 

trace 
Which a brave People into light can bring 
Or hide, at will, — for freedom combating 
By just revenge inflamed ? No foot may 

chase, 
No eye can follow, to a fatal place 
That power, that spirit, whether on the 

wing 
Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the 

wind 
Within its awful caves. — From year to 

year 



Springs this indigenous produce far and near; 
No craft this subtle element can bind, 
Rising like water from the soil, to find 
In every nook a lip that it may cheer. 



"HERE PAUSE: THE POET 
CLAIMS AT LEAST THIS 
PRAISE" 

1811. 1815 

Here pause: the poet claims at least this 
praise, 

That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope 

Of his pure song, which did not slu-ink from 
hope 

In the worst moment of these evil days; 

From hope, the paramoimt duty that 
Heaven lays, 

For its own honour, on man's suffering heart. 

Never may from our souls one truth de- 
part — 

That an accursed thing it is to gaze 

On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye; 

Nor — touched with due abhorrence of their 
guilt 

For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood 
is spilt, 

And justice labours in extremity — 

Forget thy weakness, upon which is built, 

O wretched man, the throne of tyranny ! 



EPISTLE 

TO SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, 
BART. 

FROM THE SOUTH-WEST COAST OF CUMBERLAND 

l8l I. IS42 

This poem opened, when first ■written, with a 
paragraph that has been transferred as an in- 
troduction to the first series of my Scotch 
Memorials. The journey, of which the first 
part is here described, was from Grasmere to 
Bootle on the south-west coast of Cumberland, 
the whole among mountain roads through a 
beautiful country ; and we had fine weather. 
The verses end with our breakfast at the head 
of Yewdale in a yeoman's house, which, like all 
the other property in that sequestered vale, has 
passed or is passing into the hands of Mr. 
James Marshall of Monk Coniston, — in Mr. 
Knott's, the late owner's, time called Water- 
head. Our hostess married a Mr. Oldfield, a lieu- 
tenant in the Navy : they lived together for 
some time at Hacket, where she still resides as 



394 



EPISTLE 



his widow. It was in front of that house, on 
the mountain side, near which stood the peas- 
ant who, while we were passing at a distance, 
saluted us, waving a kerchief in her hand as 
described in the poem. (This matron and her 
husband were then residing at the Haeket. 
The house and its inmates are referred to in 
the fifth book of the " Excursion," in the pas- 
sage beginning — 

" You behold, 
High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark 
With stony barrenness, a shining speck." — J. C.) 

The dog which we met with soon after our 
starting belonged to Mr. Rowlandson, who for 
forty years was curate of Grasmere in place of 
the rector, who lived to extreme old age in a 
state of insanity. Of this Mr. R. much might 
be said both with reference to his character, 
and the way in which he was regarded by his 
parishioners. He was a man of robust frame, 
had a firm voice and authoritative manner, of 
strong natural talents, of which he was him- 
self conscious, for he has been heard to say (it 
grieves me to add) with an oath — "If I had 
been brought up at college I should have been 
a bishop." Two vices used to struggle in him 
for mastery, avarice and the love of strong 
drink : but avarice, as is common in like cases, 
always got the better of its opponent ; for, 
though he was often intoxicated, it was never, 
I believe, at his own expense. As has been 
said of one in a more exalted station, he would 
take any given quantity. I have heard a story 
of him which is worth the telling. One sum- 
mer's morning, our Grasmere curate, after a 
night's carouse in the vale of Langdale, on his 
return home, having reached a point near 
which the whole of the vale of Grasmere might 
be seen with the lake immediately below him, 
stepped aside and sat down on the turf. After 
looking for some time at the landscape, then in 
the perfection of its morning beauty, he ex- 
claimed — " Good God, that I should have led 
so long such a life in such a place ! " — This no 
doubt was deeply felt by him at the time, but 
I am not authorised to say that any noticeable 
amendment followed. Penuriousness strength- 
ened upon him as his body grew feebler with 
age. He had purchased property and kept 
some land in his own hands, but he could not 
find in his heart to lay out the necessary hire 
for labourers at the proper season, and conse- 
quently he has often been seen in half-dotage 
working his hay in the month of November by 
moonlight, a melancholy sight which I myself 
have witnessed. Notwithstanding all that has 
been said, this man, on account of his talents 
and superior education, was looked up to by his 
parishioners, who, without a single exception, 
lived at that time (and most of them upon 



their own small inheritances) in a state of re- 
publican equality, a condition favourable to the 
growth of kindly feelings among them, and in 
a striking degree exclusive to temptations to 
gross vice and scandalous behaviour. As a 
pastor their curate did little or nothing for 
them ; but what could more strikingly set 
forth the efficacy of the Church of England 
through its Ordinances and Liturgy than that, 
in spite of the unworthiness of the minister, 
his church was regularly attended ; and, though 
there was not much appearance in his flock of 
what might be called animated piety, intoxica- 
tion was rare, and dissolute morals unknown ? 
With the Bible they were for the most part 
well acquainted ; and, as was strikingly shown 
when they were under affliction, must have 
been supported and comforted by habitual be- 
lief in those truths which it is the aim of the 
Church to inculcate. — Loughrigg Tarn. This 
beautiful pool and the surrounding scene are 
minutely described in my little Book on the 
Lakes. Sir G. H. Beaumont, in the earlier 
part of his life, was induced, by his love of na- 
ture and the art of painting, to take up his 
abode at Old Brathay, about three miles from 
this spot, so that he must have seen it imder 
many aspects ; and he was so much pleased 
with it that he purchased the Tarn with a 
view to build, near it, such a residence as is 
alluded to in this Epistle. Baronets and 
knights were not so common in that day as 
now, and Sir Michael le Fleming, not liking to 
have a rival in that kind of distinction so near 
him, claimed a sort of lordship over the terri- 
tory, and showed dispositions little in unison 
with those of Sir G. Beaumont, who was emi- 
nently a lover of peace. The project of build- 
ing was in consequence given up, Sir George 
retaining possession of the Tarn. Many years 
afterwards a Kendal tradesman born upon its 
banks applied to me for the purchase of it, and 
accordingly it was sold for the sum that had 
been given for it, and the money was laid out 
under my direction upon a substantial oak 
fence for a certain number of yew trees to be 
planted in Grasmere churchyard ; two were 
planted in each enclosure, with a view to remove, 
after a certain time, the one which throve the 
least. After several years, the stouter plant be- 
ing left, the others were taken up and placed in 
other parts of the same churchyard, and were 
adequately fenced at the expense and under 
the care of the late Mr. Barber, Mr. Green- 
wood, and myself : the whole eight are now 
thriving, and are already an ornament to a 
place which, during late years, has lost much 
of its rustic simplicity by the introduction of 
iron palisades to fence off family burying- 
grounds, and by numerous monuments, some of 



EPISTLE 



395 



them in very bad taste ; from which this place 
of burial was in my memory quite free. See 
the lines in the sixth book of the " Excursion " 
beginning' — " Green is the churchyard, beauti- 
ful and green." The " Epistle " to which these 
notes refer, though written so far back as 1804, 
was carefully revised so late as 1842, previous 
to its publication. I am loth to add, that it 
was never seen by the person to whom it is ad- 
dressed. So sensible am I of the deficiencies 
in all that I write, and so far does everything 
that I attempt fall short of what I wish it 
to be, that even private publication, if such a 
term may be allowed, requires more resolution 
than I can command. I have written to give 
vent to my own mind, and not without hope 
that, some time or other, kindred minds might 
benefit by my labours : but I am inclined to 
believe I should never have ventured to send 
forth any verses of mine to the world if it had 
not been done on the pressure of personal 
occasions. Had I been a rich man, my produc- 
tions, like this " Epistle," the tragedy of the 
" Borderers," etc., would most likely have 
been confined to manuscript. 

Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet 

Lake, 
From the Vale's peace which all her fields 

partake, 
Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's 

shore 
We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless 

roar; 
While, day by day, grim neighbour ! huge 

Black Comb 
Frowns deepening visibly his native gloom, 
Unless, perchance rejecting in despite 
What on the Plain we have of warmth and 

light, 
In his own storms he hides himself from 

sight. 
Rough is the time; and thoughts, that 

would be free io 

From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to 

thee; 
Turn from a spot where neither sheltered 

road 
Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps 

abroad ; 
Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it 

might 
Attained a stature twice a tall man's height, 
Hopeless of further growth, and brown and 

sere 
Through half the summer, stands with top 

cut sheer, 



Like an unshifting weathercock which 

proves 
How cold the quarter that the wind best 

loves, 
Or like a Centinel that, evermore 20 

Darkening the window, ill defends the door 
Of this unfinished house — a Fortress bare, 
Where strength has been the Builder's only 

care; 
Whose rugged walls may still for years 

demand 
The final polish of the Plasterer's hand. 

— This Dwelling's Inmate more than three 

weeks space 
And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place, 
I — of whose touch the fiddle would com- 
plain, 
Whose breath would labour at the flute in 

vain, 
In music all unversed, nor blessed with 

skill 30 

A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill, 
Tired of my books, a scanty company ! 
And tired of listening to the boisterous 

sea — 
Pace between door and window muttering 

rhyme, 
An old resource to cheat a froward time ! 
Though these dull hours (mine is it, or their 

shame ?) 
Would tempt me to renounce that humble 

aim. 

— But if there be a Muse who, free to take 
Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake 
Those heights (like Phoebus when his 

golden locks 4 o 

He veiled, attendant on Thessalian flocks) 
And, in disguise, a Milkmaid with her pail 
Trips down the pathways of some winding 

dale ; 
Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores 
To fishers mending nets beside their doors; 
Or, Pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined, 
Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless wind, 
Or listens to its play among the boughs 
Above her head and so forgets her vows — 
If such a Visitant of Earth there be 50 

And she would deign this day to smile on 

me 
And aid my verse, content with local bounds 
Of natural beauty and life's daily rounds, 
Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, which 

we tell 
Without reserve to those whom we love 

well — 



396 



EPISTLE 



Then haply, Beaumont ! words in current 

clear 
Will flow, and on a welcome page appear 
Duly before thy sight, unless they perish 

here. 
What shall I treat of ? News from Mona's 

Isle? 
Such have we, but unvaried in its style ; 60 
No tales of Runagates fresh landed, whence 
And wherefore fugitive or on what pre- 
tence ; 
Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the wind 
Most restlessly alive when most confined. 
Ask not of me, whose tongue can best 

appease 
The mighty tumults of the House of Keys; 
The last year's cup whose Ram or Heifer 

gamed, 
What slopes are planted, or what mosses 

drained : 
A.n eye of fancy only can I cast 
On that proud pageant now at hand or 

past, 70 

When full five hundred boats in trim array, 
With nets and sails outspread and streamers 

gay, 

And chanted hymns and stiller voice of 

prayer, 
For the old Manx-harvest to the Deep re- 
pair, 
Soon as the herring-shoals at distance shine 
Like beds of moonlight shifting on the brine. 

Mona from our Abode is daily seen, 
But with a wilderness of waves between; 
And by conjecture only can we speak 
Of aught transacted there in bay or creek; 
No tidings reach us thence from town or 
field, 81 

Only faint news her mountain sunbeams 

yield, 
And some we gather from the misty air, 
And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, 

declare. 
But these poetic mysteries I withhold; 
For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold, 
And should the colder fit with You be on 
When You might read, my credit would be 
gone. 
Let more substantial themes the pen 
engage, 
And nearer interests culled from the open- 
ing stage 90 
Of our migration. — Ere the welcome dawn 
Had from the east her silver star with- 
drawn, 



The Warn stood ready, at our Cottage-door, 
Thoughtfully freighted with a various store ; 
And long or ere the uprising of the Sun 
O'er dew-damped dust our journey was 

begun, 
A needful journey, under favouring skies, 
Through peopled Vales; yet something in 

the guise 
Of those old Patriarchs when from well to 

well 
They roamed through Wastes where now 

the tented Arabs dwell. 100 

Say first, to whom did we the charge 

confide, 
Who promptly undertook the Wain to guide 
Up many a sharply-twining road and down, 
And over many a wide hill's craggy crown, 
Through the quick turns of many a hollow 

nook, 
And the rough bed of many an unbridged 

brook ? 
A blooming Lass — who in her better hand 
Bore a light switch, her sceptre of command 
When, yet a slender Oirl, she often led, 
Skilful and bold, the horse and burthened 

sled 1 10 

From the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar's 

head. 
What could go wrong with such a Charioteer 
For goods and chattels, or those Infants 

dear, 
A Pair who smilingly sate side by side, 
Our hope confirming that the salt-sea tide 
Whose free embraces we were bound to seek, 
Would their lost strength restore and 

freshen the pale cheek ? 
Such hope did either Parent entertain 
Pacing behind along the sflent lane. 

Blithe hopes and happy musings soon 

took flight, 120 

For lo ! an imcouth melancholy sight — 
On a green bank a creature stood forlorn 
Just half protruded to the light of morn, 
Its hinder part concealed by hedge-row 

thorn 
The Figure called to mind a beast of prey 
Stript of its frightful powers by slow decay, 
And, though no longer upon rapine bent, 
Dim memory keeping of its old intent. 
We started, looked again with anxious eyes, 
And hi that griesly object recognise 130 

The Curate's Dog — his long-tried friend, 

for they, 
As well we knew, together had grown 

grey. 



EPISTLE 



397 



The Master died, his drooping servant's 

grief 
Found at the Widow's feet some sad relief; 
Yet still he lived in pining discontent, 
Sadness which no indulgence could prevent; 
Hence whole day wanderings, broken 

nightly sleeps 
And lonesome watch that out of doors he 

keeps; 
Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute ! 
Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, 

mute, 140 

And of all visible motion destitute, 
So that the very heaving of his breath 
Seemed stopt, though by some other power 

than death. 
Long as we gazed upon the form and face, 
A mild domestic pity kept its place, 
Unscared by thronging fancies of strange 

hue 
That haunted us in spite of what we knew. 
Even now I sometimes think of him as lost 
In second-sight appearances, or crost 
By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the ground, 
On which he stood, by spells unnatural 

bound, 15! 

Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to 

wait 
In days of old romance at Archimago's 

gate. 
Advancing Summer, Nature's law ful- 
filled, 
The choristers in every grove had stilled ; 
But we, we lacked not music of our own, 
For lightsome Fanny had thus early thrown, 
Mid the gay prattle of those infant tongues, 
Some notes prelusive, from the romid of 

songs 
With which, more zealous than the liveliest 

bird 160 

That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard, 
Her work and her work's partners she can 

cheer, 
The whole day long, and all days of the 

year. 
Thus gladdened from our own dear Vale 

we pass 
And soon approach Diana's Looking-glass ! 
To Loughrigg-tarn, round clear and bright 

as heaven, 
Such name Italian fancy would have given, 
Ere on its banks the few grey cabins rose 
That yet disturb not its concealed repose 
More than the feeblest wind that idly 

blows. i 7 o 



Ah, Beaumont ! when an opening in the 

road 
Stopped me at once by charm of what it 

showed, 
The encircling region vividly exprest 
Within the mirror's depth, a world at rest — 
Sky streaked with purple, grove and craggy 

bield, 
And the smooth green of many a pendent 

field, 
And, quieted and soothed, a torrent small, 
A little daring woidd-be waterfall, 
One chimney smoking and its azure wreath, 
Associate all in the calm Pool beneath, 180 
With here and there a faint imperfect 

gleam 
Of water-lilies veiled in misty steam — 
What wonder at this hour of stillness deep, 
A shadowy link 'tween wakefulness and 

sleep, 
When Nature's self, amid such blending, 

seems 
To render visible her own soft dreams, 
If, mixed with what appeared of rock, 

lawn, wood, 
Fondly embosomed in the tranquil flood, 
A glimpse I caught of that Abode, by 

Thee 
Designed to rise in humble privacy, 190 

A lowly Dwelling, here to be outspread, 
Like a small Hamlet, with its bashful head 
Half hid in native trees. Alas 't is not, 
Nor ever was; I sighed, and left the spot 
Unconscious of its own untoward lot, 
And thought hi silence, with regret too keen, 
Of unexperienced joys that might have 

been ; 
Of neighbourhood and intermingling arts, 
And golden summer days uniting cheerfid 

hearts. 
But time, irrevocable time, is flown. 200 
And let us utter thanks for blessings sown 
And reaped — what hath been, and what is, 

our own. 
Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee, 
Startling us all, dispersed my reverie ; 
Such shout as many a sportive echo meeting 
Oft-times from Alpine chalets sends a 

greeting. 
Whence the blithe hail ? behold a Peasant 

stand 
On high, a kerchief waving in her hand ! 
Not unexpectant that by early day 
Our little Band would thrid this mountain 

way, 210 



39« 



EPISTLE 



Before her cottage on the bright hill side 
She hath advanced with hope to be descried. 
Right gladly answering signals we displayed, 
Moving along a tract of morning shade, 
And vocal wishes sent of like good will 
To our kind Friend high on the sunny hill — 
Luminous region, fair as if the prime 
Were tempting all astir to look aloft or 

climb ; 
Only the centre of the shining cot 
With door left open makes a gloomy spot, 
Emblem of those dark corners sometimes 

found 221 

Within the happiest breast on earthly 

ground. 
Rich prospect left behind of stream and 

vale, 
And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale; 
Descend, and reach, in Yewdale's depths, 

a plain 
With haycocks studded, striped with 

yellowing grain — 
An area level as a Lake and spread 
Under a rock too steep for man to tread, 
Where sheltered from the north and bleak 

northwest 
Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest, 230 
Fearless of all assaults that would her 

brood molest. 
Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale; but 

hark, 
At our approach, a jealous watch-dog's 

bark, 
Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of 

state, 
But the whole household, that our coming 

wait. 
With Young and Old warm greetings we 

exchange, 
And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly 

Grange 
Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared. 
Entering, we find the morning meal pre- 
pared: 239 
So down we sit, though not till each had cast 
Pleased looks around the delicate repast — 
Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh from 

the nest, 
With amber honey from the mountain's 

breast; 
Strawberries from lane or woodland, offer- 
ing wild 
Of children's industry, in hillocks piled; 
Cakes for the nonce, and butter fit to lie 
Upon a lordly dish; frank hospitality 



Where simple art with bomiteous nature 

vied, 
And cottage comfort shunned not seemly 

pride. 
Kind Hostess ! Handmaid also of the 

feast, 25c 

If thou be lovelier than the kindling East, 
Words by thy presence unrestrained may 

speak 
Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek 
Instinct with light whose sweetest promise 

lies, 
Never retiring, hi thy large dark eyes, 
Dark but to every gentle feeling true, 
As if their lustre flowed from ether's purest 

blue. 
Let me not ask what tears may have been 

wept 
By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept, 
Beside that hearth what sighs may have 

been heaved 260 

For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved 
By fortitude and patience, and the grace 
Of heaven in pity visiting the place. 
Not unadvisedly those secret springs 
I leave unsearched: enough that memory 

clings, 
Here as elsewhere, to notices that make 
Their own significance for hearts awake, 
To rural incidents, whose genial powers 
Filled with delight three summer morning 

hours. 
More could my pen report of grave or gay 
That through our gipsy travel cheered the 

way; 271 

But, bursting forth above the waves, the Sun 
Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, " Be 

done." 
Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, re- 
prove 
This humble offering made by Truth to 

Love, 
Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break 

a spell 
Which might have else been on me yet : — 
Farewell. 



UPON PERUSING THE FOREGOING EPIS- 
TLE THIRTY YEARS AFTER ITS COM- 
POSITION 

1S4I. 1842 

Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest 
Take those dear young Ones to a fearless 
nest; 



INSCRIPTIONS 



399 



And in Death's arms has long reposed the 

Friend 
For whom this simple Register was penned. 
Thanks to the moth that spared it for our 

eyes; 
And Strangers even the slighted Scroll may 

prize, 
Moved by the touch of lcindred sympathies. 
For — save the calm, repentance sheds o'er 

strife 
Raised by remembrances of misused life, 
The light from past endeavours purely willed 
And by Heaven's favour happily fulfilled; 
Save hope that we, yet bound to Earth, may 

share 
The joys of the Departed — what so fair 
As blameless pleasure, not without some 

tears, 
Reviewed through Love's transparent veil 

of years ? 



UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAU- 
TIFUL PICTURE 

PAINTED BY SIR G. H. BEAUMONT, BART. 
■ l8ll. l8l5 

Tim was written when we dwelt in the Par- 
sonage at Grasmere. The principal features of 
the picture are Bredon Hill and (.'loud Hill near 
Coleorton. I shall never forget the happy feel- 
ing with which my heart was filled when I was 
impelled to compose this Sonnet. We resided 
only two years in this house ; and during the 
last half of the time, which was after this 
poem had been written, we lost our two chil- 
dren, Thomas and Catharine. Our sorrow upon 
these events often brought it to my mind, and 
cast me upon the support to which the last line 
of it gives expression — 

" The appropriate calm of blest eternity." 

It is scarcely necessary to add that we still 
possess the Picture. 

Praised be the Art whose subtle power 

could stay 
Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape ; 
Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape, 
Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the 

day; 
Which stopped that band of travellers on 

their way, 
Ere they were lost within the shady wood ; 
And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood 
For ever anchored in her sheltering bay. 



Soul-soothing Art ! whom Morning, Noon- 
tide, Even, 

Do serve with all their changeful pageantry; 

Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime, 

Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast 
given 

To one brief moment caught from fleeting 
time 

The appropriate calm of blest eternity. 



INSCRIPTIONS 

IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE 
SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., 
LEICESTERSHIRE 

1808. 18,15 

In the grounds of Coleorton these verses are 
engraved on a stone placed near the Tree, 
which was thriving and spreading when I saw 
it in the summer of 1841. 

The embowering rose, the acacia, and the 
pine, 

Will not unwillingly their place resign; 

If but the Cedar thrive that near them 
stands, 

Planted by Beaumont's and by Words- 
worth's hands. 

One wooed the silent Art with studious 
pains: 

These groves have heard the Other's pen- 
sive strains; 

Devoted thus, their spirits did unite 

By interchange of knowledge and delight. 

May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the 
Tree, 

And Love protect it from all injury ! 

And when its potent branches, wide out- 
thrown, 

Darken the brow of this memorial Stone, 

Here may some Painter sit in future 
days, 

Some future Poet meditate his lays; 

Not mindless of that distant age renowned 

When Inspiration hovered o'er this ground, 

The haunt of him who sang how spear and 
shield 

In civil conflict met on Bos worth-field; 

And of that famous Youth, full soon re- 
moved 

From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self 
approved, 

Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend be- 
loved. 



400 



INSCRIPTIONS 



IN A GARDEN OF SIR GEORGE BEAU- 
MONT, BART. 

1S11. 1815 

This Niche is in the sandstone-rock in the 
■winter-garden at Coleortou, which garden, as 
has heen elsewhere said, was made under 
our direction out of an old unsightly quarry. 
While the labourers were at work, Mrs. 
Wordsworth, my Sister, and I used to amuse 
ourselves occasionally in scooping this seat out 
of the soft stone. It is of the size, with some- 
thing of the appearance, of a Stall in a Cathe- 
dral. This inscription is not engraven, as the 
former and the two following are, in the 
grounds. 

Oft is the medal faithful to its trust 
When temples, columns, towers, are laid in 

dust ; 
And 'tis a common ordinance of fate 
That things obscure and small outlive the 

great : 
Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery 

trim 
Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim, 
And all its stately trees, are passed away, 
This little Niche, unconscious of decay, 
Perchance may still survive. And be it 

known 
That it was scooped within the living 

stone, — 
Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains 
Of labourer plodding for his daily gains, 
But by an industry that wrought in love; 
With help from female hands, that proudly 

strove 
To aid the work, what time these walks 

and bowers 
Were shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely 

hours. 



WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF SIR GEORGE 
BEAUMONT, BART., AND IN HIS NAME, 
FOR AN URN, PLACED BY HIM AT THE 
TERMINATION OF A NEWLY-PLANTED 
AVENUE, IN THE SAME GROUNDS 

1808. 1815 

Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed 

Urn, 
Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's 

return ; 
And be not slow a stately growth to rear 
Of pillars, branching off from year to year, 



Till they have learned to frame a darksome 

aisle ; — 
That may recall to mind that awful Pile 
Where Reynolds, 'mid our country's noblest 

dead, 
In the last sanctity of fame is laid. 
— There, though by right the excelling 

Painter sleep 
Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath 

keep, 
Yet not the less his Spirit would hold 

dear 
Self-hidden praise, and Friendship's pri- 
vate tear: 
Hence, on my patrimonial grounds, have I 
Raised this frail tribute to his memory; 
From youth a zealous follower of the Art 
That he professed; attached to him in 

heart; 
Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride 
Feeling what England lost when Reynolds 

died. 



FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF 
COLEORTON 

l8ll. 1815 

Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy 

bound, 
Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest 

ground 
Stand yet, but, Stranger ! hidden from thy 

view, 
The ivied Ruins of forlorn Grace Dieu; 
Erst a religious House, which day and night 
With hymns resounded, and the chanted 

rite: 
And when those rites had ceased, the Spot 

gave birth 
To honourable Men of various worth: 
There, on the margin of a streamlet wild, 
Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager 

child; 
There, under shadow of the neighbouring 

rocks, 
Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their 

flocks ; 
Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, 
Heart - breaking tears, and melancholy 

dreams 
Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous 

rage, 
With which his genius shook the buskined 



stage. 



WATER-FOWL 



401 



Communities are lost, and Empires die, 
And things of holy use unhallowed lie; 
They perish ; — but the Intellect can raise, 
From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er 
decays. 



SONG FOR THE SPINNING 

WHEEL 

FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT 
AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF 
WESTMORELAND 

l8l2. l820 

The belief on which this is founded I have 
often heard expressed by an old neighbour of 
Grasmere. 

Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel ! 
Night has brought the welcome hour, 
When the weary fingers feel 
Help, as if from faery power; 
Dewy night o'ershades the ground; 
Turn the swift wheel round and round ! 

Now, beneath the starry sky, 

Couch the widely-scattered sheep; — 

Ply the pleasant labour, ply ! 

For the spindle, while they sleep, 

Runs with speed more smooth and fine, 

Gathering up a trustier line. 

Short-lived likings may be bred 
By a glance from fickle eyes; 
But true love is like the thread 
Which the kindly wool supplies, 
When the flocks are all at rest 
Sleeping on the mountain's breast. 



COMPOSED ON THE EVE OE THE 
MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND IN 
THE VALE OF GRASMERE 

1812. 1815 

What need of clamorous bells, or ribands 

gay, 

These humble nuptials to proclaim or 

grace ? 
Angels of love, look down upon the place; 
Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day ! 
Yet no proud gladness would the Bride 

display 
Even for such promise: — serious is her 

face, 



Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts 

keep pace 
With gentleness, in that becoming way 
Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid 

appear ; 
No disproportion in her soul, no strife: 
But, when the closer view of wedded life 
Hath shown that nothing human can be 

clear 
From frailty, for that insight may the Wife 
To her indulgent Lord become more dear. 



WATER-FOWL 

OBSERVED FREQUENTLY OVER THE 
LAKES OF RYDAL AND GRASMERE 

l8l2. 1827 

" Let me be allowed the aid of verse to de- 
scribe the evolutions which these visitants 
sometimes perform, on a fine day towards the 
close of winter." — Extract from the Author's 
Book on the Lakes. 

Mark how the feathered tenants of the 

flood, 
With grace of motion that might scarcely 

seem 
Inferior to angelical, prolong 
Their curious pastime ! shaping hi mid air 
(And sometimes with ambitious whig that 

soars 
High as the level of the mountain-tops) 
A circuit ampler than the lake beneath — 
Their own domain; but ever, while intent 
On tracing and retracing that large round, 
Their jubilant activity evolves 
Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro, 
Upward and downward, progress intricate 
Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed 
Their indefatigable flight. 'T is done — 
Ten times, or more, I fancied it had 

ceased; 
But lo ! the vanished company again 
Ascending; they approach — I hear their 

wings, 
Faint, faint at first; and then an eager 

sound, 
Past in a moment — and as faint again ! 
They tempt the sun to sport amid their 

plumes; 
They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice, 
To show them a fair image ; 't is themselves, 
Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering 

plain, 



402 



VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB 



Painted more soft and fair as they descend 
Almost to touch ; — then up again aloft, 
Up with a sally and a flash of speed, 
As if they scorned both resting-place and 
rest ! 



VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK 
COMB 

1813. 1815 

Mrs. Wordsworth and I, as mentioned in the 
" Epistle to Sir G. Beaumont," lived some time 
under its shadow. 

This Height a ministering Angel might 

select: 
For from the summit of Black Comb 

(dread name 
Derived from clouds and storms !) the 

amplest range 
Of unobstructed prospect may be seen 
That British ground commands: — low 

dusty tracts, 
Where Trent is nursed, far southward ! 

Cambrian hills 
To the south-west, a multitudinous show; 
And, in a line of eye-sight linked with 

these, 

The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth 

To Tiviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and 

Clyde: — 10 

Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes 

forth 
Gigantic mountains rough with crags; be- 
neath, 
Bight at the imperial station's western base 
Mam ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched 
Far into silent regions blue and pale; — 
And visibly engirding Mona's Isle 
That, as we left the plain, before our sight 
Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly 
(Above the convex of the watery globe) 
Into clear view the cultured fields that 
streak 20 

Her habitable shores, btit now appears 
A dwindled object, and submits to lie 
At the spectator's feet. — Yon azure ridge, 
Is it a perishable cloud ? Or there 
Do we behold the line of Erin's coast ? 
Land sometimes by the roving shepherd- 
swain 
(Like the bright confines of another world) 
Not doubtfully perceived. — Look home- 
ward now ! 



Li depth, in height, in circuit, how serene 
The spectacle, how pure ! — Of Nature's 
works, 30 

In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea, 
A revelation infinite it seems; 
Display august of man's inheritance, 
Of Britain's calm felicity and power ! 



WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PEN- 
CIL ON A STONE. ON THE SIDE 
OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK 
COMB 

1813. 1815 

The circumstance allude'd to at the conclu- 
sion of these verses was told me by Dr. Sat- 
terthwaite, who was Incumbent of Bootle, a 
small town at the foot of Black Comb. He had 
the particulars from one of the engineers who 
was employed in making trigonometrical sur- 
veys of that region. 

Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy 

limbs 
On this commodious Seat ! for much re- 
mains 
Of hard ascent before thou reach the top 
Of this huge Eminence, — from blackness 

named, 
And, to far-travelled storms of sea and 

land, 
A favourite spot of tournament and war ! 
But thee may no such boisterous visitants 
Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow; 
And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air 
Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle, 
From centre to circumference, unveiled ! 
Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy 

rest, 
That on the summit whither thou art bound, 
A geographic Labourer pitched his tent, 
With books supplied and instruments of 

art, 
To measure height and distance; lonely 

task, 
Week after week pursued ! — To him was 

given 
Fidl many a glimpse (but sparingly be- 
stowed 
On timid man) of Nature's processes 
Upon the exalted hills. He made report 
That once, while there he plied his studious 

work 
Within that canvas Dwelling, colours, 
lines, 



THE EXCURSION 



403 



And the whole surface of the out-spread 

map, 
Became invisible: for all around 
Had darkness fallen — unthreatened, un- 

proclaimed — 
As if the golden day itself had been 
Extinguished in a moment; total gloom, 
In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes, 
Upon the blinded mountain's silent top ! 



NOVEMBER 1813 

1813. 1815 

Now that all hearts are glad, all faces 

bright, 
Our aged Sovereign sits, to the ebb and flow 



Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or 

woe, 
Insensible. He sits deprived of sight, 
And lamentably wrapt in twofold night, 
Whom no weak hopes deceived; whose 

mind ensued, 
Through perilous war, with regal fortitude, 
Peace that should claim respect from law- 
less Might. 
Dread King of Kings, vouchsafe a ray 

divine 
To his forlorn condition ! let thy grace 
Upon his inner soul in mercy shine; 
Permit his heart to kindle, ami to embrace 
( Though it were only for a moment's space ) 
The triumphs of this hour; for they are 
Thine ! 



THE EXCURSION 

1795-1814. 1814 

Something must now be said of this poem, but chiefly, as has been done through the whole of 
these notes, with reference to my personal friends, and especially to her who has perseveringly 
taken them down from my dictation. Towards the close of the first book stand the lines that 
were first written, beginning, " Nine tedious years," and ending, " Last human tenant of these 
ruined walls.'' These were composed in '95 at Racedown ; and for several passages describing 
the employment and demeanour of Margaret during her affliction, I was indebted to observations 
made in Dorsetshire, and afterwards at Alfoxden in Somersetshire, where I resided in '97 and 
'98. The lines towards the conclusion of the fourth book — beginning, " For, the man, who, in 
this spirit," to the words " intellectual soid " — were in order of time composed the next, either 
at Racedown or Alfoxden, I do not remember which. The rest of the poem was written in the 
vale of Grasmere, chiefly during our residence at Allan Bank. The long poem on my own edu- 
cation was, together with many minor poems, composed while we lived at the cottage at Town- 
end. Perhaps my purpose of giving an additional interest to these my poems in the eyes of my 
nearest and dearest friends may be promoted by saying a few words upon the character of the 
"Wanderer, the Solitary, and the Pastor, and some other of the persons introduced. And first, of 
the principal one, the Wanderer. My lamented friend Southey (for this is written a month after 
his decease) used to say that had he been born a papist, the course of life which would in all 
probability have been his was the one for which he was most fitted and most to his mind. — that 
of a Benedictine monk in a convent, furnished, as many once were and some still are, with an in- 
exhaustible library. Books, as appears from many passages in his writings, and as was evident 
to those who had opportunities of observing his daily life, were in fact his passion ; and wander- 
ing, I can with truth affirm, was mine; but this propensity in me was happily counteracted by 
inability from want of fortune to fulfil my wishes. But, had I been born in a class which would 
have deprived me of what is called a liberal education, it is not unlikely that, being strong in 
body, I should have taken to a way of life such as that in which my Pedlar passed the greater 
part of his days. At all events, I am here called upon freely to acknowledge that the character 
I have represented in his person is chiefly an idea of what I fancied my own character might 
have become in his circumstances. Nevertheless, much of what he says and does had an external 
existence that fell under my own youthful and subsequent observation. An individual named 
Patrick, by birth and education a Scotchman, followed this humble occupation for many years, 
and afterwards settled in the town of Kendal. He married a kinswoman of my wife's, and her 
sister Sarah was brought up from her ninth year under this good man's roof. My own imagina- 
tions I was happy to find clothed in reality, and fresh ones suggested, by what she reported of 
this man's tenderness of heart, his strong and pure imagination, and his solid attainments in liter- 
ature, chiefly religious whether in prose or verse. At Hawkshead also, while I was a schoolboy, 
there occasionally resided a Packman (the name then generally giv«m tc persons of this calling) 



4 o4 THE EXCURSION 



with whom I had frequent conversations upon what had befallen him, and what he had observed, 
during his wandering- life ; and, as was natural, we took much to each other : and, upon the sub- 
ject of Pedlarism in general, as then followed, and its favourableness to an intimate knowledge 
of human concerns, not merely among the humbler classes of society, I need say nothing here in 
addition to what is to be found in the "Excursion," and a note attached to it. Now for the 
Solitary. Of him I have much less to say. Not long after we took up our abode at Grasmere, 
came to reside there, from what motive I either never knew or have forgotten, a Scotchman a 
little past the middle of life, who had for many years been chaplain to a Highland regiment. He 
was in no respect, as far as I know, an interesting character, though in his appearance there was 
a good deal that attracted attention, as if he had been shattered in fortune and not happy in 
mind. Of his quondam position I availed myself, to connect with the Wanderer, also a Scotch- 
man, a character suitable to my purpose, the elements of which I drew from several persons with 
whom I had been connected, and who fell under my observation during frequent residences in 
London at the beginning of the French Revolution. The chief of these was, one may now say. a Mr. 
Fawcett, a preacher at a dissenting meeting-house at the Old Jewry. It. happened to me several 
times to be one of his congregation through my connection with Mr. Nicholson of Cateaton Street, 
who at that time, when I had not many acquaintances in London, used often to invite me to dine 
with him on Sundays ; and I took that opportunity (Mr. N. being a dissenter) of going to hear 
Fawcett, who was an able and eloquent man. He published a poem on war, which had a good 
deal of merit, and made me think more about him than I should othervyise have done. But his 
Christianity was probably never very deeply rooted; and, like many others in those times of like 
showy talents, he had not strength of character to withstand the effects of the French Revolu- 
tion, and of the wild and lax opinions which had done so much towards producing it. and far 
more in carrying it forward in its extremes. Poor Fawcett, I have been told, became pretty 
much such a person as I have described ; and early disappeared from the stage, having fallen 
into habits of intemperance, which I have heard (though I will not answer for the fact) hastened 
his death. Of him I need say no more : there were many like him at that time, which the world 
will never be without, but which were more numerous then for reasons too obvious to be dwelt 
upon. 

To what is said of the Pastor in the poem I have little to add, but what may be deemed su- 
perfluous. It has ever appeared to me highly favourable to the beneficial influence of the 
Church of England upon all gradations and classes of society, that the patronage of its benefices 
is in numerous instances attached to the estates of noble families of ancient gentry; and accord- 
ingly I am gratified by the opportunity afforded me in the " Excursion," to pourtray the char- 
acter of a country clergyman of more than ordinary talents, born and bred in the upper ranks of 
society so as to partake of their refinements, and at the same time brought by his pastoral office 
and his love of rural life into intimate connection with the peasantry of his native district. To 
illustrate the relation which in my mind this Pastor bore to the Wanderer, and the resemblance 
between them, or rather the points of community in their nature, I likened one to an oak and 
the other to a sycamore ; and, having here referred to this comparison, I need only add, I had 
no one individual in my mind, wishing rather to embody this idea than to break in upon the 
simplicity of it, by traits of individual character or of any peculiarity of opinion. 

And now for a few words upon the scene where these interviews and conversations are sup- 
posed "to occur. The scene of the first book of the poem is, I must own. laid in a tract of coun- 
try not sufficiently near to that which soon comes into view in the second book, to agree with the 
fact. All that relates to Margaret and the ruined cottage, etc., was taken from observations 
made in the south-west of England, and certainly it would require more than seven-league boots 
to stretch in one morning from a common in Somersetshire or Dorsetshire to the heights of Fur- 
ness Fells and the deep valleys they embosom. For thus dealing with space I need make, I 
trust, no apology, but my friends may be amused by the truth. In the poem, I suppose that 
the Pedlar and t ascended from a plain country up the vale of Langdale, and struck off a good 
way above the chapel to the western side of the vale. We ascended the hill and thence looked 
down upon the circular recess in which lies Blea-Tarn, chosen by the Solitary for his retreat. 
After we quit his cottage, passing over a low ridge we descend into another vale, that of Little 
Langdale, towards the head of which stands, embowered or partly shaded by yews and other 
trees, something between a cottage and a mansion or gentleman's house such as they once were 
in this country. This I convert into the Parsonage, and at the same time, and as by the waving 
of a magic wand, I turn the comparatively confined vale of Langdale, its Tarn, and the rude 
chapel which once adorned the valley, into the stately and comparatively spacious vale of Gras- 
mere, its Lake, and its ancient Parish Church ; and upon the side of Loughrigg Fell, at the foot 



THE EXCURSION 405 



of the Lake, and looking down upon it and the whole vale and its encompassing 1 mountains, the 
Pastor is supposed by me to stand, when at sunset he addresses his companions in words which I 
hope my readers will remember, or I should not have taken the trouble of giving - so much in 
detail the materials on which my mind actually worked. Now for a few particulars of fact re- 
specting the persons whose stories are told or characters are described by the different speakers. 
To Margaret I have already alluded. I will add here, that the lines beginning, " She was a 
woman of a steady mind," faithfully delineate, as far as they go, the character possessed in 
common by many women whom it has been my happiness to know in humble life ; and that 
several of the most touching things -which she is represented as saying and doing are taken from 
actual observation of the distresses and trials under which different persons were suffering, some 
of them strangers to me, and others daily under my notice. I was born too late to have a dis- 
tinct remembrance of the origin of the American war, but the state in which I represent Robert's 
mind to be I had frequent opportunities of observing at the commencement of our rupture with 
France in '93, opportunities of which I availed myself in the story of the Female Vagrant as 
told in the poem on " Guilt and Sorrow." The account given by the Solitary towards the close 
of the second book, in all that belongs to the character of the Old Man, was taken from a 
Grasmere pauper, who was boarded in the last house quitting the vale on the road to Amble- 
side : the character of his hostess, and all that befell the poor man upon the mountain, belong 

to Paterdale : the woman I knew well; her name was J , and she was exactly such 

a person as I describe. The ruins of the old chapel, among which the man was found lying, 
may yet be traced, and stood upon the ridge that divides Paterdale from Boardale and Martin- 
dale, having been placed there for the convenience of both districts. The glorious appearance 
disclosed above and among the mountains was described partly from what my friend Mr. Luff, 
who then lived in Paterdale, witnessed upon that melancholy occasion, and partly from what 
Mrs. Wordsworth and I had seen in company with Sir George and Lady Beaumont above Harts- 
hope Hall on our way from Paterdale to Ambleside. 

And now for a few words upon the Church, its Monuments, and the Deceased who are spoken 
of as lying in the surrounding churchyard. But first for the one picture, given by the Pastor 
and the Wanderer, of the Living. In this nothing is introduced but what was taken from nature 
and real life. The cottage is called Haeket, and stands as described on the southern extremity 
of the ridge which separates the two Langdales : the pair who inhabited it were called Jonathan 
and Betty Yewdale. Once when our children were ill, of whooping-cough I think, we took 
them for change of air to this cottage, and were in the habit of going there to drink tea upon 
fine summer afternoons, so that we became intimately acquainted with the characters, habits, 
and lives of these good, and, let me say, in the main, wise people. The matron had, in her early 
youth, been a servant in a house at Hawkshead, where several boys boarded, while I was a 
schoolboy there. I did not remember her as having served in that capacity ; but we had many 
little anecdotes to tell to each other of remarkable boys, incidents and adventures which had 
made a noise in their day in that small town. These two persons afterwards settled at Rydal, 
where they both died. 

The church, as already noticed, is that of Grasmere. The interior of it has been improved 
lately — made warmer by under-drawing the roof and raising the floor — but the rude and an- 
tique majesty of its former appearance has been impaired by painting the rafters ; and the oak 
benches, with a simple rail at the back dividing them from each other, have given way to seats 
that have more the appearance of pews. It is remarkable that, excepting only the pew belong- 
ing to Rydal Hall, that to Rydal Mount, the one to the Parsonage, and I believe another, the 
men and women still continue, as used to be the custom in Wales, to sit separate from each 
other. Is this practice as old as the Reformation ? and when and how did it originate ? In the 
Jewish synagogues and in Lady Huntingdon's chapels the sexes are divided in the same way. 
In the adjoining churchyard greater changes have taken place. It is now not a little crowded 
with tombstones ; and near the school-house which stands in the churchyard is an ugly structure, 
built to receive the hearse, which is recently come into use. It would not be worth while to al- 
lude to this building or the hearse-vehicle it contains, but that the latter has been the means of 
introducing a change much to be lamented in the mode of conducting funerals among the moun- 
tains. Now, the coffin is lodged in the hearse at the door of the house of the deceased, and the 
corpse is so conveyed to the churchyard gate : all the solemnity which formerly attended its 
progress, as described in the poem, is put an end to. So much do I regret this, that I beg to be 
excused for giving utterance here to a wish that, should it befall me to die- at Rydal Mount, my 
own body may be carried to Grasmere church after the manner in which, till lately, that of 
every one was borne to that place of sepulture, namely, on the shoulders of neighbours, no 



4 o6 THE EXCURSION 



house being- passed without some words of a funeral psalm being- sung at the time by the attend- 
ants. When I put into the mouth of the Wanderer, " Many precious rites and customs of our 
rural ancestry are gone or stealing from us ; this I hope will last for ever," and what follows, 
little did I foresee that the observance and mode of proceeding, which had often affected me so 
much, would so soon be superseded. Having said much of the injury done to this churchyard, 
let me add that one is at liberty to look forward to a time when, by the growth of the yew-trees, 
thriving there, a solemnity will be spread over the place that will in some degree make amends 
for the old simple character which has already been so much encroached upon, and will be still 
more every year. I will here set down, more at length, what has been mentioned in a previous 
note, that my friend Sir George Beaumont, having long ago purchased the beautiful piece of 
water called Loughrigg Tarn, on the Banks of which he intended to build, I told him that a 
person in Kendal who was attached to the place wished to purchase it. Sir George, finding' the 
possession of no use to him, consented to part with it, and placed the purchase-money — twenty 
pounds — at my disposal for any local use which I thought proper. Accordingly I resolved to 
plant yew-trees in the churchyard, and had four pretty strong large oak enclosures made, in each 
of which was planted, under my own eye, and principally if not entirely by my own hand, two 
young trees, with the intention of leaving the one that throve best to stand. Many years after, 
Mr. Barber, who will long be remembered in Grasmere ; Mr. Greenwood, the cliief landed pro- 
prietor ; and myself, had four other enclosures made in the churchyard at our own expense, in 
each of which was planted a tree taken from its neighbour, and they all stand thriving admira- 
bly, the fences having been removed as no longer necessary. May the trees be taken care of 
hereafter when we are all gone, and some of them will perhaps at some far distant time rival in 
majesty the yew of Lorton and those which I have described as growing in Borrowdale, where 
they are still to be seen in grand assemblage. 

And now for the persons that are selected as lying in the churchyard. But first for the indi- 
vidual whose grave is prepared to receive him. His story is here truly related : he was a school- 
fellow of mine for some years. He came to us when he was at least seventeen years of age, very 
tall, robust, and full-grown. This prevented him from falling- into the amusements and games 
of the school : consequently he gave more time to books. He was not remarkably bright or 
quick, but by industry he made a progress more than respectable. His parents not being 
wealthy enough to send him to college, when he left Hawkshead he became a schoolmaster, with 
a view to prepare himself for holy orders. About this time he fell in love as related in the 
poem, and everything followed as there described, except that I do not know when and where he 
died. The number of youths that came to Hawkshead school, from the families of the humble 
yeomanry, to be educated to a certain degree of scholarship as a preparation for the church, was 
considerable, and the fortunes of these persons in after life various of course, and of some not a 
little remarkable. I have now one of this class in my eye who became an usher in a prepara- 
tory school and ended in making a large fortune. His manners when he came to Hawkshead 
were as uncouth as well coidd be ; but he had good abilities, with skill to turn them to account ; 
and when the master of the school, to which he was usher, died, he stept into his place and 
became proprietor of the establishment. He contrived to manage it with such address, and so 
much to the taste of what is called high society and the fashionable world, that no school of the 
kind, even till he retired, was in such high request. Ministers of state, the wealthiest gentry, 
and nobility of the first rank, vied with each other in bespeaking a place for their sons in the 
seminary of this fortunate teacher. In the solitude of Grasmere, while living as a married man 
in a cottage of eight pounds per anmim rent, I often used to smile at the tales which reached me 
of his brilliant career. Not two hundred yards from the cottage in Grasmere, just mentioned, 
to which I retired, this gentleman, who many years afterwards purchased a small estate in the 
neighbourhood, is now erecting a boat-house, with an upper story, to be resorted to as an enter- 
taining-room when he and his associates may feel inclined to take their pastime on the lake. 
Every passenger will be disgusted with the sight of this edifice, not merely as a tasteless thing 
in itself, but as utterly out of place, and peculiarly fitted, as far as it is observed (and it ob- 
trudes itself on notice at every point of view), to mar the beauty and destroy the pastoral sim- 
plicity of the vale. For my own part and that of my household it is our utter detestation, 
standing by a shore to which, before the highroad was made to pass that way, we used daily and 
hourly to repair for seclusion and for the shelter of a grove under which I composed many of 
my poems, the ' ' Brothers " especially, and for this reason we gave the grove that name. 



" That which each man loved 
And prized in his peculiar nook of earth 

Dies with him, or is changed." 



THE EXCURSION 407 



So much for my old school-fellow and his exploits. I will only add that the foundation has 
twice failed, from the lake no doubt being intolerant of the intrusion. 

The Miner, next described as having' found his treasure after twice ten years of labour, lived 
in Paterdale, and the story is true to the letter. It seems to me, however, rather remarkable that 
the strength of mind which had supported him through this long unrewarded labour did not 
enable him to bear its successful issue. Several times in the course of my life I have heard of 
sudden influxes of great wealth being followed by derangement, and in one instance the shock 
of good fortune was so great as to produce absolute idiocy : but these all happened where there 
had been little or no previous effort to acquire the riches, and therefore such a consequence 
might the more naturally be expected than in the case of the solitary Miner. In reviewing his 
story, one cannot but regret that such perseverance was not sustained by a worthier object. 
Archimedes leapt out of his bath and ran about the streets proclaiming his discovery in a 
transport of joy, but we are not told that he lost either his life or his senses in consequence. 
The next character, to whom the Priest is led by contrast with the resoluteness displayed by the 
foregoing, is taken from a person born and bred in Grasmere, by name Dawson ; and whose 
talents, disposition, and way of life were such as are here delineated. I did not know him, but 
all was fresh in memory when we settled at Grasmere in the beginning' of the century. From 
this point, the conversation leads to the mention of two individuals who, by their several 
fortunes, were, at different times, driven to take refuge at the small and obscure town of Hawks- 
head on the skirt of these mountains. Their stories I had from the dear old dame with whom, 
as a schoolboy and afterwards, I lodged for nearly the space of ten years. The elder, the 
Jacobite, was named Drummond, and was of a high family in Scotland : the Hanoverian Whig 
bore the name of Vandeput, and might perhaps be a descendant of some Dutchman who had 
come over in the train of King William. At all events his zeal was such that he ruined himself 
by a contest for the representation of London or Westminster, undertaken to support his party ; 
and retired to this corner of the world, selected, as it had been by Drummond, for that obscurity 
which, since visiting the Lakes became fashionable, it has no longer retained. So much was this 
region considered out of the way till a late period, that persons who had fled from justice used 
often to resort hither for concealment ; and some were so bold as to, not unfrequentlv, make 
excursions from the place of their retreat, for the purpose of committing fresh offences. Such 
was particularly the case with two brothers of the name of Weston who took up their abode at 
Old .Brathay, I think about seventy years ago. They were highwaymen, and lived there some 
time without being discovered, though it was known that they often disappeared in a way and 
upon errands which could not be accounted for. Their horses were noticed as being of a choice 
breed, and I have heard from the Relph family, one of whom was a saddler in the town of 
Kendal, that they were curious in their saddles and housings and accoutrements of their horses. 
They, as I have heard, and as was universally believed, were in the end both taken and hanged. 

" Tall was her stature ; her complexion dark 
And saturnine." 

This person lived at Town-end, and was almost our next neighbour. I have little to notice con- 
cerning her beyond what is said in the poem. She was a most striking instance how far a woman 
may surpass in talent, in knowledge, and culture of mind, those with and among whom she lives, 
and yet fall below them in Christian virtues of the heart and spirit. It seemed almost, and I 
say it with grief, that in proportion as she excelled in the one, she failed in the other. How fre- 
quently has one to observe in both sexes the same thing, and how mortifying is the reflection! 

" As, on a sunny bank, a tender lamb 
Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March." 

The story that follows was told to Mrs. Wordsworth and my sister by the sister of this unhappy 
young woman ; and every particular was exactly as I have related. The party was not known 
to me, though she lived at Hawkshead, but it was after I left school. The clergyman, who 
administered comfort to her in her distress, I knew well. Her sister who told the story was the 
wife of a leading yeoman in the vale of Grasmere, and they were an affectionate pair and greatly 
respected by every one who knew them. Neither lived to be old ; and their estate — which was 
perhaps the most considerable then in the vale, and was endeared to them by many remem- 
brances of a salutary character not easily understood, or sympathised with, by those who are born 
to great affluence — passed to their eldest son, according to the practice of these vales, who died 
soon after he came into possession. He was an amiable and promising youth, but was succeeded 
by an only brother, a. good-natured man, who fell into habits of drinking, by which he gradually 
reduced his property ; and the other day the last acre of it was sold, and his wife and children 



4 o8 THE EXCURSION 



and be himself, still surviving, have very little left to live upon, which it would not perhaps have 
been worth while to record here but that, through all trials, this woman has proved a model of 
patience, meekness, affectionate forbearance, and forgiveness. Their eldest son, who, through 
the vices of his father, has thus been robbed of an ancient family inheritance, was never heard 
to murmur or complain against the cause of their distress, and is now (1843) deservedly the chief 
prop of his mother's hopes. 

The clergyman and his family described at the beginning of the seventh book were, during 
many years, our principal associates in the vale of Grasmere, unless I were to except our very 
nearest neighbours. I have entered so particularly into the main points of their history, that I 
will barely testify in prose that — with the single exception of the particulars of their journey 
to Grasmere, which, however, was exactly copied from in another instance — the whole that I 
have said of them is as faithful to the truth as words can make it. There was much talent in 
the family : the eldest son was distinguished for poetical talent, of which a specimen is given in 
my notes to the sonnets to the Duddon. Once, when in our cottage at Town-end I was talking 
with him about poetry, in the course of conversation I presumed to find fault with the versifica- 
tion of Pope, of whom he w T as an enthusiastic admirer : he defended him with a warmth that 
indicated much irritation : nevertheless I would not abandon my point, and said, " In compass 
and variety of sound your own versification surpasses his." Never shall I forget the change in 
his countenance and tone of voice : the storm was laid in a moment ; he no longer disputed my 
judgment, and I passed immediately in his mind, no doubt, for as great a critic as ever lived. I 
ought to add, he was a clergyman and a well-educated man, and his verbal memory was the 
most remarkable of any individual I have known, except a Mr. Archer, an Irishman, who lived 
several years in this neighbourhood, and who, in this faculty, was a prodigy ; he afterwards be- 
came deranged, and I fear continues so, if alive. Then follows the character of Robert Walker, 
for which see notes to the Duddon. Then that of the deaf man, whose epitaph may be seen in 
the churchyard at the head of Haweswater, and whose qualities of mind and heart, and their 
benign influence in conjunction with his privation, I had from his relatives on the spot. The 
blind man, next commemorated, was John Gough, of Kendal, a man known, far beyond his 
neighbourhood, for his talents and attainments in natural history and science. Of the Infant's 
grave, next noticed, I will only say, it is an exact picture of what fell under my own observa- 
tion ; and all persons who are intimately acquainted with cottage life must often have observed 
like instances of the working of the domestic affections. 

" A volley thrice repeated o'er the corse 
Let down into the hollow of that grave." 

This young volunteer bore the name of Dawson, and was younger brother, if I am not mistaken, 
to the prodigal of whose character and fortunes an account is given towards the beginning of the 
preceding book. The father of the family I knew well ; he was a man of literary education and 
of experience in society much beyond what was common among the inhabitants of the vale. He 
had lived a good while in the Highlands of Scotland, as a manager of iron-works at Bunaw, and 
had acted as clerk to one of my predecessors in the office of Distributor of Stamps, when he 
used to travel round the country collecting and bringing home the money due to Government, in 
gold, which, it may be worth while to mention for the sake of my friends, was deposited in the 
cell or iron closet under the west window of the long room at Rydal Mount, which still exists 
with the iron doors that guarded the property. This of course was before the time of Bills and 
Notes. The two sons of this person had no doubt been led by the knowledge of their father to 
take more delight in scholarship, and had been accustomed in their own minds to take a wider 
view of social interests than was usual among their associates The premature death of this 
gallant young man was much lamented, and, as an attendant at the funeral, I myself witnessed 
the ceremony and the effect of it as described in the poem. 

" Tradition tells 
That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight 
Came on a war-horse." 

" The house is gone." 

The pillars of the gateway in front of the mansion remained when we first took up our abode at 
Grasmere. Two or three cottages still remain, which are called Knott-houses from the name of 
the gentleman (I have called him a knight) concerning whom these traditions survive. He was 
the ancestor of the Knott family, formerly considerable proprietors in the district. What follows 
in the discourse of the Wanderer upon the changes he had witnessed in rural life, by the intro- 
duction of machinery, is truly described from what I myself saw during my boyhood and early 
youth, and from what was often told me by persons of this humble calling. Happily, most hap- 



THE EXCURSION 409 



pily, for these mountains, the mischief was diverted from the banks of their beautiful streams, 
and transferred to open and flat countries abounding- in coal, where the agency of steam was 
found much more effectual for carrying' on those demoralising works. Had it not been for this 
invention, long before the present time every torrent and river in this district would have had 
its factory, large and populous in proportion to the power of the water that could there have 
been commanded. Parliament has interfered to prevent the night-work which was once carried 
on in these mills as actively as during the daytime, and by necessity still more perniciously — a 
sad disgrace to the proprietors, and to the nation which could so long - tolerate such unnatural 
proceedings. Reviewing at this late period, 184o, what I put into the mouths of my interlocu- 
tors a few years after the commencement of the century, I grieve that so little progress has been 
made in diminishing the evils deplored, or promoting the benefits of education which the Wan- 
derer anticipates. The results of Lord Ashley's labours to defer the time when children might 
legally be allowed to work in factories, and his endeavours to limit still farther the hours of per- 
mitted labour, have fallen far short of his own humane wishes, and those of every benevolent 
and right-minded man who has carefully attended to this subject : and in the present session of 
Parliament (1843) Sir James Graham's attempt to establish a course of religious education among 
the children employed in factories has been abandoned, in consequence of what might easily have 
been foreseen, the vehement and turbulent opposition of the Dissenters : so that, for many years 
to come, it may be thought expedient to leave the religious instruction of children entirely in the 
hands of the several denominations of Christians in the island, each body to work according to 
its own means and in its own way. Such is my own confidence, a confidence I share with many 
others of my most valued friends, in the superior advantages, both religious and social, which 
attend a course of instruction presided over and guided by the clergy of the Church of England, 
that I have no doubt that, if but once its members, lay and clerical, were duly sensible of those 
benefits, their church would daily gain ground, and rapidly, upon every shape and fashion of 
Dissent : and in that case, a great majority in Parliament being sensible of these benefits, the 
Ministers of the country might be emboldened, were it necessary, to apply funds of the State to 
the support of education on Church principles. Before I conclude, I cannot forbear noticing the 
strenuous efforts made at this time in Parliament, by so many persons, to extend manufacturing 
and commercial industry at the expense of agricultural, though we have recently had abundant 
proofs that the apprehensions expressed by the Wanderer were not groundless. 

" I spake of mischief by the wise diffused 
With gladness, thinking that the more it spreads 
The healthier, the securer, we become — ■ 
Delusion which a moment may destroy ! " 

The Chartists are well aware of this possibility, and cling to it with an ardour and perseverance 
which nothing but wiser and more brotherly dealing towards the many, on the part of the wealthy 
few, can moderate or remove. 

" While, from the grassy mountain's open side, 
We gazed, in silence hushed." 

The point here fixed upon in my imagination is half-way up the northern side of Lougbrigg Fell, 
from which the Pastor and his companions were supposed to look upwards to the sky and moun- 
tain-tops, and round the vale, with the lake lying immediately beneath them. 

" But turned not without welcome promise made, 
That he would share the pleasures and pursuits 
Of yet another summer's day, consumed 
In wandering with us." 

When I reported this promise of the Solitary, and long after, it was my wish, and I might say 
intention, that we should resume our wanderings, and pass the Borders into his native country, 
where, as I hoped, he might witness, in the society of the Wanderer, some religious ceremony 
— a sacrament, say, in the open fields, or a preaching among the mountains — which, by recall- 
ing to his mind the days of his early childhood, when he had been present on such occasions in 
company with his parents and nearest kindred, might have dissolved his heart into tenderness, 
and so have done more towards restoring the Christian faith in which he had been educated, and, 
with that, contentedness and even cheerfulness of mind, than all that the Wanderer and Pastor, 
by their several effusions and addresses, had been able to effect. An issue like this was in my 
intentions. But, alas ! .< > Mid the me:(ik ot , s and WAS) 

Things incomplete and purposes betrayed 

Make sadder transits o'er thought's optic glass 

Than noblest objects utterly decayed ! " 



4io 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK I 



To the Right Hon. 
WILLIAM, EARL OF LONSDALE, K. G. 

ETC. ETC. 

Oft, through thy fair domains, illustrious Peer ! 
In youth I roamed, on youthful pleasures bent ; 
And mused in rocky cell or sylvan tent, 
Beside swift-flowing Lowther's current clear. 
— Now, by thy care befriended, I appear 
Before thee, Lonsdale, and this Work present, 
A token (may it prove a monument !) 
Of high respect and gratitude sincere. 
Gladly would I have waited till my task 
Had reached its close , but Life is insecure, 
And Hope full oft fallacious as a dream : 
Therefore, for what is here produced, I ask 
Thy favour ; trusting that thou wilt not deem 
The offering, though imperfect, premature. 

William Wordsworth. 
Rydal Mount, Westmoreland, 
July 29, 1814. 



PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1814 

The Title-page announces that this is only a 
portion of a poem ; and the Reader must be 
here apprised that it belongs to the second 
part of a long and laborious Work, which is to 
consist of three parts. — The Author will can- 
didly acknowledge that, if the first of these had 
been completed, and in such a manner as to 
satisfy his own mind, he should have preferred 
the natural order of publication, and have 
given that to the world first ; but, as the sec- 
ond division of the Work was designed to refer 
more to passing events, and to an existing 
state of things, than the others were meant to 
do, more continuous exertion was naturally 
bestowed upon it, and greater progress made 
here than in the rest of the poem ; and as this 
part does not depend upon the preceding to a 
degree which will materially injure its own 
peculiar interest, the Author, complying with 
the earnest entreaties of some valued Friends, 
presents the following pages to the Public. 

It may be proper to state whence the poem, 
of which " The Excursion " is a part, derives 
its Title of "The Recluse.'" — Several years ago, 
when the Author retired to his native moun- 
tains, with the hope of being enabled to con- 
struct a literary Work that might live, it was 
a reasonable thing that he should take a re- 
view of his own mind, and examine how far 
Nature and Education had qualified him for 
such employment. As subsidiary to this pre- 
paration, he undertook to record, in verse, the 
origin and progress of his own powers, as far as 
he was acquainted with them. That Work, 
addressed to a dear Friend, most distinguished 
for his knowledge and genius, and to whom the 
Author's Intellect is deeply indebted, has been 
long finished ; and the result of the investiga- 
tion which gave rise to it was a determination 
to compose a philosophical poem, containing 



views of Man, Nature, and Society ; and to be 
entitled, " The Recluse " ; as having for its 
principal subject the sensations and opinions of 
a poet living in retirement. — The preparatory 
poem is biographical, and conducts the his- 
tory of the Author's mind to the point when he 
was emboldened to hope that his faculties were 
sufficiently matured for entering upon the 
arduous labour which he had proposed to him- 
self ; and the two Works have the same kind of 
relation to each other, if he may so express 
himself, as the ante-chapel has to the body of 
a Gothic church. Continuing this allusion, he 
may be permitted to add, that his minor 
Pieces, which have been long before the Public, 
when they shall be properly arranged, will be 
found by the attentive Reader to have such 
connection with the main Work as may give 
them claim to be likened to the little cells, 
oratories, and sepulchral recesses, ordinarily 
included in those edifices. 

The Author would not have deemed himself 
justified in saying, upon this occasion, so much 
of performances either unfinished or unpub- 
lished, if he had not thought that the labour 
bestowed by him upon what he has heretofore 
and now laid before the Public entitled him to 
candid attention for such a statement as he 
thinks necessary to throw light upon his en- 
deavours to please and, he would hope, to bene- 
fit his countrymen. — Nothing further need be 
added, than that the first and third parts of 
" The Recluse " will consist chiefly of medita- 
tions in the Author's own person ; and that 
in the intermediate part (" The Excursion ") 
the intervention of characters speaking is em- 
ployed, and something of a dramatic form 
adopted. 

It is not the Author's intention formally to 
announce a system ; it was more animating to 
him to proceed in a different course ; and if he 
shall succeed in conveying to the mind clear 
thoughts, lively images, and strong feelings, 
the Reader will have no difficulty in extracting 
the system for himself. And in the meantime 
the following passage, taken from the conclu- 
sion of the first book of " The Recluse," may 
be acceptable as a kind of Prospectus of the 
design and scope of the whole Poem. 

[See " The Recluse," page 231, lines 754- 
860, for the Prospectus.] 

BOOK FIRST 
THE WANDERER 

ARGUMENT 

A summer forenoon — The Author reaches 
a ruined Cottage upon a Common, and there 
meets with a revered Friend, the Wanderer, of 



BOOK I 



THE EXCURSION 



411 



whose education and course of life he gives an 
account — The Wanderer, while resting' under 
the shade of the Trees that surround the Cot- 
tage, relates the History of its last Inhabitant. 

'T was summer, and the sun had mounted 

high: 
Southward the landscape indistinctly glared 
Through a pale steam; but all the north- 
ern downs, 
In clearest air ascending, showed far off 
A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung 
From brooding clouds; shadows that lay 

in spots 
Determined and unmoved, with steady 

beams 
Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed; 
To him most pleasant who on soft cool 

moss 
Extends his careless limbs along the 
front IO 

Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling 

casts 
A twilight of its own, an ample shade, 
Where the wren warbles, while the dream- 
ing man, 
Half conscious of the soothing melody, 
With side-long eye looks out upon the 

scene, 
By power of that impending covert, thrown 
To finer distance. Mine was at that hour 
Far other lot, yet with good hope that soon 
Under a shade as grateful I should find 
Rest, and be welcomed there to livelier 

j°y- . , 2° 

Across a bare wide Common I was toiling 

With languid steps that by the slippery 
turf 

Were baffled; nor could my weak arm dis- 
perse 

The host of insects gathering round my 
face, 

And ever with me as I paced along. 

Upon that open moorland stood a grove, 
The wished-for port to which my course 

was bound. 
Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom 
Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms, 
Appeared a roofless Hut; four naked walls 
That stared upon each other ! — I looked 

round, 3 r 

And to my wish and to my hope espied 
The Friend I sought; a Man of reverend 

age, 



But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired. 
There was he seen upon the cottage-bench, 
Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep; 
An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. 

Him had I marked the day before — 
alone 
And stationed in the public way, with face 
Turned toward the sun then setting, whilw 
that staff 40 

Afforded, to the figure of the man 
Detained for contemplation or repose, 
Graceful support; his countenance as he 

stood 
Was hidden from my view, and he re- 
mained 
Unrecognised; but, stricken by the sight, 
With slackened footsteps I advanced, and 

soon 
A glad congratulation we exchanged . 
At such unthought-of meeting. — For the 

night 
We parted, nothing willingly; and now 
He by appointment waited for me here, 50 
Under the covert of these clustering elms. 

We were tried Friends: amid a pleasant 

vale, 
In the antique market-village where was 

passed 
My school-time, an apartment he had 

owned, 
To which at intervals the Wanderer drew, 
And found a kind of home or harbour 

there. 
He loved me ; from a swarm of rosy boys 
Singled out me, as he in sport would say, 
For my grave looks, too thoughtful for my 

years. 
As I grew up, it was my best delight 60 
To be his chosen comrade. Many a time, 
On holidays, we rambled through the 

woods : 
We sate — we walked; he pleased me with 

report 
Of things which he had seen; and often 

touched 
Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind 
Turned inward; or at my request would 

sing 
Old songs, the product of his native hills; 
A skilful distribution of sweet sounds, 
Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed 
As cool refreshing water, by the care 70 
Of the industrious husbandman, diffused 



412 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK I 



Through a parched meadow-ground, in 
time of drought. 

Still deeper welcome found his pure dis- 
course; 

How precious, when in riper days I learned 

To weigh with care his words, and to re- 
joice 

In the plain presence of his dignity ! 

Oh ! many are the Poets that are sown 
By Nature; men endowed with highest 

.gifts, 
The vision and the faculty divine; 79 

Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse, 
(Which, hi the docile season of their youth, 
It was denied them to acquire, through 

lack 
Of culture and the inspiring aid of books, 
Or haply by a temper too severe, 
Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame) 
Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led 
By circumstance to take unto the height 
The measure of themselves, these favoured 

Beings, 
All but a scattered few, live out their time, 
Husbanding that which they possess within, 
And go to the grave, unthought of. Strong- 
est minds 9 r 
Are often those of whom the noisy world 
Hears least; else surely this Man had not 

left 
His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed. 
But, as the mind was filled with inward 

light, 
So not without distinction had he lived, 
Beloved and honoured — far as he was 

known. 
And some small portion of his eloquent 

speech, 
And something that may serve to set in 

view 
The feeling pleasures of his loneliness, 100 
His observations, and the thoughts his 

mind 
Had dealt with — I will here record in verse ; 
Which, if with truth it correspond, and sink 
Or rise as venerable Nature leads, 
The high and tender Muses shall accept 
With gracious smile, deliberately pleased, 
And listening Time reward with sacred 

praise. 

Among the hills of Athol he was born; 
Where, on a small hereditary farm, 
An unproductive slip of rugged ground, no 



His Parents, with their numerous offspring, 

dwelt; 
A virtuous household, though exceeding 

poor ! 
Pure livers were they all, austere and grave, 
And fearing God; the very children taught 
Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's 

word, 
And an habitual piety, maintained 
With strictness scarcely known on English 

ground. 

From his sixth year, the Boy of whom I 
speak, 
In summer, tended cattle on the hills; 
But, through the inclement and the perilous 
days 120 

Of long-continuing whiter, he repaired, 
Equipped with satchel, to a school, that 

stood 
Sole building on a mountain's dreary edge, 
Remote from view of city spire, or sound 
Of minster clock ! From that bleak tene- 
ment 
He, many an evening, to his distant home 
In solitude returning, saw the hills 
Grow larger in the darkness ; all alone 
Beheld the stars come out above his head, 
And travelled through the wood, with no 
one near 130 

To whom he might confess the things he 
saw. 

So the foundations of his mind were laid. 
In such communion, not from terror free, 
While yet a child, and long before his time, 
Had he perceived the presence and the 

power 
Of greatness; and deep feelings had im- 
pressed 
So vividly great objects that they lay 
Upon his mind like substances, whose 

presence 
Perplexed the bodily sense. He had re- 
ceived 
A precious gift; for, as he grew in years, 
With these impressions would he still 
compare 141 

All his remembrances, thoughts, shapes, 

and forms; 
And, being still unsatisfied with aught 
Of dimmer character, he thence attained 
An active power to fasten images 
Upon his brain; and on their pictured lines 
Intensely brooded, even till they acquired 



BOOK I 



THE EXCURSION 



4i3 



The liveliness of dreams. Nor did he fail, 
While yet a child, with a child's eagerness 
Incessantly to turn his ear and eye 150 

On all things which the moving seasons 

brought 
To feed such appetite — nor this alone 
Appeased his yearning : — in the after-day 
Of boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn, 
And 'mid the hollow depths of naked 

crags 
He sate, and even in their fixed lineaments, 
Or from the power of a peculiar eye, 
Or by creative feeling overborne, 
Or by predominance of thought oppressed, 
p]ven in their fixed and steady lineaments 
He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind, 161 
Expression ever varying ! 

Thus informed, 
He had small need of books; for many a 

tale 
Traditionary, round the mountains hung, 
And many a legend, peopling the dark 

woods, 
Nourished Imagination in her growth, 
And gave the Mind that apprehensive 

power 
By which she is made quick to recognise 
The moral properties and scope of things. 
But eagerly he read, and read again, i 7 o 
Whate'er the minister's old shelf supplied; 
The life and death of martyrs, who sus- 
tained, 
With will inflexible, those fearful pangs 
Triumphantly displayed in records left 
Of persecution, and the Covenant — times 
Whose echo rings through Scotland to this 

hour ! 
And there, by lucky hap, had been preserved 
A straggling volume, torn and incomplete, 
That left half-told the preternatural tale, 
Romance of giants, chronicle of fiends, 1S0 
Profuse in garniture of wooden cuts 
Strange and uncouth ; dire faces, figures 

dire, 
Sharp-kneed, sharp-elbowed, and lean- 

ankled too, 
With long and ghostly shanks— forms which 

once seen 
Could never be forgotten ! 

In his heart, 
Where Fear sate thus, a cherished visitant, 
Was wanting yet the pure delight of love 
By sound diffused, or by the breathing air, 
Or by the silent looks of happy things, 
Or flowing from the universal face 190 



Of earth and sky. But he had felt the 

power 
Of Nature, and already was prepared, 
By his intense conceptions, to receive 
Deeply the lesson deep of love which he, 
Whom Nature, by whatever means, has 

taught 
To feel intensely, cannot but receive. 

Such was the Boy — but for the growing 

Youth 
What soul was his, when, from the naked 

top 
Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun 
Rise up, and bathe the world in light ! He 

looked — 200 

Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay 
Beneath him : — Far and wide the clouds 

were touched, 
And in their silent faces could he read 
Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 
Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank 
The spectacle : sensation, soul, and form, 
All melted into him; they swallowed up 
His animal being; in them did he live, 209 
And by them did he live ; they were his life. 
In such access of mind, in such high hour 
Of visitation from the living God, 
Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. 
No thanks he breathed, he proffered no 

request; 
Rapt into still communion that transcends 
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
His mind was a thanksgiving to the power 
That made him; it was blessedness and 

love ! / 

A Herdsman on the lonely mountain 
. tops, 2I9 

Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 
Was his existence oftentimes possessed. 
O then how beautiful, how bright, appeared 
The written promise ! Early had he learned 
To reverence the volume that displays 
The mystery, the life which cannot die; 
But in the mountains did he feel his faith. 
All things, responsive to the writing, there 
Breathed immortality, revolving life, 
And greatness still revolving; infinite : 229 
There littleness was not; the least of things 
Seemed infinite; and there his spirit shaped 
Her prospects, nor did he believe, — he saw. 
What wonder if his being thus became 
Sublime and comprehensive ! Low desires, 



414 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK I 



Low thoughts had there no place; yet was 

his heart 
Lowly ; for he was meek in gratitude, 
Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind, 
And whence they flowed; and from them 

he acquired 
Wisdom, which works through patience; 

thence he learned 
In oft-recurring hours of sober thought 240 
To look on Nature with a humble heart. 
Self-questioned where it did not understand, 
And with a superstitious eye of love. 

So passed the time; yet to the nearest 
town 
He duly went with what small overplus 
His earnings might supply, and brought 

away 
The book that most had tempted his desires 
While at the stall he read. Among the hills 
He gazed upon that mighty orb of song, 
The divine Milton. Lore of different kind, 
The annual savings of a toilsome life, 251 
His Schoolmaster supplied; books that ex- 
plain 
The purer elements of truth involved 
In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, 
(Especially perceived where nature droops 
And feeling is suppressed) preserve the 

mind 
Busy in solitude and poverty. 
These occupations oftentimes deceived 
The listless hours, while in the hollow vale, 
Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 
In pensive idleness. What coidd he do, 261 
Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome life, 
With blind endeavours ? Yet, still upper- 
most, 
Nature was at his heart as if he felt, 
Though yet he knew not how, a wasting 

power 
In all things that from her sweet influence 
Might tend to wean him. Therefore with 

her hues, 
Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms, 
He clothed the nakedness of austere truth. 
While yet he lingered in the rudiments 270 
Of science, and among her simplest laws, 
His triangles — they were the stars of 

heaven, 
The silent stars ! Oft did he take delight 
To measure the altitude of some tall crag 
That is the eagle's birth-place, or some 

peak 
Familiar with forgotten years, that shows, 



Inscribed upon its visionary sides, 
The history of many a whiter storm, 
Or obscure records of the path of tire. 

And thus before his eighteenth year was 

told, 280 

Accumulated feelings pressed his heart 
With still increasing weight ; he was o'er* 

powered 
By Nature; by the turbulence subdued 
Of his own mind; by mystery and hope, 
And the first virgin passion of a soul 
Communing with the glorious universe. 
Full often wished he that the winds might 

rage 
When they were silent: far more fondly 

now 
Than in his earlier season did he love 
Tempestuous nights — the conflict and the 

sounds 290 

That live in darkness. From his intellect 
And from the stillness of abstracted thought 
He asked repose ; and, failing oft to win 
The peace required, he scanned the laws of 

light 
Amid the roar of torrents, where they send 
From hollow clefts up to the clearer air 
A cloud of mist that, smitten by the sun, 
Varies its rainbow hues. But vainly thus, 
And vainly by all other means, he strove 
To mitigate the fever of his heart. 300 

In dreams, in study, and in ardent 
thought, 
Thus was he reared ; much wanting to assist 
The growth of intellect, yet gaining more, 
And every moral feeling of his soul 
Strengthened and braced, by breathing in 

content 
The keen, the wholesome, air of poverty, 
And drinking from the well of homely life. 
— But, from past liberty, and tried re- 
straints, 
He now was summoned to select the course 
Of humble industry that promised best 310 
To yield him no unworthy maintenance. 
Urged by his Mother, he essayed to teach 
A village-school — but wandering thoughts 

were then 
A misery to him; and the Youth resigned 
A task he was unable to perform. 

That stern yet kindly Spirit, who con- 
strains 
The Savoyard to quit his naked rocks, 



BOOK I 



THE EXCURSION 



4i5 



The free-born Swiss to leave his narrow 

vales, 
(Spirit attached to regions mountainous 
Like their own stedfast clouds) did now 

impel 320 

His restless mind to look abroad with hope. 

— An irksome drudgery seems it to plod 

on, 
Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting 

storm, 
A vagrant Merchant under a heavy load, 
Bent as he moves, and needing frequent 

rest; 
Yet do such travellers find their own de- 
light; 
And their hard service, deemed debasing 

now, 
Gained merited respect in simpler times; 
When squire, and priest, and they who 

round them dwelt 
In rustic sequestration — all dependent 330 
Upon the Pedlar's toil — supplied their 

wants, 
Or pleased their fancies, with the wares he 

brought. 
Not ignorant was the Youth that still no 

few 
Of his adventurous countrymen were led 
By perseverance in this track of life 
To competence and ease : — to him it offered 
Attractions manifold; — and this he chose. 

— His Parents on the enterprise bestowed 
Their farewell benediction, but with hearts 
Foreboding evil. From his native hills 340 
He wandered far; much did he see of men, 
Their manners, their enjoyments, and pur- 
suits, 

Their passions and their feelings; chiefly 

those 
Essential and eternal in the heart, 
That, 'mid the simpler forms of rural life, 
Exist more simple in their elements, 
And speak a plainer language. In the 

woods, 
A lone Enthusiast, and among the fields, 
Itinerant in this labour, he had passed 349 
The better portion of his time; and there 
Spontaneously had his affections thriven 
Amid the bounties of the year, the peace 
And liberty of nature; there he kept 
In solitude and solitary thought 
His mind in a just equipoise of love. 
Serene it was, unclouded by the cares 
Of ordinary life; un vexed, unwarped 
By partial bondage. In his steady course, 



No piteous revolutions had he felt, 
No wild varieties of joy and grief. 360 

Unoccupied by sorrow of its own, 
His heart lay open; and, by nature tuned 
And constant disposition of his thoughts 
To sympathy with man, he was alive 
To all that was enjoyed where'er he went, 
And all that was endured; for, in himself 
Happy, and quiet in his cheerfulness, 
He had no painful pressure from without 
That made him turn aside from wretched- 
ness 
With coward fears. He could afford to 
suffer 37 o 

With those whom he saw suffer. Hence it 

came 
That in our best experience he was rich, 
And in the wisdom of our .daily life. 
For hence, minutely, in his various rounds, 
He had observed the progress and decay 
Of many minds, of minds and bodies too; 
The history of many families; 
How they had prospered; how they were 

o'erthrown 
By passion or mischance, or such misrule 379 
Among the unthinking masters of the earth 
As makes the nations groan. 

This active course 
He followed till provision for his wants 
Had been obtained ; — the Wanderer then 

resolved 
To pass the remnant of his days, untasked 
With needless services, from hardship free. 
His calling laid aside, he lived at ease: 
But still he loved to pace the public roads 
And the wild paths; and, by the summer's 

warmth 
Invited, often would he leave his home 
And journey far, revisiting the scenes 390 
That to his memory were most endeared. 
— Vigoro\is in health, of hopeful spirits, 

undamped 
By worldly-mindedness or anxious care; 
Observant, studious, thoughtful, and re- 
freshed 
By knowledge gathered up from day to 

day; 
Thus had he lived a long and innocent life. 

The Scottish Church, both on himself and 

those 
With whom from childhood he grew up, 

had held 
The strong hand of her purity ; and still 
Had watched him with an unrelenting eye, 



416 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK I 



This be remembered in his riper age 401 
With gratitude, and reverential thoughts. 
But by the native vigour of his mind, 
By his habitual wanderings out of doors, 
By loneliness, and goodness, and kind 

works, 
Whate'er, in docile childhood or in youth, 
He had imbibed of fear or darker thought 
Was melted all away ; so true was this, 
That sometimes his religion seemed to me 
Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods; 
Who to the model of his own pure heart 41 1 
Shaped his belief, as grace divine inspired, 
And human reason dictated with awe. 
— And surely never did there live on earth 
A man of kindlier nature. The rough 

sports 
And teasing ways of children vexed not 

him ; 
Indulgent listener was he to the tongue 
Of garrulous age ; nor did the sick man's 

tale, 
To his fraternal sympathy addressed, 419 
Obtain reluctant hearing. 

Plain his garb; 
Such as might suit a rustic Sire, prepared 
For sabbath duties ; yet he was a man 
Whom no one could have passed without 

remark. 
Active and nervous was his gait; his limbs 
And his whole figure breathed intelligence. 
Time had compressed the freshness of his 

cheek 
Into a narrower circle of deep red, 
But had not tamed his eye; that, under 

brows 
Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it 

brought 
From years of youth; which, like a Being 

made 430 

Of many Beings, he had wondrous skill 
To blend with knowledge of the years to 

come, 
Human, or such as lie beyond the grave. 



So was He framed; and such his course 
of life 
Who now, with no appendage but a staff, 
The prized memorial of relinquished toils, 
Upon that cottage-bench reposed his limbs, 
Screened from the sun. Supine the Wan- 
derer lay, 
His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut, 
The shadows of the breezy elms above 440 



Dappling his face. He had not heard the 

sound 
Of my approaching steps, and in the shade 
Unnoticed did I stand some minutes' space. 
At length I hailed him, seehig that his hat 
Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim 
Had newly scooped a running stream. He 

rose, 
And ere our lively greeting into peace 
Had settled, " 'T is," said I, " a burning 

day: 
My lips are parched with thirst, but you, it 

seems 
Have somewhere found relief." He, at the 

word, 450 

Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me 

climb 
The fence where that aspiring shrub looked 

out 
Upon the public way. It was a plot 
Of garden ground run wild, its matted 

weeds 
Marked with the steps of those, whom, as 

they passed, 
The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank 

slips, 
Or currants, hanging from their leafless 

stems, 
In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap 
The broken wall. I looked around, and 

there, 
Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder 

boughs 460 

Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a well 
Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy 

fern. 
My thirst I slaked, and, from the cheerless 

spot 
Withdrawing, straightway to the shade re- 
turned 
Where sate the old Man on the cottage- 
bench ; 
And, while, beside him, with uncovered 

head, 
I yet was standing, freely to respire, 
And cool my temples hi the fanning air, 
Thus did he speak. " I see around me 

here 
Things which you cannot see: we die, my 

Friend, 470 

Nor we alone, but that which each man 

loved 
And prized in his peculiar nook of earth 
Dies with him, or is changed; and very 



BOOK I 



THE EXCURSION 



4i7 



Even of the good is no memorial left. 
— The Poets, in their elegies and songs 
Lamenting the departed, call the groves, 
They call upon the hills and streams, to 

mourn, 
And senseless rocks; nor idly; for they 

speak, 
In these their invocations, with a voice 
Obedient to the strong creative power 480 
Of human passion. Sympathies there are 
More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred 

birth, 
That steal upon the meditative mind, 
And grow with thought. Beside yon spring 

I stood, 
And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel 
One sadness, they and I. For them a 

bond 
Of brotherhood is broken: time has been 
When, every day, the touch of human hand 
Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them 

U P 
In mortal stilbiess; and they ministered 490 

To human comfort. Stooping down to 

drink, 
Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied 
The useless fragment of a wooden bowl, 
Green with the moss of years, and subject 

only 
To the soft handling of the elements: 
There let it lie — how foolish are such 

thoughts ! 
Forgive them ; — never — never did my 

steps 
Approach this door but she who dwelt 

within 
A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved 

her 
As my own child. Oh, Sir ! the good die 

first, 500 

And they whose hearts are dry as sum- 
mer dust 
Burn to the socket. Many a passenger 
Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle 

looks, 
When she upheld the cool refreshment 

drawn 
From that forsaken spring; and no one 

came 
But he was welcome ; no one went away 
But that it seemed she loved him. She is 

dead, 
The light extinguished of her lonely hut, 
The hut itself abandoned to decay, 
And she forgotten in the quiet grave. 510 



I speak," continued he, " of One whose 

stock 
Of virtues bloomed beneath this lonely 

roof. 
She was a Woman of a steady mind, 
Tender and deep in her excess of love; 
Not speaking much, pleased rather with 

the joy 
Of her own thoughts: by some especial care 
Her temper had been framed, as if to make 
A Being, who by adding love to peace 
Might live on earth a life of happiness. 
Her wedded Partner lacked not on his 

side 520 

The humble worth that satisfied her heart: 
Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal 
Keenly industrious. She with pride would 

tell 
That he was often seated at his loom, 
In summer, ere the mower was abroad 
Among the dewy grass, — in early spring, 
Ere the last star had vanished. — They 

who passed 
At evening, from behind the garden fence 
Might hear his busy spade, which he would 

After his daily work, until the light 530 
Had failed, and every leaf and flower were 

lost 
In the dark hedges. So their days were 

spent 
In peace and comfort; and a pretty boy 
Was their best hope, next to the God in 

heaven. 

Not twenty years ago, but you I think 
Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there 

came 
Two blighting seasons, when the fields were 

left 
With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to 

add 
A worse affliction in the plague of war: 
This happy Land was stricken to the 
heart ! 540 

A Wanderer then among the cottages, 
I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw 
The hardships of that season: many rich 
Sank down, as in a dream, among the 

poor; 
And of the poor did many cease to be, 
And their place knew them not. Mean- 
while, abridged 
Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 
To numerous self-denials, Margaret 



4i8 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK I 



Went struggling on through those calami- 
tous years 
With cheerful hope, until the second au- 
tumn, 550 
When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed 

lay, 
Smitten with perilous fever. In disease 
He lingered long; and, when his strength 

returned, 
He found the little he had stored, to meet 
The hour of accident or crippling age, 
Was all consumed. A second infant now 
Was added to the troubles of a time 
Laden, for them and all of their degree, 
With care and sorrow; shoals of artisans 
From ill-requited labour turned adrift 560 
Sought daily bread from public charity, 
They, and their wives and children — hap- 
pier far 
Could they have lived as do the little birds 
That peck along the hedge-rows, or the 

kite 
That makes her dwelling on the mountain 
rocks ! 

A sad reverse it was for him who long 
Had filled with plenty, and possessed hi 

peace, 
This lonely Cottage. At the door he stood, 
And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes 
That had no mirth in them; or with his 

knife 570 

Carved uncouth figures on the heads of 

sticks — 
Then, not less idly, sought, through every 

nook 
In house or garden, any casual work 
Of use or ornament; and with a strange, 
Amusing, yet uneasy, novelty, 
He mingled, where he might, the various 

tasks 
Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. 
But this endured not; his good humour 

soon 
Became a weight in which no pleasure was : 
And poverty brought on a petted mood 5S0 
And a sore temper: day by day he drooped, 
And he would leave his work — and to the 

town 
Would turn without an errand his slack 

steps ; 
Or wander here and there among the fields. 
One while he would speak lightly of his 

babes, 
And with a cruel tongue: at other times 



He tossed them with a false unnatural joy: 
And 't was a rueful thing to see the looks 
Of the poor innocent children. ' Every 

smile,' 
Said Margaret to me, here beneath these 

trees, 590 

' Made my heart bleed.' " 

At this the Wanderer paused; 
And, looking up to those enormous elms, 
He said, " 'T is now the hour of deepest 

noon. 
At this still season of repose and peace, 
This hour when all things which are not at 

rest 
Are cheerful ; while this multitude of flies 
With tuneful hum is filling all the air; 
Why should a tear be on an old Man's 

cheek ? 
Why should we thus, with an untoward 

mind, 
And hi the weakness of humanity, 600 

From natural wisdom turn our hearts away ; 
To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears; 
And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb 
The calm of nature with our restless 

thoughts ? " 



He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone: 
But, when he ended, there was hi his face 
Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild, 
That for a little time it stole away 
All recollection; and that simple tale 
Passed from my mind like a forgotten 
sound. 610 

A while on trivial things we held discourse, 
To me soon tasteless. In my own despite, 
I thought of that poor Woman as of one 
Whom I had known and loved. He had 

rehearsed 
Her homely tale with such familiar power, 
With such an active countenance, an eye 
So busy, that the things of which he spake 
Seemed present; and, attention now re- 
laxed, 
A heart-felt chillness crept along my veins; 
I rose; and, having left the breezy shade, 
Stood drinking comfort from the warmer 
sun, 62 1 

That had not cheered me long — ere, look- 
ing round 
Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned, 
And begged of the old Man that, for my 

sake, 
He would resume his story 



BOOK I 



THE EXCURSION 



419 



He replied, 
" It were a wantonness, and would demand 
Severe reproof, if we were men whose 

hearts 
Could hold vain dalliance with the misery 
Even of the dead; contented thence to 

draw 
A momentary pleasure, never marked 630 
By reason, barren of all future good. 
But we have known that there is often 

found 
In mournful thoughts, and always might 

be found, 
A power to virtue friendly ; were 't not so, 
I am a dreamer among men, indeed 
An idle dreamer ! 'T is a common tale, 
An ordinary sorrow of man's life, 
A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed 
In bodily form. — But without further 

bidding 639 

I will proceed. 

While thus it fared with them, 
To whom this cottage, till those hapless 

years, 
Had been a blessed home, it was my chance 
To travel in a country far remote; 
And when these lofty elms once more ap- 
peared, 
What pleasant expectations lured me on 
O'er the flat Common ! — With quick step 

I reached 
The threshold, lifted with light hand the 

latch ; 
But, when I entered, Margaret looked at 

me 
A little while; then turned her head away 
Speechless, — and, sitting down upon a 

chair, 650 

Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do, 
Nor how to speak to her. Poor Wretch ! 

at last 
She rose from off her seat, and then, — O 

Sir! 
I cannot tell how she pronounced my 

name : — 
With fervent love, and with a face of grief 
Unutterably helpless, and a look 
That seemed to cling upon me, she en- 
quired 
If I had seen her husband. As she spake 
A strange surprise and fear came to my 

heart, 
Nor had I power to answer ere she told 660 
That he had disappeared — not two months 

gone. 



He left his house: two wretched days had 

past, 
And on the third, as wistfully she raised 
Her head from off her pillow, to look forth, 
Like one in trouble, for returning light, 
Within her chamber-casement she espied 
A folded paper, lying as if placed 
To meet her waking eyes. This trem- 
blingly 
She opened — found no writing, but beheld 
Pieces of money carefully enclosed, 670 

Silver and gold. ' I shuddered at the 

sight,' 
Said Margaret, ' for I knew it was his hand 
That must have placed it there; and ere 

that day 
Was ended, that long anxious day, I 

learned, 
From one who by my husband had been 

sent 
With the sad news, that he had joined a 

troop 
Of soldiers, going to a distant land. 
— He left me thus — he could not gather 

heart 
To take a farewell of me; for he feared 
That I should follow with my babes, and 

sink 6S0 

Beneath the misery of that wandering life.' 

This tale did Margaret tell with many 

tears : 
And, when she ended, I had little power . 
To give her comfort, and was glad to take 
Such words of hope from, her own mouth 

as served 
To cheer us both. But long we had not 

talked 
Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, 
And with a brighter eye she looked around 
As if she had been shedding tears of joy. 
We parted. — 'T was the time of early 

spring; 690 

I left her busy with her garden tools ; 
And well remember, o'er that fence she 

looked, 
And, while I paced along the foot-way path, 
Called out, and sent a blessing after me, 
With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice 
That seemed the very sound of happy 

thoughts. 

I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale, 
With my accustomed load; in heat and 
cold, 



42 o 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK I 



Through many a wood and many an open 

ground, 699 

In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, 
Drooping or blithe of heart, as might be- 
fall; 
My best companions now the driving winds, 
And now the ' trotting brooks ' and whis- 
pering trees, 
And now the music of my own sad steps, 
With many a short-lived thought that 

passed between, 
And disappeared. 

I journeyed back this way, 
When, in the warmth of midsummer, the 

wheat 
Was yellow ; and the soft and bladed grass, 
Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field 

spread 
Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, 710 
I f ound that she was absent. In the shade, 
Where now we sit, I waited her return. 
Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore 
Its customary look, — only, it seemed, 
The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch, 
Hung down hi heavier tufts; and that 

bright weed, 
The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take 

root 
Along the window's edge, profusely grew, 
Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside, 
And strolled into her garden. It appeared 
To lag behind the season, and had lost 721 
Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and 

thrift 
Had broken their trim border-lines, and 

straggled 
O'er paths they used to deck: carnations, 

once 
Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 
For the peculiar pains they had required, 
Declined their languid heads, wanting 

support. 
The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths 

and bells, 
Had twined about her two small rows of 

peas, 
And dragged them to the earth. 

Ere this an hour 
Was wasted. — Back I turned my restless 

steps ; 73 1 

A stranger passed; and, guessing whom I 

sought, 
He said that she was used to ramble far. — 
The sun was sinking in the west; and 

now 



I sate with sad impatience. From within 
Her solitary infant cried aloud ; 
Then, like a blast that dies away self- 
stilled, 
The voice was silent. From the bench I 

rose; 
But neither could divert nor soothe my 

thoughts. 
The spot, though fair, was very desolate — 
The longer I remained, more desolate: 741 
And, looking round me, now I first observed 
The corner stones, on either side the porch, 
With dull red stains discoloured, and stuck 

o'er 
With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the 

sheep, 
That fed upon the Common, thither came 
Familiarly, and found a couching-place 
Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows 

fell 
From these tall elms; the cottage-clock 

struck eight; — 
I turned, and saw her distant a few steps. 
Her face was pale and thin — her figure, 

too, 751 

Was changed. As she unlocked the door, 

she said, 
1 It grieves me you have waited here so 

long, 
But, in good truth, I 've wandered much of 

late; 
And sometimes — to my shame I speak — 

have need 
Of my best prayers to bring me back again.' 
While on the board she spread our evening 

meal, 
She told me — interrupting not the work 
Which gave employment to her listless 

hands — 
That she had parted with her elder child, 
To a kind master on a distant farm 761 

Now happily apprenticed. — ' I perceive 
You look at me, and you have cause ; to- 
day 
I have been travelling far ; and many days 
About the fields I wander, knowing this 
Only, that what I seek I cannot find ; 
And so I waste my time : for I am changed ; 
And to myself,' said she, ' have done much 

wrong 
And to this helpless infant. I have slept 
Weeping, and weeping have I waked; my 

tears 770 

Have flowed as if my body were not such 
As others are; and I could never die. 



BOOK I 



THE EXCURSION 



421 



But I am now in mind and in my heart 
More easy; and I hope,' said she, ' that 

God 
Will give me patience to endure the things 
Which I behold at home.' 

It would have grieved 
Your very soul to see her. Sir, I feel 
The story linger in my heart; I fear 
'T is long and tedious ; but my spirit clings 
To that poor Woman : — so familiarly 7 So 
Do I perceive her manner, and her look, 
And presence; and so deeply do I feel 
Her goodness, that, not seldom, hi my 

walks 
A momentary trance comes over me; 
And to myself I seem to muse on One 
By sorrow laid asleep; or borne away, 
A human being destined to awake 
To human life, or something very near 
To human life, when he shall come again 
For whom she suffered. Yes, it would 

have grieved 79 o 

Your very soul to see her: evermore 
Her eyelids drooped, her eyes downward 

were cast; 
And, when she at her table gave me food, 
She did not look at me. Her voice was 

low, 
Her body was subdued. In every act 
Pertaining to her house-affairs, appeared 
The careless stillness of a thinking mind 
Self-occupied; to which all outward things 
Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed, 
But yet no motion of the breast was seen, 
No heaving of the heart. While by the 

fire 801 

We sate together, sighs came on my ear, 
I knew not how, and hardly whence they 



Ere my departure, to her care I gave, 
For her son's use, some tokens of regard, 
Which with a look of welcome she received; 
And I exhorted her to place her trust 
In God's good love, and seek his help by 

prayer. 
I took my staff, and, when I kissed her 

babe, 
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her 

then 810 

With the best hope and comfort I could 

give: 
She thanked me for my wish; — but for 

my hope 
It seemed she did not thank me. 



I returned, 
And took my rounds along this road again 
When on its sunny bank the primrose 

flower 
Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the 

Spring. 
I found her sad and drooping: she had 

learned 
No tidings of her husband; if he lived, 
She knew not that he lived; if he were 

dead, 
She knew not he was dead. She seemed 

the same 820 

In person and appearance; but her house 
Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence; 
The floor was neither dry nor neat, the 

hearth 
Was comfortless, and her small lot of 

books, 
Which, in the cottage-window, heretofore 
Had been piled up against the corner 

panes 
In seemly order, now, with straggling 

leaves 
Lay scattered here and there, open or shut, 
As they had chanced to fall. Her infant 

Babe 
Had from his Mother caught the trick of 
_ grief, 830 

And sighed among its playthings. I with- 
drew, 
And once again entering the garden saw, 
More plainly still, that poverty and grief 
Were now come nearer to her: weeds de- 
faced 
The hardened soil, and knots of withered 

grass : 
No ridges there appeared of clear black 

mould, 
No winter greenness; of her herbs and 

flowers, 
It seemed the better part was gnawed away 
Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw, 
Which had been twined about the slender 
. stem 840 

Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root; 
The bark was nibbled round by truant 

sheep. 
— Margaret stood near, her infant in her 

arms, 
And, noting that my eye was on the tree, 
She said, ' I fear it will be dead and gone 
Ere Robert come again.' When to the 

House 
We had returned together, she enquired 



422 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK I 



If I had any hope : — but for her babe 
And for her little orphan boy, she said, 
She had no wish to live, that she must die 
Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom 851 
Still in its place; his Sunday garments 

hung 
Upon the self-same nail; his very staff 
Stood undisturbed behind the door. 

And when, 
In bleak December, I retraced this way, 
She told me that her little babe was dead, 
And she was left alone. She now, released 
From her maternal cares, had taken up 
The employment common through these 

wilds, and gamed, 
By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself; 
And for this end had hired a neighbour's 

boy 861 

To give her needful help. That very 

time 
Most willingly she put her work aside, 
And walked with me along the miry road, 
Heedless how far; and, in such piteous 

sort 
That any heart had ached to hear her, 

begged 
That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask 
For him whom she had lost. We parted 

then — 
Our final parting; for from that time forth 
Did many seasons pass ere I returned 870 
Into this tract again. 

Nine tedious years; 
From their first separation, nine long years, 
She lingered in unquiet widowhood; 
A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have 

been 
A sore heart-wasting ! I have heard, my 

Friend, 
That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate 
Alone, through half the vacant sabbath 

day; 
And, if a dog passed by, she still would 

quit 
The shade, and look abroad. On this old 

bench 879 

For hours she sate; and evermore her eye 
Was busy in the distance, shaping things 
That made her heart beat quick. You see 

that path, 
Now faint, — the grass has crept o'er its 

grey line ; 
There, to and fro, she paced through many 

a day 
Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp 



That girt her waist, spinning the long- 
drawn thread 
With backward steps. Yet ever as there 

passed 
A hian whose garments showed the soldier's 

red, 
Or crippled mendicant hi sailor's garb, 
The little child who sate to turn the wheel 
Ceased from his task; and she with falter- 
ing voice 891 
Made many a fond enquiry; and when they, 
Whose presence gave no comfort, were 

gone by, 
Her heart was still more sad. And by yon 

gate, 
That bars the traveller's road, she often 

stood, 
And when a stranger horseman came, the 

latch 
Would lift, and in his face look wistfully; 
Most happy, if, from aught discovered 

there 
Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 
The same sad question. Meanwhile her 

poor Hut 900 

Sank to decay; for he was gone, whose 

hand, 
At the first nipping of October frost, 
Closed up each chmk, and with fresh bands 

of straw 
Chequered the green-grown thatch. And 

so she lived 
Through the long winter, reckless and 

alone ; 
Until her house by frost, and thaw, and 

ram, 
Was sapped; and while she slept, the 

nightly damps 
Did chill her breast; and hi the stormy 

day 
Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the 

wind, 
Even at the side of her own fire. Yet 

still 910 

She loved this wretched spot, nor would for 

worlds 
Have parted hence ; and still that length of 

road, 
And this rude bench, one torturing hope 

endeared, 
Fast rooted at her heart: and here, my 

Friend, — 
In sickness she remained; and here she 

died; 
Last human tenant of these ruined walls I " 



BOOK II 



THE EXCURSION 



423 



The old Man ceased: he saw that I was 

moved ; 
From that low bench, rising instinctively 
I turned aside in weakness, nor had power 
To thank him for the tale which he had 

told. 920 

I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall 
Reviewed that Woman's sufferings; and it 

seemed 
To comfort me while with a brother's love 
I blessed her in the impotence of grief. 
Then towards the cottage I returned; and 

traced 
Fondly, though with an interest more mild, 
That secret spirit of humanity 
Which, 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies 
Of nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and 

flowers, 
And silent overgrowings, still survived. 930 
The old Man, noting this, resumed, and 

said, 
" My Friend ! enough to sorrow you have 

given, 
The purposes of wisdom ask no more: 
Nor more would she have craved as due to 

One 
Who, in her worst distress, had ofttimes 

felt 
The unbounded might of prayer; and 

learned, with soul 
Fixed on the Cross, that consolation springs, 
From sources deeper far than deepest pain, 
For the meek Sufferer. Why then should 

we read 
The forms of things with an unworthy eye ? 
She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is 

here. 941 

I well remember that those very plumes, 
Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on 

that wall, 
By mist and silent ram-drops silvered o'er, 
As once I passed, into my heart conveyed 
So still an image of tranquillity, 
So calm and still, and looked so beautiful 
Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my 

mind, 
That what we feel of sorrow and despair 
From ruin and from change, and all the 

grief _ _ 950 

That passing shows of Being leave behind, 
Appeared an idle dream, that could mam- 
tain, 
Nowhere, dominion o'er the enlightened 

spirit 
Whose meditative sympathies repose 



Upon the breast of Faith. I turned away, 
And walked along my road in happiness." 

He ceased. Ere long the sun declining 

shot 
A slant and mellow radiance, which began 
To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees, 
We sate on that low bench: and now we 

felt, 960 

Admonished thus, the sweet hour coining 

on. , 

A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, 
A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, 
At distance heard, peopled the milder air. 
The old Man rose, and, with a sprightly 

mien 
Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff; 
Together castmg then a farewell look 
Upon those silent walls, we left the shade; 
And, ere the stars were visible, had reached 
A village-inn, — our evening resting- place. 



BOOK SECOND 
THE SOLITARY 

ARGUMENT 

The Author describes his travels with the 
Wanderer, whose character is further illus- 
trated — Morning scene, and View of a Village 
Wake — Wanderer's account of a Friend whom 
he purposes to visit — View, from an eminence, 
of the Valley which his Friend had chosen for 
his retreat — Sound of singing from below — A 
funeral procession — Descent into the Valley 

— Observations drawn from the Wanderer 
at sight of a book accidentally discovered in 
a recess in the Valley — Meeting with the 
Wanderer's friend, the Solitary — Wanderer's 
description of the mode of hurial in this moun- 
tainous district — Solitary contrasts with this, 
that of the individual carried a few minutes be- 
fore from the cottage — The cottage entered — 
Description of the (Solitary's apartment — Re- 
past there — View, from the window, of two 
mountain summits ; and the Solitary's descrip- 
tion of the companionship they afford him — 
Account of the departed inmate of the cottage 

— Description of a grand spectacle upon the 
mountains, with its effect upon the Solitary's 
mind — Leave the house. 

In days of yore how fortunately fared 
The Minstrel ! wandering on from hall to 

hall, 
Baronial court or royal ; cheered with gifts 



424 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK II 



Munificent, and love, and ladies' praise; 
Now meeting on his road an armed knight, 
Now resting with a pilgrim by the side 
Of a clear brook; — beneath an abbey's 

roof 
One evening sumptuously lodged ; the next, 
Humbly in a religious hospital; 
Or with some merry outlaws of the wood; 
Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell. n 

Hun, sleeping or awake, the robber spared; 
He walked — protected from the sword of 

war 
By virtue of that sacred instrument 
His harp, suspended at the traveller's side; 
His dear companion wheresoe'er he went, 
Opening from land to land an easy way 
By melody, and by the charm of verse. 
Yet not the noblest of that honoured Race 
Drew happier, loftier, more empassioned, 

thoughts 20 

From his long journeyings and eventful life, 
Than this obscure Itinerant had skill 
To gather, ranging through the tamer 

ground 
Of these our unimaginative days; 
Both while he trod the earth in humblest 

guise 
Accoutred with his burthen and his staff; 
And now, when free to move with lighter 

pace. 

What wonder, then, if I, whose favourite 
school 
Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural 

lanes, 
Looked on this guide with reverential love ? 
Each with the other pleased, we now pur- 
sued 3 1 
Our journey, under favourable skies. 
Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light 
Unfailing: not a hamlet) could we pass, 
Rarely a house, that did not yield to him 
Remembrances; or from his tongue call 

forth 
Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard 
Accompanied those strains of apt discourse, 
Which nature's various objects might in- 
spire ; 
And in the silence of his face I read 40 

His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts, 
And the mute fish that glances in the stream, 
And harmless reptile coiling in the sun, 
And gorgeous insect hovering in the air, 
The fowl domestic, and the household dog — 
In his capacious mind, he loved them all: 



Their rights acknowledging he felt for all. 
Oft was occasion given me to perceive 
How the calm pleasures of the pasturing 

herd 
To happy contemplation soothed his walk; 
How the poor brute's condition, forced to 
run S i 

Its course of suffering in the public road, 
Sad contrast ! all too often smote his heart 
With unavailing pity. Rich in love 
And sweet humanity, he was, himself, 
To the degree that he desired, beloved. 
Smiles of good-will from faces that he knew 
Greeted us all day long; we took our seats 
By many a cottage-hearth, where he re- 
ceived 
The welcome of an Inmate from afar, 60 
And I at once forgot, I was a Stranger. 
— Nor was he loth to enter ragged huts, 
Huts where his charity was blest; his voice 
Heard as the voice of an experienced friend. 
And, sometimes — where the poor man held 

dispute 
With his own mind, unable to subdue 
Impatience through inaptness to perceive 
General distress in his particular lot; 
Or cherishing resentment, or in vain 
Struggling against it ; with a soul perplexed, 
And finding in herself no steady power 71 
To draw the line of comfort that divides 
Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven, 
From the injustice of our brother men — 
To him appeal was made as to a judge ; 
Who, with an understanding heart, allayed 
The perturbation; listened to the plea; 
Resolved the dubious point; and sentence 

gave 
So grounded, so applied, that it was heard 
With softened spirit, even when it con- 
demned. 80 

Such intercourse I witnessed, while we 

roved, 
Now as his choice directed, now as mine; 
Or both, with equal readiness of will, 
Our course submitting to the changeful 

breeze 
Of accident. But when the rising sun 
Had three times called us to renew our walk, 
My Fellow-traveller, with earnest voice, 
As if the thought were but a moment old, 
Claimed absolute dominion for the day. 
We started — and he led me toward the 

hills, 90 

Up through an ample vale, with higher hills 



EOOK II 



THE EXCURSION 



425 



Before us, mountains stern and desolate; 
But, in the majesty of distance, now 
Set off, and to our ken appearing fair 
Of aspect, with aerial softness clad, 
And beautified with morning's purple beams. 

The wealthy, the luxurious, by the stress 
Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their 

time, 
May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs 
Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise 
From earth the dust of morning, slow to 

rise; 10 1 

And they, if blest with health and hearts at 

ease, 
Shall lack not their enjoyment: — but how 

famt 
Compared with ours ! who, pacing side by 

side, 
Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all 
That we beheld; and lend the listening 

sense 
To every grateful sound of earth and air; 
Pausing at will — our spirits braced, our 

thoughts 
Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown, 
And pure as dew bathing their crimson 

leaves. no 

Mount slowly, sun ! that we may journey 

. lon &' 
By this dark hill protected from thy beams ! 

Such is the summer pilgrim's frequent 

wish; 
But quickly from among our morning 

thoughts 
'T was chased away: for, toward the west- 
ern side 
Of the broad vale, casting a casual glance, 
We saw a throng of people ; wherefore met ? 
Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose 
On the thrilled ear, and flags uprising, yield 
Prompt answer; they proclaim the annual 
Wake, 120 

Which the bright season favours. — Tabor 

and pipe 
In purpose join to hasten or reprove 
The laggard Rustic; and repay with boons 
Of merriment a party-coloured* knot, 
Already formed upon the village-green. 
— Beyond the limits of the shadow cast 
By the broad hill, glistened upon our sight 
That gay assemblage. Round them and 

above, 
Glitter, with dark recesses interposed, 



Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of 

trees 130 

Half-veiled in vapoury cloud, the silver 

steam 
Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs 
By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a 

mast 
Of gold, the Maypole shines ; as if the rays 
Of morning, aided by exhaling dew, 
With gladsome influence could re-animate 
The faded garlands dangling from its sides. 

Said I, " The music and the sprightly 

scene 
Invite us; shall we quit our road, and join 
These festive matins ? " — He replied, "Not 

loth 140 

To linger I would here with you partake, 
Not one hour merely, but till evening's 

close, 
The simple pastimes of the day and place. 
By the fleet Racers, ere the sun be set, 
The turf of yon large pasture will be 

skimmed ; 
There, too, the lusty Wrestlers shall con- 
tend: 
But know we not that he, who intermits 
The appointed task and duties of the day, 
Untunes full oft the pleasures of the day; 
Checking the finer spirits that refuse 150 
To flow when purposes are lightly changed ? 
A length of journey yet remains untraced: 
Let us proceed." Then, pointing with his 

staff 
Raised toward those craggy summits, his 

intent 
He thus imparted : — 

" In a spot that lies 
Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed, 
You will receive, before the hour of noon, 
Good recompense, I hope, for this day's toil, 
From sight of One who lives secluded there, 
Lonesome and lost: of whom, and whose 

past life, 160 

(Not to forestall such knowledge as may be 
More faithfully collected from himself) 
This brief communication shall suffice. 

Though . now sojourning there, he 1 , like 

myself, 
Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage 
Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract 
Where many a sheltered and well-tended 

plant, 
Bears, on the humblest ground of social life, 



426 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK II 



Blossoms of piety and innocence. 169 

Such grateful promises his youth displayed : 
And, having shown in study forward zeal, 
He to the Ministry was duly called; 
And straight, incited by a curious mind 
Filled with vague hopes, he undertook the 

charge 
Of Chaplain to a military troop 
Cheered by the Highland bagpipe, as they 

marched 
In plaided vest, — his fellow-countrymen. 

office filling, yet by native power 
And force of native inclination made 
An intellectual ruler hi the haunts 180 

Of social vanity, lie walked the world, 
Gay, and affecting graceful gaiety; 
Lax, buoyant — le^> a pastor with his flock 
Than a soldier among soldiers — lived and 

roamed 
Where Fortune led : — and Fortune, who 

oft proves 
The careless wanderer's friend, to him 

made known 
A blooming Lady — a conspicuous flower, 
Admired for beauty, for her sweetness 

praised ; 
Whom he had sensibility to love, 
Ambition to attempt, and skill to win. 190 

For this fair Bride, most rich in gifts of 

mind, 
Nor sparingly endowed with worldly wealth, 
His office he relinquished; and retired 
From the world's notice to a rural home. 
Youth's season yet with him was scarcely 

past, 
And she was in youth's prime. How free 

their love, 
How full their joy ! 'Till, pitiable doom ! 
In the short course of one undreaded year 
Death blasted all. Death suddenly o'er- 

threw 
Two lovely Children — all that they pos- 
sessed ! . " 200 
The Mother followed : — miserably bare 
The one Survivor stood; he wept, he 

prayed 
For his dismissal, day and night, compelled 
To hold communion with the grave, and 

face 
With pain the regions of eternity. 
An uncomplaining apathy displaced 
This anguish; and, indifferent to delight, 
To aim and purpose, he consumed his days, 
To private interest dead, and public care. 209 



So lived he ; so he might have died. 

But now, 
To the wide world's astonishment, appeared 
A glorious opening, the unlooked-for dawn, 
That promised everlasting joy to France ! 
Her voice of social transport reached even 

him ! 
He broke from his contracted bounds, re- 
paired 
To the great City, an emporium then 
Of golden expectations, and receiving 
Freights every day from a new world of 

hope. 
Thither his popular talents he transferred; 
And, from the pulpit, zealously main- 
tained 220 
The cause of Christ and civil liberty, 
As one, and moving to one glorious end. 
Intoxicating service ! I might say 
A happy service ; for he was sincere 
As vanity and fondness for applause, 
And new and shapeless wishes, would allow. 

That righteous cause (such power hath 

freedom) bound, 
For one hostility, in friendly league, 
Ethereal natures and the worst of slaves; 
Was served by rival advocates that came 230 
From regions opposite as heaven and hell. 
One courage seemed to animate them all: 
And, from the dazzling conquests daily 

gained 
By their united efforts, there arose 
A proud and most presumptuous confidence 
In the transcendent wisdom of the age, 
And her discernment; not alone in rights, 
And in the origin and bounds of power 
Social and temporal; but hi laws divine, 
Deduced by reason, or to faith revealed. 240 
An overweening trust was raised; and fear 
Cast out, alike of jjerson and of thing. 
Plague from this union spread, whose sub- 
tle bane 
The strongest did not easily escape ; 
And He, what wonder ! took a mortal 

taint. 
How shall I trace the change, how bear to 

tell 
That he broke faith with them whom he 

had laid 
In earth's dark chambers, with a Christian's 

hope ! 
An infidel contempt of holy writ 249 

Stole by degrees upon his mind; and hence 
Life, like that Roman Janus, double-faced; 



BOOK II 



THE EXCURSION 



427 



Vilest hypocrisy — the laughing, gay 
Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, hut pride. 
Smooth words he had to wheedle simple 

souls; 
But, for disciples of the inner school, 
Old freedom was old servitude, and they 
The wisest whose opinions stooped the 

least 
To known restraints; and who most holdly 

drew 
Hopeful prognostications from a creed, 
That, in the light of false philosophy, 260 
Spread like a halo round a misty moon, 
Widening its circle as the storms advance. 

His sacred function was at length re- 
nounced; 
And every day and every place enjoyed 
The unshackled layman's natural liherty; 
Speech, manners, morals, all without dis- 
guise. 
I do not wish to wrong him; though the 

course 
Of private life licentiously displayed 
Unhallowed actions — planted like a crown 
Upon the insolent aspiring brow 270 

Of spurious notions — worn as open signs 
Of prejudice subdued — still he retained, 
'Mid much abasement, what he had received 
From nature, an intense and glowing mind. 
Wherefore, when humbled Liberty grew 

weak, 
And mortal sickness on her face appeared, 
He coloured objects to his own desire 
As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods 
Of pain were keen as those of better men, 
Nay keener, as his fortitude was less: 2S0 
And he continued, when worse days were 

come, 
To deal about his sparkling eloquence, 
Struggling against the strange reverse with 

zeal 
That showed like happiness. But, in de- 
spite 
Of all this outside bravery, within, 
He neither felt encouragement nor hope: 
For moral dignity, and strength of mind, 
Were wanting; and simplicity of life; 
And reverence for himself; and, last and 

best, 
Confiding thoughts, through love and fear 
of Him 2go 

Before whose sight the troubles of this 

world 
Are vain, as billows in a tossing sea. 



The glory of the times fading away — 
The splendour, which had given a festal air 
To self-importance, hallowed it, and veiled 
From his own sight — this gone, he for- 
feited 
All joy in human nature; was consumed, 
And vexed, and chafed, by levity and 

scorn, 
And fruitless indignation ; galled by pride ; 
Made desperate by contempt of men who 

throve 300 

Before his sight in power or fame, and won, 
Without desert, what he desired; weak 

men, 
Too weak even for his envy or his hate ! 
Tormented thus, after a wandering course 
Of discontent, and inwardly opprest 
With malady — in part, I fear, provoked 
By weariness of life — he fixed his home, 
Or, rather say, sate down by very chance, 
Among these rugged hills; where now he 

dwells, 
And wastes the sad remainder of his hours, 
Steeped in a self-indulging spleen, that 

wants not 311 

Its own voluptuousness; — on this resolved, 
With this content, that he will live and die 
Forgotten, — at safe distance from ' a world 
Not moving to his mind.' " 

These serious words 
Closed the preparatory notices 
That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile 
The way, while we advanced up that wide 

vale. 
Diverging now (as if his quest had been 
Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall 
Of water, or some lofty eminence, 321 

Renowned for splendid prospect far and 

wide) 
We Scaled, without a track to ease our 

steps, 
A steep ascent; and reached a dreary plain, 
With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops 
Before us; savage region ! which I paced 
Dispirited: when, all at once, behold ! 
Beneath our feet, a little lowly vale, 
A lowly vale, and yet uplifted high 
Among the mountains; even as if the spot 
Had been from eldest time by wish of 

theirs 331 

So placed, to be shut out from all the 

world ! 
Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an urn ; 
With rocks encompassed, save that to the 

south 



428 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK II 



Was one small opening, where a heath-clad 

ridge 
Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close ; 
A quiet treeless nook, with two green fields, 
A liquid pool that glittered in the sun, 
And one bare dwelling; one abode, no more ! 
It seemed the home of poverty and toil, 340 
Though not of want: the little fields, made 

green 
By husbandry of many thrifty years, 
Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland 

house. 

— There crows the cock, single in his 

domain: 

The small birds find in spring no thicket 
there 

To shroud them ; only from the neighbour- 
ing vales 

The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill tops, 

Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder 
place. 

Ah ! what a sweet Recess, thought I, is 
here ! 349 

Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease 
Upon a bed of heath; — full many a spot 
Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy 
Among the mountains; never one like this; 
So lonesome, and so perfectly secure; 
Not melancholy — no, for it is green, 
And bright, and fertile, furnished in itself 
With the few needful things that life re- 
quires. 

— In rugged arms how softly does it lie, 
How tenderly protected ! Far and near 
We have an image of the pristine earth, 
The planet in its nakedness: were this 361 
Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat, 
First, last, and single, in the breathing 

world, 
It could not be more quiet; peace is here 
Or nowhere; days unruffled by the gale 
Of public news or private; years that pass 
Forgetfully; uncalled upon to pay 
The common penalties of mortal life, 
Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain. 

On these and kindred thoughts intent I 
lay 37° 

In silence musing by my Comrade's side, 
He also silent; when from out the heart 
Of that profound abyss a solemn voice, 
Or several voices in one solemn sound, 
Was heard ascending; mournful, deep, and 
slow 



The cadence, as of psalms — a f uneral 

dirge ! 
We listened, looking down upon the hut, 
But seeing no one : meanwhile from below 
The strain continued, spiritual as before; 
And now distinctly could I recognise 380 
These words: — "Shall in the grave thy 

love be known, 
In death thy faithfulness ?" — " God rest 

his soul ! " 
Said the old man, abruptly breaking si- 
lence, — 
" He is departed, and finds peace at last ! " 

This scarcely spoken, and those holy 

strains 
Not ceasing, forth appeared in view a band 
Of rustic persons, from behind the hut 
Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which 
They shaped their course along the sloping 

side 
Of that small valley, singing as they moved; 
A sober company and few, the men 391 

Bare-headed, and all decently attired ! 
Some steps when they had thus advanced, 

the dirge 
Ended; and, from the stillness that ensued 
Recovering, to my Friend I said, " You 

spake, 
Methought, with apprehension that these 

rites 
Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat 
This day we purposed to intrude." — "I did 

so, 
But let us hence, that we may learn the 

truth: 
Perhaps it is not he but some one else 400 
For whom this pious service is performed; 
Some other tenant of the solitude." 

So, to a steep and difficult descent 
Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to 

crag, 
Where passage could be won; and, as the 

last 
Of the mute train, behind the heathy top 
Of that off-sloping outlet, disappeared, 
I, more impatient in my downward course, 
Had landed upon easy ground; and there 
Stood waiting for my Comrade. When 

behold 4«o 

An object that enticed my steps aside ! 
A narrow, winding entry opened out 
Into a platform — that lay, sheepf old-wise, 
Enclosed between an upright mass of rock 



BOOK II 



THE EXCURSION 



429 



And one old moss-grown wall; — a cool 

recess, 
And fanciful ! For where the rock and 

wall 
Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed 
By thrusting two rude staves into the wall 
And overlaying them with mountain sods; 
To weather-fend a little turf-built seat 420 
Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor 

dread 
The burning sunshine, or a transient shower; 
But the whole plainly wrought by children's 

Hands ! 
Whose skill had thronged the floor with a 

proud show 
Of baby-houses, curiously arranged; 
Nor wanting ornament of walks between, 
With mimic trees inserted in the turf, 
And gardens interposed. Pleased with the 

sight, 
I could not choose but beckon to my Guide, 
Who, entering, round him threw a careless 
glance, 43 o 

Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed, 
" Lo ! what is here ? " and, stooping down, 

drew forth 
A book, that, in the midst of stones and 

moss 
And wreck of party-coloured earth en- ware, 
Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise 
One of those petty structures. " His it 

must be ! " 
Exclaimed the Wanderer, " cannot but be 

his, 
And he is gone ! " The book, which in my 

hand 
Had opened of itself (for it was sworn 
With searching damp, and seemingly had 
lain 440 

To the injurious elements exposed 
From week to week,) I found to be a 

work 
In the French tongue, a Novel of Voltaire, 
His famous Optimist. " Unhappy Man ! " 
Exclaimed my Friend: " here then has been 

to him 
Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place 
Within how deep a shelter ! He had fits, 
Even to the last, of genuine tenderness, 
And loved the haunts of children: here, no 

doubt, 
Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple 
sports, 4S o 

Or sate companionless; and here the book, 
Left and forgotten in his careless way, 



Must by the cottage-children have been 

found: 
Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate 

work ! 
To what odd purpose have the darlings 

turned 
This sad memorial of their hapless friend ! " 

" Me," said I, " most doth it surprise, to 

find 
Such book in such a place ! " — "A book it 

is," 
He answered, " to the Person suited well, 
Though little suited to surrounding things: 
'T is strange, I grant; and stranger still had 

been 4 6, 

To see the Man who owned it, dwelling 

here, 
With one poor shepherd, far from all the 

world ! — 
Now, if our errand hath been thrown away, 
As from these intimations I forebode, 
Grieved shall I be — less for my sake than 

yours, 
And least of all for him who is no more." 

By this, the book was in the old Man's 

hand; 
And he continued, glancing on the leaves 
An eye of scorn: — "The lover," said he, 

" doomed 470 

To love when hope hath failed him — whom 

no depth 
Of privacy is deep enough to hide, 
Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair, 
And that is joy to him. When change of 

times 
Hath summoned kings to scaffolds, do but 

give 
The faithful servant, who must hide his 

head 
Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, 
A kerchief sprinkled with his master's 

blood, 
And he too hath his comforter. How poor, 
Beyond all poverty how destitute, 480 

Must that Man have been left, who, hither 

driven, 
Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him 
No dearer relique, and no better stay, 
Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen, 
Impure conceits discharging from a heart 
Hardened by impious pride ! — I did not fear 
To tax you with this journey;" — mildly 

said 



43° 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK II 



My venerable Friend, as forth we stepped 
Into the presence of the cheerful light — 
" For I have knowledge that you do not 
shrink 490 

From moving spectacles; — but let us on." 

So speaking, on he went, and at the word 
I followed, till he made a sudden stand: 
For full in view, approaching through a 

gate 
That opened from the enclosure of green 

fields 
Into the rough uncultivated ground, 
Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead ! 
I knew from his deportment, mien, and 

dress, 
That it could be no other; a pale face, 
A meagre person, tall, and in a garb 500 
Not rustic — dull and faded like himself ! 
He saw us not, though distant but few 

steps ; 
For he was busy, dealing, from a store 
Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings 
Of red ripe currants; gift by which he 

strove, 
With intermixture of endearing words, 
To soothe a Child, who walked beside him, 

weeping 
As if disconsolate. — " They to the grave 
Are bearing him, my Little-one," he said, 
" To the dark pit; but he will feel no pain; 
His body is at rest, his soul in heaven." 511 

More might have followed — but my 

honoured Friend 
Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank 
And cordial greeting. — Vivid was the light 
That flashed and sparkled from the other's 

eyes; 
He was all fire : no shadow on his brow 
Remained, nor sign of sickness on his face. 
Hands joined he with his Visitant, — a grasp, 
An eager grasp; and many moments' 

space — 
When the first glow of pleasure was no 

more, 520 

And, of the sad appearance which at once 
Had vanished, much was come and 

coming back — 
An amicable smile retained the life 
Which it had unexpectedly received, 
Upon his hollow cheek. " How kind," he 

said, 
" Nor could your coming have been better 

timed; 



For this, you see, is in our narrow world 
A day of sorrow. I have here a charge " — 
And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly 
The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping 
child — 530 

" A little mourner, whom it is my task 
To comfort; — but how came ye ? — if yon 

track 
(Which doth at once befriend us and be- 
tray) 
Conducted hither your most welcome feet, 
Ye could not miss the f imeral train — they 

yet 
Have scarcely disappeared. " " This bloom- 
ing Child," 
Said the old Man, " is of an age to weep 
At any grave or solemn spectacle, 
Inly distressed or overpowered with awe, 
He knows not wherefore ; — but the boy to- 
day, 540 
Perhaps is shedding orphan's tears; you 

also 
Must have sustained a loss." — " The hand 

of Death," 
He answered, " has been here ; but could 

not well 
Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen 
Upon myself."- — The other left these words 
Uimoticed, thus continuing — 

" From yon crag, 
Down whose steep sides we dropped into 

the vale, 
We heard the hymn they sang — a solemn 

sound 
Heard anywhere; but in a place like this 
'T is more than human ! Many precious rites 
And customs of our rural ancestry 551 

Are gone, or stealing from us; this, I hope, 
Will last for ever. Oft on my way have I 
Stood still, though but a casual passenger, 
So much I felt the awfulness of life, 
In that one moment when the corse is 

lifted 
In silence, with a hush of decency; 
Then from the threshold moves with song 

of peace, 
And confidential yearnings, towards its 

home, 
Its final home on earth. What traveller — 
who — 560 

(How far soe'er a stranger) does not own 
The bond of brotherhood, when he sees 

them go, 
A mute procession on the houseless road; 
Or passing by some single tenement 



>■ 



BOOK II 



THE EXCURSION 



43i 



Or clustered dwellings, where again they 

raise 
The monitory voice ? But most of all 
It touches, it confirms, and elevates, 
Then, when the body, soon to be consigned 
Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust, 
Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward 

borne 570 

Upon the shoulders of the next in love, 
The nearest in affection or in blood; 
Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt 
Beside the coffin, resting on its lid 
In silent grief their unuplifted heads, 
And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's 

mournful plaint, 
And that most awful scripture which de- 
clares 
We shall not sleep, but we shall all be 

changed ! 
— Have I not seen — ye likewise may have 

seen — 
Sou, husband, brothers — brothers side by 

side, 5S0 

And son and father also side by side, 
Rise from that postm-e : — and in concert 

move, 
On the green turf following the vested 

Priest, 
Four dear supporters of one senseless 

weight, 
From which they tio not shrink, and under 

which 
They faint not, but advance towards the 

open grave 
Step after step — together, with their firm 
Unhidden faces: he that suffers most, 
He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps, 
The most serene, with most undaunted 

eye ! — 590 

Oh ! blest are they who live and die like 

these, 
Loved with such love, and with such 

sorrow mourned ! " 

" That poor Man taken hence to-day," 

replied 
The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile 
Which did not please me, " must be 

deemed, I fear, 
Of the unblest; for he will surely sink 
Into his mother earth without such pomp 
Of grief, depart without occasion given 
By him for such array of fortitude. 
Full seventy winters hath he lived, and 

mark ! 600 



This simple Child will mourn his one short 

hour, 
And I shall miss him: scanty tribute ! yet, 
This wanting, he would leave the sight of 

men, 
If love were his sole claim upon their care, 
Like a ripe date which in the desert falls 
Without a hand to gather it." 

At this 
I interposed, though loth to speak, and 

said, 
" Can it be thus among so small a band 
As ye must needs be here ? hi such a place 
I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight 
Of a departing cloud." — " 'T was not for 

love" — 6n 

Answered the sick Man with a careless 

voice — 
"That I came hither; neither have I found 
Among associates who have power of speech, 
Nor in such other converse as is here, 
Temptation so prevailing as to change 
That mood, or undermine my first resolve." 
Then, speaking in like careless sort,, he 

said 
To my benign Companion, — " Pity 't is 
That fortune did not guide you to this 

house 620 

A few days earlier; then would you have 

seen 
What stuff the Dwellers in a solitude, 
That seems by Nature hollowed out to be 
The seat and bosom of pure innocence, 
Are made of; an ungracious matter this ! 
Which, for truth's sake, yet in remem- 
brance too 
Of past discussions with this zealous friend 
And advocate of humble life, I now 
Will force upon his notice; undeterred 
By the example of his own pure course, 630 
And that respect and deference which a 

soul 
May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched 
In what she most doth value, love of God 
And his frail creature Man ; — but ye shall 

hear. 
I talk — and ye are standing in the sun 
Without refreshment ! " 

Quickly had he spoken, 
And, with light steps still quicker than his 

words, 
Led toward the Cottage. Homely was the 

spot ; 
And, to my feeling, ere we reached the 

door, 



43 2 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK II 



Had almost a forbidding nakedness; 640 
Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair, 
Than it appeared when from the beetling 

rock 
We had looked down upon it. All within, 
As left by the departed company, 
Was silent; save the solitary clock 
That on mine ear ticked with a mournful 

sound. — 
Following our Guide we clomb the cottage- 
stairs 
And reached a small apartment dark and 

low, 
Which was no sooner entered than our Host 
Said gaily, " This is my domain, my cell, 650 
My hermitage, my cabin, what you will — 
I love it better than a snail his house. 
But now ye shall be feasted with our best." 

So, with more ardour than an unripe girl 
Left one day mistress of her mother's 

stores, 
He went about his hospitable task. 
My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no 

less, 
And pleased I looked upon my grey-haired 

Friend, 
As if to thank him ; he returned that look, 
Cheered, plainly, and yet serious. What a 

wreck 660 

Had we about us ! scattered was the floor, 
And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and 

shelf, 
With books, maps, fossils, withered plants 

and flowers, 
And tufts of mountain moss. Mechanic 

tools 
Lay intermixed with scraps of paper, some 
Scribbled with verse: a broken angling- 
rod 
And shattered telescope, together linked 
By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook; 
And instruments of music, some half -made, 
Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the 

walls. 670 

But speedily the promise was fulfilled; 
A feast before us, and a courteous Host 
Inviting us in glee to sit and eat. 
A napkin, white as foam of that rough 

brook 
By which it had been bleached, o'erspread 

the board; 
And was itself half-covered with a store 
Of dainties, — oaten bread, curd, cheese, 

and cream; 



And cakes of butter curiously embossed, 
Butter that had imbibed from meadow- 
flowers 
A golden hue, delicate as their own 680 

Faintly reflected in a lingering stream. 
Nor lacked, for more delight on that warm 

day, 
Our table, small parade of garden fruits, 
And whortle-berries from the mountain 

side. 
The Child, who long ere this had stilled 

his sobs, 
Was now a help to his late comforter, 
And moved, a willing Page, as he was bid, 
Ministering to our need. 

In genial mood, 
While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate 
Frontmg the window of that little cell, 690 
I could not, ever and anon, forbear 
To glance an upward look on two huge 

Peaks 
That from some other vale peered into this. 
" Those lusty twins," exclaimed our host, 

" if here 
It were your lot to dwell, would soon be- 
come 
Your prized companions. — Many are the 

notes 
Which, in his tuneful course, the wind 

draws forth 
From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and 

dashing shores; 
And well those lofty brethren bear their 

part 
In the wild concert — chiefly when the 

storm 700 

Rides high; then all the upper air they fill 
With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow, 
Like smoke, along the level of the blast, 
In mighty current; theirs, too, is the song 
Of stream and headlong flood that seldom 

fails; 
And, in the grim and breathless hour of 

noon, 
Methinks that I have heard them echo back 
The thunder's greeting. Nor have nature's 

laws 
Left them ungifted with a power to yield 
Music of finer tone; a harmony, 71c 

So do I call it, though it be the hand 
Of silence, though there be no voice ; — the 

clouds, 
The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, 
Motions of moonlight, all come thither — 

touch, 



BOOK II 



THE EXCURSION 



433 



And have an answer — thither come, and 

shape 
A language not unwelcome to sick hearts 
And idle spirits: — there the sun himself, 
At the calm close of summer's longest day, 
Rests his substantial orb ; — between those 

heights 
And on the top of either pinnacle, 720 

More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue 

vault, 
Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud. 
Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man 
Than the mute agents stirring there : — 

alone 

Here do I sit and watch " 

A fall of voice, 
Regretted like the nightingale's last note, 
Had scarcely closed this high-wrought strain 

of rapture 
Ere with inviting smile the Wanderer 

said: 
" Now for the tale with which you threat- 
ened us ! " 
" In truth the threat escaped me unawares : 
Should the tale tire you, let this challenge 

stand 73 1 

For my excvise. Dissevered from mankind, 
As to your eyes and thoughts we must have 

seemed 
When ye looked down upon us from the 

crag, 
Islanders 'mid a stormy mountain sea, 
We are not so ; — perpetually we touch 
Upon the vulgar ordinances of the world; 
And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day 
Relinquished, lived dependent for his bread 
Upon the laws of public charity. 74 o 

The Housewife, tempted by such slender 

gains 
As might from that occasion be distilled, 
Opened, as she before had done for me, 
Her doors to admit this homeless Pen- 
sioner; 
The portion gave of coarse but wholesome 

fare 
Which appetite required — a blind dull 

nook, 
Such as she had, the kennel of his rest ! 
This, in itself not ill, would yet have been 
111 borne in earlier life ; but his was now 
The still contentedness of seventy years. 
Calm did he sit under the wide-spread 

tree 751 

Of his old age: and yet less calm and 

meek, 



Winnmgly meek or venerably calm, 
Than slow and torpid ; paying in this wise 
A penalty, if penalty it were, 
For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime. 
I loved the old Man, for I pitied him ! 
A task it was, I own, to hold discourse 
With one so slow in gathering up his 

thoughts, 
But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes; 
Mild, inoff ensive, ready in his way, 761 

And helpful to his utmost power : and there 
Our housewife knew full well what she 

possessed ! 
He was her vassal of all labour, tilled 
Her garden, from the pasture fetched her 

kine; 
And, one among the orderly array 
Of hay-makers, beneath the burning sun 
Maintained his place; or heedfully pur- 
sued 
His course, on errands bound, to other 

vales, 
Leading sometimes an inexperienced child 
Too young for any profitable task. 77 r 

So moved he like a shadow that performed 
Substantial service. Mark me now, and 

learn 
For what reward ! — The moon her monthly 

round 
Hath not completed since our dame, the 

queen 
Of this one cottage and this lonely dale, 
Into my little sanctuary rushed — 
Voice to a rueful treble humanized, 
And features in deplorable dismay. 
I treat the matter lightly, but, alas ! 780 
It is most serious: persevering rain 
Had fallen in torrents; all the mountain 

tops 
Were hidden, and black vapours coursed 

their sides; 
This had I seen, and saw; but, till she 

spake, 
Was wholly ignorant that my ancient 

Friend — 
Who at her bidding, early and alone, 
Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland turf 
For winter fuel — to his noontide meal 
Returned not, and now, haply, on the 

heights 
Lay at the mercy of this raging storm. 790 
'Inhuman!' — said I, 'was an old Man's 

life 
Not worth the trouble of a thonr it? — 

alas ! 



434 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK II 



This notice conies too late.' With joy I saw 
Her husband enter — from a distant vale. 
We sallied forth together; found the tools 
Which the neglected veteran had dropped, 
But through all quarters looked for him hi 

vain. 
We shouted — but no answer ! Darkness 

fell 
Withoiit remission of the blast or shower, 
And fears for our own safety drove us 

home. 800 

I, who weep little, did, I will confess, 
The moment I was seated here alone, 
Honour my little cell with some few tears 
Which anger and resentment could not dry. 
All night the storm endured; and, soon as 

help 
Had been collected from the neighbouring 

vale, 
With morning we renewed our quest: the 

wind 
Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills 
Lay shrouded hi unpenetrable mist; 809 
And long and hopelessly we sought in vain: 
Till chancing on that lofty ridge to pass 
A heap of ruin — almost without walls 
And wholly without roof (the bleached re- 
mains 
Of a small chapel, where, in ancient time, 
The peasants of these lonely valleys used 
To meet for worship on that central 

height) — 
We there espied the object of our search, 
Lying full three parts buried among tufts 
Of heath-plant, under and above him 

strewn, 
To baffle, as he might, the watery storm: 
And there we found him breathing peace- 
ably, 82 1 
Snug as a child that hides itself in sport 
'Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field. 
We spake — he made reply, but would not 

stir 
At our entreaty; less from want of power 
Than apprehension and bewildering 
thoughts. 

So was he lifted gently from the ground, 
And with their freight homeward the 

shepherds moved 
Through the dull mist, I following — when 

a step, 
A single step, that freed me from the skirts 
Of the blind vapour, opened to my view 83 1 



Glory beyond all glory ever seen 
By waking sense or by the dreaming soul ! 
The appearance, instantaneously disclosed, 
Was of a mighty city — boldly say 
A wilderness of building, sinking far 
And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth, 
Far sinking into splendour — without end ! 
Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold, 
With alabaster domes, and silver spires, 
And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 841 
Uplifted; here, serene pavilions bright, 
In avenues disposed; there, towers begirt 
With battlements that on their restless 

fronts 
Bore stars — illumination of all gems ! 
By earthly nature had the effect been 

wrought 
Upon the dark materials of the storm 
Now pacified; on them, and 011 the coves 
And mountain-steeps and summits, where- 

unto 
The vapours had receded, taking there 850 
Their station under a cerulean sky. 
Oh, 't was an unimaginable sight ! 
Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and 

emerald turf, 
Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire 

sky, 
Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed, 
Molten together, and composing thus, 
Each lost in each, that marvellous array 
Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 
Fantastic pomp of structure without name, 
In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped. 86c 
Right hi the midst, where interspace ap- 
peared 
Of open court, an object like a throne 
Under a shining canopy of state 
Stood fixed; and fixed resemblances were 

seen 
To implements of ordinary use, 
But vast in size, in substance glorified; 
Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld 
In vision — forms uncouth of mightiest 

power 
For admiration and mysterious awe. S69 
This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man, 
Lay low beneath my feet; 't was visible — 
I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 
That which I saw was the revealed abode 
Of Spirits in beatitude : my heart 
Swelled in my breast — ' I have been dead,' 

I cried, 
( And now I live ! Oh ! wherefore do I 

live ? ' 



BOOK III 



THE EXCURSION 



435 



And with that pang I prayed to he no 
more ! — 

— But I forget our Charge, as utterly 

I then forgot him: — there I stood and 
gazed: 

The apparition faded not away, 880 

And I descended. 

Having reached the house, 

I found its rescued inmate safely lodged, 

And in serene possession of himself, 

Beside a fire whose genial warmth seemed 
met 

By a faint shining from the heart, a gleam, 

Of comfort, spread over his pallid face. 

Great show of joy the housewife made, and 
truly 

Was glad to find her conscience set at ease; 

And not less glad, for sake of her good 
name, 

That the poor Sufferer had escaped with 
life. 890 

But, though he seemed at first to have re- 
ceived 

No harm, and uncomplaining as before 

Went through his usual tasks, a silent 
change 

Soon showed itself: he lingered three 
short weeks; 

And from the cottage hath been borne to- 
day. 

So ends my dolorous tale, and glad I am 
That it is ended." At these words he 

turned — 
And, with blithe air of open fellowship, 
Brought from the cupboard wine and 

stouter cheer, 
Like one who would be merry. Seeing 

this, 900 

My grey-haired Friend said courteously — 

" Nay, nay, 
You have regaled us as a hermit ought; 
Now let, us forth into the sun ! " — Our 

Host 
Rose, though reluctantly, and forth we 

went. 

BOOK THIRD 
DESPONDENCY 

ARGUMENT 

Images in the Valley — Another Recess in 
it entered and described — Wanderer's sensa- 
tions — Solitary's excited by the same objects 



— Contrast between these — Despondency of 
the Solitary gently reproved — Conversation 
exhibiting- the (Solitary's past and present opin- 
ions and feelings, till he enters upon his own 
History at length — His domestic felicity — 
Afflictions — Dejection — Roused by the French 
Revolution — Disappointment and disgust — 
Voyage to America — Disappointment and dis- 
gust pursue him — His return — His languor 
and depression of mind, from want of faith in 
the great truths of Religion, and want of con- 
fidence in the virtue of Mankind. 

A HUMMING bee — a little tinkling rill — 
A pair of falcons wheeling on the wing, 
In clamorous agitation, round the crest 
Of a tall rock, their airy citadel — 
By each and all of these the pensive ear 
Was greeted, in the silence that ensued, 
When through the cottage-threshold we had 

passed, 
And, deep within that lonesome valley, 

stood 
Once more beneath the concave of a blue 
And cloudless sky. — Anon exclaimed our 
Host — 10 

Triumphantly dispersing with the taunt 
The shade of discontent which on his brow 
Had gathered, — " Ye have left my cell, — 

but see 
How Nature hems you in with friendly 

arms ! 
And by her help ye are my prisoners still. 
But which way shall I lead you ? — how 

contrive, 
In spot so parsimoniously endowed, 
That the brief hours, which yet remain, 

may reap 
Some recompense of knowledge or de- 
light ? " 
So saying, round he looked, as if per- 
plexed ; 20 
And, to remove those doubts, my grey- 
haired Friend 
Said — " Shall we take this pathway for our 

guide ? — 
Upward it winds, as if, in summer heats, 
Its line had first been fashioned by the 

flock 
Seeking a place of refuge at the root 
Of yon black Yew-tree, whose protruded 

boughs 
Darken the silver bosom of the crag, 
From which she draws her meagre suste- 
nance. 
There in commodious shelter may we rest. 



43 6 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK III 



Or let us trace this streamlet to its 

source ; 30 

Feebly it tinkles with an earthy sound, 
And. a few steps may bring us to the spot 
Where, haply, crowued with flowerets and 

green herbs, 
The mountain infant to the sun comes 

forth, 
Like human life from darkness." — A quick 

turn 
Through a strait passage of encumbered 

groimd, 
Proved that such hope was vain : — for now 

we stood 
Shut out from prospect of the open vale, 
And saw the water, that composed this 

rill, 
Descending, disembodied, and diffused 40 
O'er the smooth surface of an ample crag, 
Lofty, and steep, and naked as a tower. 
All further progress here was barred; — 

And who, 
Thought I, if master of a vacant hour, 
Here woidd not linger, willingly de- 
tained ? 
Whether to such wild objects he were led 
When copious rains have magnified the 

stream 
Into a loud and white-robed waterfall, 
Or introduced at this more quiet time. 

Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground, 50 
The hidden nook discovered to our view 
A mass of rock, resembling, as it lay 
RigLt at the foot of that moist precipice, 
A stranded ship, with keel upturned, that 

rests 
Fearless of winds and waves. Three 

several stones 
Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike 
To monumental pillars: and, from these 
Some little space disjoined a pair were 

seen, 
That with united shoulders bore aloft 
A fragment, like an altar, flat and smooth: 
Barren the tablet, yet thereon appeared 6i 
A tall and shining holly, that had found 
A hospitable chink, and stood upright, 
As if inserted by some human hand 
In mockery, to wither in the sun, 
Or lay its beauty flat before a breeze, 
The first that entered. But no breeze did 

now 
Find entrance ; — high or low appeared no 

trace 



Of motion, save the water that descended, 
Diffused adown that barrier of steep rock, 
And softly creeping, like a breath of air, 71 
Such as is sometimes seen, and hardly seen, 
To brush the still breast of a crystal lake. 

" Behold a cabinet for sages built, 
Which kings might envy ! " — Praise to 

this effect 
Broke from the happy old Man's reverend 

lip; 
W ho to the Solitary turned, and said, 
" In sooth, with love's familiar privilege, 
You have decried the wealth which is your 

own. 
Among these rocks and stones, methinks, I 

see 80 

More than the heedless impress that be- 
longs 
To lonely nature's casual work: they bear 
A semblance strange of power intelligent, 
And of design not wholly worn away. 
Boldest of plants that ever faced the wind, 
How gracefully that slender shrub looks 

forth 
From its fantastic birth-place ! And I own, 
Some shadowy intimations haunt me here, 
That in these shows a chronicle survives 
Of purposes akin to those of Man, 90 

But wrought with mightier arm than now 

prevails. 

— Voiceless the stream descends into the 

? ul . f 
With timid lapse ; — and lo ! while in this 

strait 
I stand — the chasm of sky above my head 
Is heaven's profoundest azure; no domain 
For fickle, short-lived clouds to occupy, 
Or to pass through; but rather an abyss 
In which the everlasting stars abide; 
And whose soft gloom, and boundless depth, 

might tempt 
The curioue eye to look for them by day. 100 

— Hail Contemplation ! from the stately 

towers, 
Reared by the industrious hand of human 

art 
To lift thee high above the misty air 
And turbulence of murmuring cities vast; 
From academic groves, that have for thee 
Been planted, hither come and find a lodge 
To which thou mayst resort for holier 

peace, — 
From whose calm centre thou, through 

height or depth, 



BOOK III 



THE EXCURSION 



437 



Mayst penetrate, wherever truth shall lead; 
Measuring through all degrees, until the 
scale no 

Of time and conscious nature disappear, 
Lost in unsearchable eternity ! " 

A pause ensued; and with minuter care 
We scanned the various features of the 

scene: 
And soon the Tenant of that lonely vale 
With courteous voice thus spake — 

" I should have grieved 
Hereafter, not escaping self-reproach, 
If from my poor retirement ye had gone 
Leaving this nook unvisited: but, in sooth, 
Your unexpected presence had so roused 120 
My spirits, that they were bent on enter- 
prise ; 
And, like an ardent hunter, I forgot, 
Or, shall I say ? — disdained, the game that 

lurks 
At my own door. The shapes before our 

eyes 
And their arrangement, doubtless must be 

deemed 
The sport of Nature, aided by blind Chance 
Rudely to mock the works of toiling Man. 
And hence, this upright shaft of unhewn 

stone, 
From Fancy, willing to set off her stores 
By sounding titles, hath acquired the name 
Of Pompey's pillar; that I gravely style 131 
My Theban obelisk; and, there, behold 
A Druid cromlech ! — thus I entertain 
The antiquarian humour, and am pleased 
To skim along the surfaces of things, 
Beguiling harmlessly the listless hours. 
But if the spirit be oppressed by sense 
Of instability, revolt, decay, 
And change, and emptiness, these freaks of 

Nature 
And her blind helper Chance, do then 

suffice 140 

To quicken, and to aggravate — to feed 
Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride, 
Not less than that huge Pile (from some 

abyss 
Of mortal power unquestionably sprung) 
Whose hoary diadem of pendent rocks 
Confines the shrill-voiced whirlwind, round 

and round 
Eddying within its vast circumference, 
On Sarum's naked plain — than pyramid 
Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved — 
Or Syria's marble ruins towering high 150 



Above the sandy desert, in the light 
Of sun or moon. — Forgive me, if I say 
That an appearance which hath raised your 

minds 
To an exalted pitch (the self-same cause 
Different effect prodxicing) is for me 
Fraught rather with depression than delight, 
Though shame it were, could I not look 

around, 
By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased. 
Yet happier in my judgment, even than you 
With your bright transports fairly may be 
deemed, 160 

The wandering Herbalist, — who, clear 

alike 
From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing 

thoughts, 
Casts, if he ever chance to enter here, 
Upon these uncouth Forms a slight regard 
Of transitory interest, and peeps round 
For some rare floweret of the hills, or 

plant 
Of craggy fountain ; what he hopes for wins, 
Or learns, at least, that 't is not to be won : 
Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed 

hound, 
By soul-engrossing instinct driven along 170 
Through wood or open field, the harmless 

Man 
Departs, intent upon his onward quest ! — 
Nor is that Fellow-wanderer, so deem I, 
Less to be envied, (you may trace him oft 
By scars which his activity has left 
Beside our roads and pathways, though, 

thank Heaven ! 
This covert nook reports not of his hand) 
He who with pocket-hammer smites the 

edge 
Of luckless rock or prominent stone, dis- 
guised 
In weather-stains or crusted o'er by Na- 
ture 180 
With her first growths, detaching by the 

stroke 
A chip or splinter — to resolve his doubts; 
And, with that ready answer satisfied, 
The substance classes by some barbarous 

name, 
And hurries on; or from the fragments 

picks 
His specimen, if but haply interveined 
With sparkling mineral, or should crystal 

cube 
Lurk in its cells — and thinks himself en- 
riched, 



438 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK III 



Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than before ! 
Intrusted safely each to his pursuit, 190 

Earnest alike, let both from hill to hill 
Range ; if it please them, speed f roni clime 

to clime; 
The mind is full — and free from pain their 

pastime." 

" Then," said I, interposing, " One-is near, 
Who cannot but possess in your esteem 
Place worthier still of envy. May I name, 
Without offence, that fair-faced cottage- 
boy ? 
Dame Nature's pupil of the lowest form, 
Youngest apprentice hi the school of art ! 
Him, as we entered from the open glen, 200 
You might have noticed, busily engaged, 
Heart, soid, and hands, — in mendmg the 

defects 
Left hi the fabric of a leaky dam 
Raised for enabling this penurious stream 
turn a slender mill (that new-made 

plaything) 
'lis delight — the happiest he of all ! " 

-Jar happiest," answered the despond- 
ing Man, 
" If, such as now he is, he might remain ! 
Ah ! what avails imagination high 
Or question deep ? what profits all that 

earth, 210 

Or heaven's blue vault, is suffered to put 

forth 
Of impulse or allurement, for the Soul 
To quit the beaten track of life, anil joar 
Far as she finds a yielding element 
In past or future; far as she can go 
Through time or space — if neither in the 

one, 
Nor in the other region, nor in aught 
That Fancy, dreaming o'er the map of 

things, 
Hath placed beyond these penetrable 

bounds, 
Words of assurance can be heard; if no- 

ivhare 220 

A habitation, for consummate good, 
Or for progressive virtue, by the search 
Can be attained, — a better sanctuary 
From doubt and sorrow, than the senseless 

grave ? " 

"Is this," the grey-haired Wanderer 
mildly said, 
" The voice, which we so lately overheard, 



To that same child, addressing tenderly 
The consolations of a hopeful mind ? 
' His body is at rest, his soul in heaven.'' 
These were your words; and, verily, me- 

thinks 23a 

Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop 
Than when we soar." — 

The Other, not displeased, 
Promptly replied — " My notion is the 

same. 
And I, without reluctance, could decline 
All act of inquisition whence we rise, 
And what, when breath hath ceased, we 

may become. 
Here are we, in a bright and breathing 

world. 
Our origin, what matters it ? In lack 
Of worthier explanation, say at once 
With the American (a thought which suits 
The place where now we stand) that certain 

men 241 

Leapt out together from a rocky cave ; 
And these were the first parents of man- 
kind : 
Or, if a different image be recalled 
By the warm sunshine, and the jocund 

voice 
Of bisects chirping out their careless lives 
On these soft beds of thyme-besprinkled 

turf, 
Choose, with the gay Athenian, a conceit 
As sound — blithe race ! whose mantles 

were bedecked 
With golden grasshoppers, in sign that they 
Had sprung, like those bright creatures, 

from the soil 251 

Whereon their endless generations dwelt. 
But stop ! — these theoretic fancies jar 
On serious minds: then, as the Hindoos 

draw 
Their holy Ganges from a skiey fount, 
Even so deduce the stream of human life 
From seats of power divine; and hope, or 

trust, 
That our existence winds her stately course 
Beneath the sun, like Ganges, to make part 
Of a living ocean; or, to sink engulfed, 260 
Like Niger, in impenetrable sands 
And utter darkness: thought which may be 

faced, 
Though comfortless ! — 

Not of myself I speak: 
Such acquiescence neither doth imply, 
In me, a meekly-bending spirit soothed 
By natural piety; nor a lofty mind, 



BOOK III 



THE EXCURSION 



439 



By philosophic discipline prepared 
For calm subjection to acknowledged law; 
Pleased to have been, contented not to be. 
Such palms I boast not; — no ! to me, who 
find 270 

Reviewing my past way, much to condemn, 
Little to praise, and nothing to regret, 
(Save some remembrances of dream-like 

J°J S 
That scarcely seem to have belonged to 

me) 
If I must take my choice between the pair 
That rule alternately the weary hours, 
Night is than day more acceptable; sleep 
Doth, in my estimate of good, appear 
A better state than waking; death than 

sleep: 
Feelingly sweet is stillness after storm, 280 
Though under covert of the wormy ground ! 

Yet be it said, in justice to myself, 
That in more genial times, when I was free 
To explore the destiny of human kind 
(Not as an intellectual game pursued 
With curious subtilty, from wish to cheat 
Irksome sensations; but by love of truth 
Urged on, or haply by intense delight 
In feeding thought, wherever thought could 

feed) 
I did not rank with those (too dull or nice, 
For to my judgment such they then ap- 
peared, 291 
Or too aspiring, thankless at the best) 
Who, in this frame of human life, perceive 
An object whereunto their souls are tied 
In discontented wedlock; nor did e'er, 
From me, those dark impervious shades, 

that hang 
Upon the region whither we are bound, 
Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams 
Of present sunshine. — Deities that float 
On wings, angelic Spirits ! I could muse 300 
O'er what from eldest time we have been 

told 
Of your bright forms and glorious faculties, 
And with the imagination rest content, 
Not wishing more; repining not to tread 
The little sinuous path of earthly care, 
By flowers embellished, and by springs re- 
freshed. 
■ — ' Blow winds of autumn ! — let your 

chilling breath 
' Take the live herbage from the mead, and 

strip 
' The shady forest of its green attire, — 



' And let the bursting clouds to fury rouse 
' The gentle brooks ! — Your desolating 
sway, 311 

' Sheds,' I exclaimed, ' no sadness upon me, 
' And no disorder in your rage I find. 
' What dignity, what beauty, in this change 
' From mild to angry, and from sad to 

' Alternate and revolving ! How benign, 

' How rich in animation and delight, 

' How bountiful these elements — compared 

' With aught, as more desirable and fair, 

' Devised by fancy for the golden age; 320 

• Or the perpetual warbling that prevails 

' In Arcady, beneath unaltered skies, 

' Through the long year in constant quiet 

bound, 
c Night hushed as night, the day serene as 

day!' 
— But why this tedious record? — Age, we 

know 
Is garrulous; and solitude is apt 
To anticipate the privilege of Age, 
From far ye come ; and surely with a hope 
Of better entertainment: — let us hence ! " 

Loth to forsake the spot, and still more 
loth 330 

To be diverted from our present theme, 
I said, " My thoughts, agreeing, Sir, with 

yours, 
Would push this censure farther ; — for, if 

smiles 
Of scornful pity be the just reward 
Of Poesy thus courteously employed 
In framing models to improve the scheme 
Of Man's existence, and recast the world, 
Why should not grave Philosophy be styled, 
Herself, a dreamer of a kindred stock, 
A dreamer yet more spiritless and dull ? 340 
Yes, shall the fine immunities she boasts 
Establish sounder titles of esteem 
For her, who (all too timid and reserved 
For onset, for resistance too inert, 
Too weak for suffering, and for hope too 

tame) 
Placed, among flowery gardens curtained 

round 
With world-excluding groves, the brother- 
hood 
Of soft Epicureans, taught — if they 
The ends of being would secure, and win 
The crown of wisdom — to yield up their 

SOuls 350 

To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring 



44° 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK III 



Tranquillity to all things. Or is she," 

I cried, " more worthy of regard, the 

Power, 
Who, for the sake of sterner quiet, closed 
The Stoic's heart against the vain approach 
Of admiration, and all sense of joy ? " 

His countenance gave notice that my zeal 
Accorded little with his present mind ; 
I ceased, and he resumed. — " Ah ! gentle 

Sir, 
Slight, if you will, the means ; but spare to 

slight 360 

The end of those, who did, by system, rank, 
As the prime object of a wise man's aim, 
Security from shock of accident, 
Release from fear; and cherished peaceful 

days 
For their own sakes, as mortal life's chief 

good, 
And only reasonable felicity. 
What motive drew, what impulse, I would 

ask, 
Through a long course of later ages, drove, 
The hermit to his cell in forest wide; 
Or what detained him, till his closing eyes 
Took their last farewell of the sun and 

stars, 371 

Fast anchored in the desert ? — Not alone 
Dread of the persecuting sword, remorse, 
Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged 
And unavengeable, defeated pride, 
Prosperity subverted, maddening want, 
Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned, 
Love with despair, or grief in agony; — 
Not always from intolerable pangs 
He fled; but, compassed round by pleasure, 

sighed 380 

For independent happiness ; craving peace, 
The central feeling of all happiness, 
Not as a refuge from distress or pain, 
A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce, 
But for its absolute self; a life of peace, 
Stability without regret or fear; 
That hath been, is, and shall be ever- 
more ! — 
Such the reward he sought; and wore out 

life, 
There, where on few external things his 

heart 
Was set, and those his own; or, if not his, 
Subsisting under nature's stedfast law. 391 

What other yearning was the master tie 
Of the monastic brotherhood, upon rock 



Aerial, or in green secluded vale, 

One after one, collected from afar, 

An undissolving fellowship ? — What but 

this, 
The universal instmct of repose, 
The longing for confirmed tranquillity, 
Inward and outward; humble, yet sublime: 
The life where hope and memory are as 

one ; 400 

Where earth is quiet and her face un- 
changed 
Save by the simplest toil of human hands 
Or seasons' difference; the immortal Soul 
Consistent in self-rule; and heaven revealed 
To meditation in that quietness ! — 
Such was their scheme: and though the 

wished-for end 
By multitudes was missed, perhaps attained 
By none, they for the attempt, and pains 

employed, 
Do, in my present censure, stand redeemed 
From the unqualified disdain, that once 410 
Would have been cast upon them by my 

voice 
Delivering her decisions from the seat 
Of forward youth — that scruples not to 

solve 
Doubts, and determine questions, by the 

rules 
Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone 
To overweening faith; and is inflamed, 
By courage, to demand from real life 
The test of act and suffering, to provoke 
Hostility — how dreadful when it comes, 
Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt ! 420 

A child of earth, I rested, in that stage 
Of my past course to which these thoughts 

advert, 
Upon earth's native energies; forgetting 
That mine was a condition which required 
Nor energy, nor fortitude — a calm 
Without vicissitude ; which, if the like 
Had been presented to my view elsewhere, 
I might have even been tempted to despise. 
But no — for the serene was always bright; 
Enlivened happiness with joy o'erflowing, 
With joy, and — oh ! that memory should 

survive 43 1 

To speak the word — with rapture ! Nature's 

boon, 
Life's genuine inspiration, happiness 
Above what rules can teach, or fancy feign; 
Abused, as all possessions are abused 
That are not prized according to their worth. 



BOOK III 



THE EXCURSION 



441 



And yet, what worth ? what good is given 

to men, 
More solid than the gilded clouds of 

heaven ? 
What joy more lasting than a vernal 

flower ? — 
None ! 't is the general plaint of human kind 
In solitude : and mutually addressed 44 i 
From each to all, for wisdom's sake : — 

This truth 
The priest announces from his holy seat: 
And, crowned with garlands hi the summer 

grove, 
The poet fits it to his pensive lyre. 
Yet, ere that final resting-place be gained, 
Sharp contradictions may arise, by doom 
Of this same life, compelling us to grieve 
That the prosperities of love and joy 44g 
Should be permitted, oft-times, to endure 
So long, and be at once cast down for ever. 
Oh! tremble, ye, to whom hath been assigned 
A course of days composing happy months, 
And they as happy years; the present still 
So like the past, and both so firm a pledge 
Of a congenial future, that the wheels 
Of pleasure move without the aid of hope: 
For Mutability is Nature's bane ; 
And slighted Hope will be avenged; and, 

when 
Ye need her favours, ye shall find her not; 
But in her stead — fear — doubt — and 



agony ! 



4 6i 



This was the bitter language of the heart : 
But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of 

voice, 
Though discomposed and vehement, were 

such 
As skill and graceful nature might suggest 
To a proficient of the tragic scene 
Standing before the multitude, beset 
With dark events. Desirous to divert 
Or stem the current of the speaker's 

thoughts, 
We signified a wish to leave that place 47 o 
Of stillness and close privacy, a nook 
That seemed for self-examination made; 
Or, for confession, in the sinner's need, 
Hidden from all men's view. To our at- 
tempt 
He yielded not; but, pointing to a slope 
Of mossy turf defended from the sun, 
And on that couch inviting us to rest, 
Full on that tender-hearted Man he turned 
A serious eye, and his speech thus renewed. 



" You never saw, your eyes did never look 
On the bright form of Her whom once I 

loved: — 4 s t 

Her silver voice was heard upon the earth, 
A sound unknown to you; else, honoured 

Friend ! 
Your heart had borne a pitiable share 
Of what I suffered, when I wept that loss, 
And suffer now, not seldom, from the 

thought 
That I remember, and can weep no more. — 
Stripped as I am of all the golden fruit 
Of self-esteem; and by the cutting blasts 
Of self-reproach familiarly assailed; 49 o 
Yet would I not be of such wintry bareness 
But that some leaf of your regard should 

hang 
Upon my naked branches : — lively thoughts 
Give birth, full often, to unguarded words; 
I grieve that, in your presence, from my 

tongue 
Too much of frailty hath already dropped; 
But that too much demands still more. 

You know, 
Revered Compatriot — and to you, kind Sir, 
(Not to be deemed a stranger, as you come 
Following the guidance of these welcome 

ieet 500 

To our secluded vale) it may be told — 
That my demerits did not sue in vain 
To One on whose mild radiance many gazed 
With hope, and all with pleasure. This fair 

Bride — 
In the devotedness of youthful love, 
Preferring me to parents, and the choir 
Of gay companions, to the natal roof, 
And all known places and familiar sights 
(Resigned with sadness gently weighing 

down 
Her trembling expectations, but no more 510 
Than did to her due honour, and to me 
Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime 
In what I had to build upon) — this Bride, 
Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, I led 
To a low cottage in a sunny bay, 
Where the salt sea innocuously breaks, 
And the sea breeze as innocently breathes, 
On Devon's leafy shores ; — a sheltered hold, 
In a soft clime encouraging the soil 
To a luxuriant bounty! — As our steps 520 
Approach the embowered abode — our 

chosen seat — 
See, rooted in the earth, her kindly bed, 
The unendangered myrtle, decked with 

flowers, 



442 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK III 



Before the threshold stands to welcome us ! 
While, in the flowering myrtle's neighbour- 
hood, 
Not overlooked but courting no regard, 
Those native plants, the holly and the yew, 
Gave modest intimation to the mind 
How willingly their aid they would unite 529 
With the green myrtle, to endear the hours 
Of winter, and protect that pleasant place. 
— Wild were the walks upon those lonely 

Downs, 
Track leading into track ; how marked, how 

worn 
Into bright verdure, between fern and gorse 
Winding away its never-ending line 
On their smooth surface, evidence was none; 
But, there, lay open to our daily haunt, 
A range of unappropriated earth, 
Where youth's ambitious feet might move 

at large; 
Whence, unmolested wanderers, we beheld 
The sliming giver of the day diffuse 54 i 
His brightness o'er a tract of sea and land 
Gay as our spirits, free as our desires; 
As our enjoyments, boundless. — From 

those heights 
We dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan 

combs; 
Where arbours of impenetrable shade, 
And mossy seats, detained us side by side, 
With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our 

hearts 
'That all the grove and all the day was 

ours.' 

O happy time ! still happier was at hand ; 
For Nature called my Partner to resign 551 
Her share in the pure freedom of that life, 
Enjoyed by us in common. — To my hope, 
To my heart's wish, my tender Mate be- 
came 
The thankful captive of maternal bonds; 
And those wild paths were left to me alone. 
There could I meditate on follies past; 
And, like a weary voyager escaped 
From risk and hardship, inwardly retrace 
A course of vain delights and thoughtless 
guilt, 560 

And self-indulgence — without shame pur- 
sued. 
There, undisturbed, could think of and 

could thank 
Her whose submissive spirit was to me 
Rule and restraint — my guardian — shall I 
say 



That earthly Providence, whose guiding 

love 
Within a port of rest had lodged me safe; 
Safe from temptation, and from danger far ? 
Strains followed of acknowledgment ad- 
dressed 
To an authority enthroned above 
The reach of sight; from whom, as from 
their source 570 

Proceed all visible ministers of good 
That walk the earth — Father of heaven 

and earth, 
Father, and king, and judge, adored and 

feared ! 
These acts of mind, and memory, and 

heart, 
And spirit — interrupted and relieved 
By observations transient as the glance 
Of flying sunbeams, or to the outward form 
Cleaving with power inherent and intense, 
As the mute msect fixed upon the plant 
On whose soft leaves it hangs, and from 
whose cup 580 

It draws its nourishment imperceptibly — 
Endeared my wanderings; and the mo- 
ther's kiss 
And infant's smile awaited my return. 

In privacy we dwelt, a wedded pair, 
Companions daily, often all day long; 
Not placed by fortune within easy reach 
Of various intercourse, nor wishing aught 
Beyond the allowance of our own fire-side, 
The twain within our happy cottage born, 
Inmates, and heirs of our united love; 590 
Graced mutually by difference of sex, 
And with no wider interval of time 
Between their several births than served 

for one 
To establish something of a leader's sway; 
Yet left them joined by sympathy in age; 
Equals in pleasure, fellows in pursuit. 
On these two pillars rested as in air 
Our solitude. 

It soothes me to perceive, 
Your courtesy withholds not from my 

words 
Attentive audience. But, oh ! gentle 
Friends, 600 

As times of quiet and unbroken peace, 
Though, for a nation, times of blessedness, 
Give back faint echoes from the historian's 

page; 
So, in the imperfect sounds of this dis- 
course, 



BOOK III 



THE EXCURSION 



443 



Depressed I hear, how faithless is the voice 
Which those most blissful days reverberate. 
What special record can, or need, be given 
To rules and habits, whereby much was 

done, 
But all within the sphere of little things; 
Of humble, though, to us, important cares, 
And precious interests ? Smoothly did our 
life bn 

Advance, swerving not from the path pre- 
scribed ; 
Her annual, her diurnal, round alike 
Maintained with faithful care. And you 

divine 
The worst effects that our condition saw 
If you imagine changes slowly wrought, 
And in their progress unperceivable ; 
Not wished for; sometimes noticed with a 

sigh, 
(Whate'er of good or lovely they might 

bring) 
Sighs of regret, for the familiar good 620 
And loveliness endeared which they re- 
moved. 

Seven years of occupation undisturbed 
Established seemingly a right to hold 
That happiness; and use and habit gave, 
To what an alien spirit had acquired, 
A patrimonial sanctity. And thus, 
With thoughts and wishes bounded to this 

world, 
I lived and breathed; most grateful — if to 

enjoy 
Without repining or desire for more, 
For different lot, or change to higher sphere, 
(Only except some impulses of pride 631 
With no determined object, though upheld 
By theories with suitable support) — 
Most grateful, if in such wise to enjoy 
Be proof of gratitude for what we have; 
Else, I allow, most thankless. — But, at 

once, 
From some dark seat of fatal power was 

urged 
A claim that shattered all. — Our bloom- 
ing girl, 
Caught in the gripe of death, with such 

brief time 
To struggle in as scarcely would allow 640 
Her cheek to change its colour, was con- 
veyed 
From us to inaccessible worlds, to regions 
Where height, or depth, admits not the 
approach 



Of living man, though longing to pursue. 
— With even as brief a warning — and how 

soon, 
With what short interval of time between, 
I tremble yet to think of — our last prop, 
Our happy life's only remaining stay — 
The brother followed; and was seen no 



Calm as a frozen lake when ruthless 
winds 650 

Blow fiercely, agitating earth and sky, 
The Mother now remained; as if in her, 
Who, to the lowest region of the soul, 
Had been erewhile unsettled and disturbed, 
This second visitation had no power 
To shake; but only to bind up and seal; 
And to establish thankfulness of heart 
In Heaven's determinations, ever just. 
The eminence whereon her spirit stood, 
Mine was unable to attain. Immense 660 
The space that severed us ! But, as the 

sight 
Communicates with heaven's ethereal orbs 
Incalculably distant; so, I felt 
That consolation may descend from far 
(And that is intercourse, and union, too,) 
While, overcome with speechless gratitude, 
And, with a bolier love inspired, I looked 
On her — at once superior to my woes 
And partner of my loss. — O heavy change, 
Dimness o'er this clear luminary crept 670 
Insensibly; — the immortal and divine 
Yielded to mortal reflux; her pure glory, 
As from the pinnacle of worldly state 
Wretched ambition drops astounded, fell 
Into a gulf obscure of silent grief, 
And keen heart-anguish — of itself ashamed, 
Yet obstinately cherishing itself: 
And, so consumed, she melted from my 

arms ; 
And left me, on this earth, disconsolate ! 

What followed cannot be reviewed in 

thought; 680 

Much less, retraced in words. If she, of 

life 
Blameless, so intimate with love and joy 
And all the tender motions of the soul, 
Had been supplanted, could I hope to 

stand — 
Infirm, dependent, and now destitute ? 
I called on dreams and visions, to disclose 
That which is veiled from waking thought; 

conjured 



444 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK III 



Eternity, as men constrain a ghost 

To appear and answer; to the grave I spake 

Imploringly; — looked up, and asked the 

Heavens 690 

If Angels traversed their cerulean floors, 
If fixed or wandering star could tidings yield 
Of the departed spirit — what abode 
It occupies — what consciousness retains 
Of former loves and interests. Then my 

soid 
Turned inward, — to examine of what stuff 
Time's fetters are composed; and life was 

To inquisition, long and profitless ! 

By pain of heart — now checked — and now 

impelled — 
The intellectual power, through words and 

things, 700 

Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way ! 
And from those transports, and these toils 

abstruse, 
Some trace am I enabled to retain 
Of time, else lost; — existing unto me 
Only by records in myself not found. 

From that abstraction I was roused, — 
and how ? 
Even as a thoughtful shepherd by a flash 
Of lightning startled in a gloomy cave 
Of these wild hills. For, lo ! the dread 

Bastile, 
With all the chambers in its horrid towers, 
Fell to the ground : — by violence over- 
thrown 7 n 
Of indignation; and with shouts that 

drowned 
The crash it made in falling ! From the 

wreck 
A golden palace rose, or seemed to rise, 
The appointed seat of equitable law 
And mild paternal sway. The potent shock 
I felt; the transformation I perceived, 
As marvellously seized as in that moment 
When, from the blind mist issuing, I beheld 
Glory — beyond all glory ever seen, 720 
Confusion infinite of heaven and earth, 
Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile, prophetic 

harps 
In every grove were ringing, 'War shall 

cease ; 
' Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured ? 
' Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, 

to deck 
'The tree of Liberty.' — My heart re- 
bounded; 



My melancholy voice the chorus joined; 
— ' Be joyful all ye nations; in all lands, 
' Ye that are capable of joy be glad ! 
' Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to your- 
selves 730 
' In others ye shall promptly find; — and all, 
' Enriched by mutual and reflected wealth, 
' Shall with one heart honour their common 
kind.' 

Thus was I reconverted to the world; 
Society became my glittering bride, 
And airy hopes my children. — From the 

depths 
Of natural passion, seemingly escaped, 
My soul diffused herself in wide embrace 
Of institutions, and the forms of things; 
As they exist, in mutable array, 74 o 

Upon life's surface. What, though in my 

veins 
There flowed no Gallic blood, nor had I 

breathed 
The air of France, not less than Gallic zeal 
Kindled and burnt among the sapless twigs 
Of my exhausted heart. If busy men 
In sober conclave met, to weave a web 
Of amity, whose living threads should 

stretch 
Beyond the seas, and to the farthest pole, 
There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise 
And acclamation, crowds in open air 750 
Expressed the tumult of their minds, my 

voice 
There mingled, heard or not. The powers 

of song 
I left not uninvoked; and, in still groves, 
Where mild enthusiasts tuned a pensive lay 
Of thanks and expectation, in accord 
With their belief, I sang Satumian rule 
Returned, — a progeny of golden years 
Permitted to descend, and bless mankind. 
— With promises the Hebrew Scriptures 

teem : 
I felt their invitation; and resumed 760 

A long-suspended office in the House 
Of public worship, where, the glowing 

phrase 
Of ancient inspiration serving me, 
I promised also, — with undaunted trust 
Foretold, and added prayer to prophecy; 
The admiration winning of the crowd; 
The help desiring of the pure devout. 

Scorn and contempt forbid me to proceed! 
But History, time's slavish scribe, will tell 



BOOK III 



THE EXCURSION 



445 



How rapidly the zealots of the cause 770 
Dishancled — or in hostile ranks appeared; 
Some, tired of honest service; these, out- 
done, 
Disgusted therefore, or appalled, by amis 
Of fiercer zealots — so confusion reigned, 
And the more faithful were compelled to 

exclaim, 
As Brutus did to Virtue, ' Liberty, 
' I worshipped thee, and find thee but a 
Shade ! ' 

Such recantation had for me no charm, 
Nor woidd I bend to it; who should have 

grieved 
At aught, however fair, that bore the mien 
Of a conclusion, or catastrophe. 781 

Why then conceal, that, when the simply 

good 
In timid selfishness withdrew, I sought 
Other support, not scrupulous whence it 

came ; 
And, by what compromise it stood, not 

nice ? 
Enough if notions seemed to be high- 
pitched, 
And qualities determined. — Among men 
So charactered did I maintain a strife 
Hopeless, and still more hopeless every 

hour; 
But, hi the process, I began to feel 790 

That, if the emancipation of the world 
Were missed, I should at least secure my 

own, 
And be in part compensated. For rights, 
Widely — inveterately usurped upon, 
I spake with vehemence; and promptly 

seized 
All that Abstraction furnished for my needs 
Or purposes; nor scrupled to proclaim, 
And propagate, by liberty of life, 
Those new persuasions. Not that I re- 
joiced, 
Or even found pleasure, in such vagrant 

course, 800 

For its own sake; but farthest from the 

walk 
Which I had trod in happiness and peace, 
Was most inviting to a troubled mind, 
That, in a struggling and distempered 

world, 
Saw a seductive image of herself. 
Yet, mark the contradictions of which Man 
Is still the sport I Here Nature was my 

guide, 



The Nature of the dissolute ; but thee, 

fostering Nature! I rejected — smiled 
At others' tears in pity; and hi scorn 810 
At those, which thy soft influence some- 
tunes drew 

From my unguarded heart. — The tranquil 

shores 
Of Britain circumscribed me ; else, perhaps 

1 might have been entangled among deeds, 
Which, now, as infamous, I should abhor — 
Despise, as senseless : for my spirit relished 
Strangely. the exasperation of that Land, 
Which turned an angry beak agahist the 

down 
Of her own breast; confounded into hope 
Of disencumbering thus her fretful wings. 

But all was quieted by iron bonds 821 
Of military sway. The shifting aims, , 
The moral hiterests, the creative migM, 
The varied functions and high attributes 
Of civil action, yielded to a power 
Formal, and odious, and contemptible J 
— In Britain, ruled a panic dread of change; 
The weak were praised, rewarded, anoi ad- 
vanced ; 
And, from the impulse of a just disdain, \ 
Once more did I retire into myself. 83*1 

There feeling no contentment, I resolved 
To fly, for safeguard, to some foreign shore, \ 
Remote from Europe; from her blasted y 

hopes; 
Her fields of carnage, and polluted air. 

Fresh blew the wind, when o'er the At- 
lantic Main 
The ship went gliding with her thoughtless 

crew; 
And who among them but an Exile, freed 
From discontent, indifferent, pleased to sit 
Among the busily-employed, not more 839 
With obligation charged, with service taxed, 
Than the loose pendant — to the idle wind 
Upon the tall mast streaming. But, ye 

Powers 
Of soul and sense mysteriously allied, 
Oh, never let the Wretched, if a choice 
Be left him, trust the freight of his dis- 
tress 
To a long voyage on the silent deep ! 
For, like a plague, will memory break out; 
And, in the blank and solitude of things, 
Upon his spirit, with a fever's strength, 
Will conscience prey. — Feebly must they 
have felt 850 



446 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK III 



Who, in old time, attired with snakes and 

whips 
The vengeful Furies. Beautiful regards 
Were turned ou me — the face of her I 

loved ; 
The Wife and Mother pitifully fixing 
Tender reproaches, insupportable ! 
Where now that boasted liberty ? No wel- 
come 
From unknown objects I received; and 

those, 
Known and familiar, which the vaulted sky 
Did, in the placid clearness of the night, 
Disclose, had accusations to prefer s6o 

Against my peace. Within the cabin stood 
Tliat volume — as a compass for the soul — 
Revered among the nations. I implored 
Its- guidance ; but the inf allible support 
Of faith was wanting. Tell me, why re- 

k fused 
To Qne by storms annoyed and adverse 

1 winds ; 
Perpljexed with currents; of his weakness 

j sick; 
Of viain endeavours tired ; and by his own, 
An<£ by his nature's, ignorance, dismayed ! 

Long-wished-for sight, the Western 

/ World appeared; S70 

And, when the ship was moored, I leaped 

ashore 
Indignantly — resolved to be a man, 
Who, having o'er the past no power, would 

live 
No longer in subjection to the past, 
With abject mind — from a tyrannic lord 
Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured: 
So, like a fugitive, whose feet have cleared 
Some boundary, which his followers may 

not cross 
In prosecution of their deadly chase, 
Respiring I looked round. — How bright 

the sun, 8S0 

The breeze how soft ! Can anything pro- 
duced 
In the old World compare, thought I, for 

power 
And majesty with this gigantic stream, 
Sprung from the desert ? And behold a 

city 
Fresh, youthful, and aspiring ! What are 

these 
To me, or I to them ? As much at least 
As he desires that they should be, whom 

winds 



And waves have wafted to this distant 

shore, 
In the condition of a damaged seed, 
Whose fibres camiot, if they would, take 

root. 890 

Here may I roam at large ; — my business 

is, 
Roaming at large, to observe, and not to 

feel, 
And, therefore, not to act — convinced that 

all 
Which bears the name of action, howsoe'er 
Beginning, ends hi servitude — still painful, 
And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say, 
On nearer view, a motley spectacle 
Appeared, of high pretensions, — unre- 

proved 
But by the obstreperous voice of higher 

still; 
Big passions strutting on a petty stage ; 900 
Which a detached spectator may regard 
Not unamused. — But ridicule demands 
Quick change of objects; and, to laugh 

alone, 
At a composing distance from the haunts 
Of strife and folly, though it be a treat 
As choice as musing Leisure can bestow; 
Yet, in the very centre of the crowd, 
To keep the secret of a poignant scorn, 
Howe'er to airy Demons suitable, 
Of all unsocial courses, is least fit 910 

For the gross spirit of mankind, — the one 
That soonest fails to please, and quickliest 

turns 
Into vexation. 

Let us, then, I said, 
Leave this unknit Republic to the scourge 
Of her own passions; and to regions haste, 
Whose shades have never felt the encroach- 
ing axe, 
Or soil endured a transfer in the mart 
Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides, 
Primeval Nature's child. A creature weak 
In combination, (wherefore else driven 

back 920 

So far, and of his old inheritance 
So easily deprived ?) but, for that cause, 
More dignified, and stronger in himself; 
Whether to act, judge, suffer, or enjoy. 
True, the intelligence of social art 
Hath overpowered his forefathers, and soon 
Will sweep the remnant of his line away ; 
But contemplations, worthier, nobler far 
Than her destructive energies, attend 
His independence, when along the side 930 



BOOK IV 



THE EXCURSION 






Of Mississippi, or that northern stream 
That spreads into successive seas, he walks; 
Pleased to perceive his own unshackled life, 
And his innate capacities of soul, 
There imaged: or when, having gained the 

top 
Of some commanding eminence, which yet 
Intruder ne'er beheld, he thence surveys 
Regions of wood and wide savannah, vast 
Expanse of unappropriated earth, 
With mind that sheds a light on what he 

sees; 940 

Free as the sun, and lonely as the sun, 
Pouring above his head its radiance down 
Upon a living and rejoicing world ! 

So, westward, tow'rd the unviolated 
woods 
I bent my way; and, roaming far and wide, 
Failed not to greet the merry Mocking-bird; 
And, while the melancholy Muccawiss 
(The sportive bird's companion in the grove) 
Repeated, o'er and o'er, his plaintive cry, 
I sympathised at leisure with the sound ; 950 
But that pure archetype of human great- 
ness, 
I found him not. There, in his stead, ap- 
peared 
A creature, squalid, vengeful, and impure; 
Remorseless, and submissive to no law 
But superstitious fear, and abject sloth. 

Enough is told ! Here am I — ye have 
heard f 

What evidence I seek, and vainly seek; 
What from my fellow-beings I require, 
And either they have not to give, or I 
Lack virtue to receive; what I myself, 960 
Too oft by wilful forfeiture, have lost 
Nor can regain. How languidly I look 
Upon this visible fabric of the world, 
May be divined — perhaps it hath been 

said : — 
But spare your pity, if there be in me 
Aught that deserves respect: for I exist, 
Within myself, not comfortless. — The 

tenor 
Which my life holds, he readily may con- 
ceive 
Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain 

brook 
In some still passage of its course, and 
; seen, 970 

Within the depths of its capacious breast, 
Inverted trees, rocks, clouds, and azure sky ; 



And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam, 
And conglobated bubbles undissolved, 
Numerous as stars; that, by their onward 

lapse, 
Betray to sight the motion of the stream, 
Else imperceptible. Meanwhile, is heard 
A softened roar, or murmur; and the sound 
Though soothing, and the little floating isles 
Though beautiful, are both by Nature 

charged 980 

With the same pensive office; and make 

known 
Through what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt 
Precipitations and untoward straits, 
The earth-born wanderer hath passed; and 

quickly, 
That respite o'er, like traverses and toils 
Must he again encounter. — Such a stream 
Is human Life; and so the Spirit fares 
In the best quiet to her course allowed; 
And such is mine, — save oidy for a hope 989 
That my particular current soon will reach 
The unfathomable gulf, where all is still ! " 



BOOK FOURTH 
DESPONDENCY CORRECTED 

ARGUMENT 

State of feeling 1 produced by the foregoing 1 
Narrative — A belief in a superintending- Pro- 
vidence the only adequate support under afflic- 
tion — Wanderer's ejaculation — Acknowledges 
the difficulty of a lively faith — Hence immod- 
erate sorrow — Exhortations — How received 
— Wanderer applies his discourse to that other 
cause of dejection in the Solitary's mind — Dis- 
appointment from the French Revolution — 
States grounds of hope, and insists on the ne- 
cessity of patience and fortitude with respect 
to the course of great revolutions — Knowledge 
the source of tranquillity — Rural Solitude 
favourable to knowledge of the inferior Crea- 
tures ; Study of their habits and ways recom- 
mended; exhortation to bodily exertion and 
communion with Nature — Morbid Solitude 
pitiable — Superstition better than apathy — 
Apathy and destitution unknown in the infancy 
of society — The various modes of Religion 
prevented it — Illustrated in the Jewish, Per- 
sian, Babylonian, Chaldean, and Grecian modes 
of belief — Solitary interposes — Wanderer 
points out the influence of religions and imagi- 
native feeling in the humble ranks of society, 
illustrated from present and past times — 
These principles tend to recall exploded super- 



44* 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK IV 



sYitions and popery — Wanderer rebuts this 
charge, and contrasts the dignities of the Imag- 
ination with the presumptuous littleness of 
certain modern Philosophers — Recommends 
other lights and guides — Asserts the power of 
the soul to regenerate herself; Solitary asks 
how — Reply — Personal appeal — Exhorta- 
tion to activity of body renewed — How to com- 
mune with Nature — Wanderer concludes with 
a legitimate union of the imagination, affec- 
tions, understanding, and reason — Effect of 
his discourse — Evening; Return to the Cot- 
tage. 

Here closed the Tenant of that lonely vale 
His mournful narrative — commenced in 

pain, 
In pain commenced, and ended without 

peace: 
Yet tempered, not unfrequently, with 

strains 
Of native feeling, grateful to our minds, 
And yielding surely some relief to his, 
While we sate listening with compassion due. 
A pause of silence followed; then, with 

voice 
That did not falter though the heart was 

moved, 
The Wanderer said : — 

" One adequate support 
For the calamities of mortal life u 

Exists — one only ; an assured belief 
That the procession of our fate, howe'er 
Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being 
Of infinite benevolence and power; 
Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
All accidents, converting them to good. 
— The darts of anguish fix not where the 

seat 
Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified 
By acquiescence in the Will supreme 20 
For time and for eternity ; by faith, 
Faith absolute in God, including hope, 
And the defence that lies in boundless love 
Of his perfections ; with habitual dread 
Of aught unworthily conceived, endured 
Impatiently, ill-done, or left undone, 
To the dishonour of his holy name. 
Soul of our Souls, and safeguard of the 

world ! 
Sustain, thou only canst, the sick of heart; 
Restore their languid spirits, and recall 30 
Their lost affections unto thee and thine ! " 

Then, as we issued from that covert nook, 
He thus continued, lifting up his eyes 



To heaven: — " How beautiful this dome of 

sky; 
And the vast hills, in fluctuation fixed 
At thy command, how awful ! Shall the 

Soul, 
Human and rational, report of thee 
Even less than these ? — Be mute who will, 

who can, 
Yet I will praise thee with impassioned 

voice: 
My lips, that may forget thee in the crowd, 
Cannot forget thee here; where thou hast 

built, 41 

For thy own glory, in the wilderness ! 
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine, 
In such a temple as we now behold 
Reared for thy presence: therefore, am I 

bomid 
To worship, here, and everywhere — as one 
Not doomed to ignorance, though forced to 

tread, 
From childhood up, the ways of poverty; 
From unreflecting ignorance preserved, 
And from debasement rescued. — By thy 

grace 50 

The particle divine remained unquenched; 
And, 'mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil, 
Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless 

flowers, 
From paradise transplanted: wintry age 
Impends; the frost will gather round my 

heart ; 
If the flowers wither, I am worse than dead ! 
— Come, labour, when the worn-out frame 

requires 
Perpetual sabbath; come, disease and want; 
And sad exclusion through decay of sense ; 
But leave me unabated trust in thee — 60 
And let thy favour, to the end of life, 
Inspire me with ability to seek 
Repose and hope among eternal things — 
Father of heaven and earth ! and I am rich, 
And will possess my portion in content ! 

And what are things eternal ? — powers 
depart," 
The grey-haired W'anderer stedfastly re- 
plied, 
Answering the question which himself had 

asked, 
" Possessions vanish, and opinions change, 
And passions hold a fluctuating seat: 70 
But, by the storms of circumstance un- 
shaken, 
And subject neither to eclipse nor wane, 



BOOK IV 



THE EXCURSION 



449 



Duty exists; — immutably survive, 
For our support, the measures and the forms, 
Which an abstract intelligence supplies; 
Whose kingdom is, where tune and space 

are not. 
Of other converse which inind, soul, and 

heart, 
Do, with united urgency, require, 
What more that may not perish ? — Thou, 

dread source, 
Prime, self-existing cause and end of all So 
That m the scale of being fill their place; 
Above our human region, or below, 
Set and sustained; — thou, who didst wrap 

the cloud 
Of infancy around us, that thyself, 
Therein, with our simplicity awhile 
Might'st hold, on earth, communion undis- 
turbed; 
Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep, 
Or from its death-like void, with punctual 

care, 
And touch as gentle as the morning light, 
Restor'st us, daily, to the powers of sense 
And reason's stedfast rule — thou, thou 

alone 91 

Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits, 
Which thou includest, as the sea her waves : 
For adoration thou endur'st; endure 
For consciousness the motions of thy will; 
For apprehension those transcendent truths 
Of the pure intellect, that stand as laws 
(Submission constituting strength and 

power) 
Even to thy Being's infinite majesty ! 
This universe shall pass away — a work 100 
Glorious ! because the shadow of thy might, 
A step, or link, for intercourse with thee. 
Ah ! if the time must come, in which my feet 
No more shall stray where meditation leads, 
By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy 

wild, 
Loved haunts like these; the unimprisoned 

Mind 
May yet have scope to range among her own, 
Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. 
If the dear faculty of sight should fail, 
Still, it may be allowed me to remember 
What visionary powers of eye and soul m 
In youth were mine ; when, stationed on the 

top 
Of some huge hill — expectant, I beheld 
The sun rise up, from distant climes returned 
Darkness to chase, and sleep; and bring the 

day 



His bounteous gift ! or saw him toward the 

deep 
Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds 
Attended; then, my spirit was entranced 
With joy exalted to beatitude; 
The measure of my soul was filled with bliss, 
And holiest love; as earth, sea, air, with 

light, l2 i 

With pomp, with glory, with magnificence ! 

Those fervent raptures are for ever flown; 
And, since their date, my soul hath under- 
gone 
Change manifold, for better or for worse: 
Yet cease I not to struggle, and aspire 
Heavenward ; and chide the part of me that 

flags, 
Through sinful choice; or dread necessity 
On human nature from above imposed. 
'T is, by comparison, an easy task 130 

Earth to despise; but, to converse with 

heaven — 
This is not easy : — to relinquish all 
We have, or hope, of happiness and joy, 
And stand in freedom loosened from this 

world, 
I deem not arduous ; but must needs confess 
That 't is a thing impossible to frame 
Conceptions equal to the soul's desires; 
And the most difficult of tasks to keep 
Heights which the soul is competent to 

gam. 
— Man is of dust : ethereal hopes are his, 
Which, when they should sustain themselves 

aloft, 141 

Want due consistence ; like a pillar of smoke, 
That with majestic energy from earth 
Rises; but, having reached the thinner air, 
Melts, and dissolves, and is no longer seen. 
From this infirmity of mortal kind 
Sorrow proceeds, which else were not; at 

least, 
If grief be something hallowed and ordained, 
If, in proportion, it be just and meet, 
Yet, through this weakness of the general 

heart, 150 

Is it enabled to maintain its hold 
In that excess which conscience disapproves. 
For who could sink and settle to that point 
Of selfishness; so senseless who could be 
As long and perseveringly to mourn 
For any object of his love, removed 
From this unstable world, if he could fix 
A satisfying view upon that state 
Of pure, imperishable, blessedness, 



45° 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK IV 



Which reason promises, and holy writ 160 

Ensures to all believers ? — Yet mistrust 

Is of such ineapai ity, methinks, 

No natural branch; despondency far less; 

And, least of all, is absolute despair. 

— And, if there be whose tender frames 

have drooped 
Even to the dust; apparently, through 

weight 
Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power 
An agonizing sorrow to transmute ; 
Deem not that proof is here of hope with- 
held 
When wanted most; a confidence impaired 
So pitiably, that, having ceased to see 171 
With bodily eyes, they are borne down by 

love 
Of what is lost, and perish through regret. 
Oh ! no, the innocent Sufferer often sees 
Too clearly; feels too vividly; and longs 
To realize the vision, with intense 
And over-constant yearning; — there — 

there lies 
The excess, by which the balance is de- 
stroyed. 
Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh, 
This vital warmth too cold, these visual 
orbs, 1S0 

Though inconceivably endowed, too dim 
For any passion of the soul that leads 
To ecstasy; and, all the crooked paths 
Of time and change disdaining, takes its 

course 
Along the line of limitless desires. 
I, speaking now from such disorder free, 
Nor rapt, nor craving, but hi settled peace, 
I cannot doubt that they whom you deplore 
Are glorified; or, if they sleep, shall wake 
From sleep, and dwell with God hi endless 
love. 190 

Hope, below this, consists not with belief 
In mercy, carried infinite degrees 
Beyond the tenderness of human hearts: 
Hope, below this, consists not with belief 
In perfect wisdom, guiding mightiest power, 
That finds no limits but her own pure will. 

Here then we rest; not fearmg for our 

creed 
The worst that human reasoning can 

achieve, 
To unsettle or perplex it: yet with pain 
Acknowledging, and grievous self-reproach, 
That, though immovably convinced, we 

want 20 1 



Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith 
As soldiers live by courage; as, by strength 
Of heart, the sailor fights with roaring seas. 
Alas ! the endowment of immortal power 
Is matched unequally with custom, time, 
And domineering faculties of sense 
In all; hi most, with superadded foes, 
Idle temptations; open vanities, 
Ephemeral offspring of the unblushing 
world; 210 

And, in the private regions of the mind, 
Ill-governed passions, ranklings of despite, 
Immoderate wishes, pining discontent, 
Distress and care. What then remains ? — 

To seek 
Those helps for his occasions ever near 
Who lacks not wdl to use them; vows, re- 
newed 
On the first motion of a holy thought; 
Vigils of contemplation; praise; and 

prayer — 
A stream, which, from the fountain of the 

heart 
Issuing, however feebly, nowhere flows 220 
Without access of imexpeeted strength. 
But, above all, the victory is most sure 
For him, who, seeking faith by virtue, 

strives 
To yield entire submission to the law 
Of conscience — conscience reverenced and 

obeyed, 
As God's most intimate presence in the 

soul, 
And his most perfect image in the world. 
— Endeavour thus to live; these rules re- 
gard ; 
These helps solicit; and a stedfast seat 
Shall then be yours among the happy few 
Who dwell on earth, yet breathe empyreal 
air, 231 

Sons of the morning. For your nobler 

part, 
Ere disencumbered of her mortal chains, 
Doubt shall be quelled and trouble chased 

away; 
With only such degree of sadness left 
As may support longings of pure desire; 
And strengthen love, rejoicing secretly 
In the sublime attractions of the grave." 

While, hi this strain, the venerable Sage 

Poured forth his aspirations, and announced 

His judgments, near that lonely house we 

paced 24 1 

A plot of greensward, seemingly preserved 



BOOK IV 



THE EXCURSION 



4Si 



By nature's care from wreck of scattered 

stones, 
And from encroachment of encircling heath: 
Small space ! but, for reiterated steps, 
Smooth and commodious ; as a stately deck 
Which to and fro the mariner is used 
To tread for pastime, talking with his 

mates, 
Or haply thinking of far-distant friends, 249 
While the ship glides before a steady breeze. 
Stillness prevailed around us: and the voice 
That spake was capable to lift the soul 
Toward regions yet more tranquil. But, 

methought, 
That he, whose fixed despondency had 

given 
Impulse and motive to that strong dis- 
course, 
Was less upraised in spirit than abashed; 
Shrinking from admonition, like a man 
Who feels that to exhort is to reproach. 
Yet not to be diverted from his aim, 
The Sage continued: — 

" For that other loss, 
The loss of confidence in social man, 261 
By the unexpected transports of our age 
Carried so high, that every thought, which 

looked 
Beyond the temporal destiny of the Kind, 
To many seemed superfluous — as, no cause 
Could e'er for such exalted confidence 
Exist; so, none is now for fixed despair: 
The two extremes are equally disowned 
By reason: if, with sharp recoil, from one 
You have been driven far' as its opposite, 
Between them seek the point whereon to 
build 271 

Sound expectations. So doth he advise 
Who shared at first the illusion; but was 

soon 
Cast from the pedestal of pride by shocks 
Which Nature gently gave, in woods and 

fields ; 
Nor unreproved by Providence, thus speak- 
ing 
To the inattentive children of the world : 
' Vainglorious Generation ! what new powers 
' On you have been conferred ? what gifts, 
withheld 279 

' From your progenitors, have ye received, 
' Fit recompense of new desert ? what claim 
' Are ye prepared to urge, that my decrees 
1 For you should undergo a sudden change ; 
' And the weak functions of one busy day, 
: Reclaiming and extirpating, perform 



' What all the slowly-moving years of time, 
' With their united force, have left undone ? 
1 By nature's gradual processes be taught; 
' By story be confounded ! Ye aspire 
■ Rashly, to fall once more ; and that false 

fruit, 290 

' Which, to your overweening spirits, yields 
' Hope of a flight celestial, will produce 
' Misery and shame. But Wisdom of her 

sons 
' Shall not the less, though late, be justified.' 

Such timely warning," said the Wanderer, 

" gave 
That visionary voice; and, at this day, 
When a Tartarean darkness overspreads 
The groaning nations; when the impious 

ride, 
By will pr by established ordinance, 
Their own dire agents, and constrain the 

good 300 

To acts which they abhor; though I bewail 
This triumph, yet the pity of my heart 
Prevents me not from owning, that the 

law, 
By which mankind now suffers, is most 

just. 
For by superior energies; most strict 
Affiance in each other; faith more firm 
In their unhallowed principles* the bad 
Have fairly earned a victory o'er the weak, 
The vacillating, inconsistent good. 
Therefore, not unconsoled, I wait — in hope 
To see the moment, when the righteous 

cause 3 1 1 

Shall gain defenders zealous and devout 
As they who have opposed her; in which 

Virtue 
Will, to her efforts, tolerate no bounds 
That are not lofty as her rights; aspiring 
By impulse of her own ethereal zeal. 
That spirit only can redeem mankind; 
And when that sacred spirit shall appear, 
Then shall our triumph be complete as 

theirs. 
Yet, should this confidence prove vain, the 

wise 320 

Have still the keeping of their proper 

peace ; 
Are guardians of their own tranquillity. 
They act, or they recede, observe, and 

feel; 
' Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
The centre of this world, about the which 
Those revolutions of disturbances 



45 2 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK IV 



Still roll; where all the aspects of misery 
Predominate ; whose strong effects are such 
As he must bear, being powerless to re- 
dress; 
A nd that unless above himself he can 330 

v Erect himself, how poor a thing is Man ! ' 

Happy is he who lives to understand, 
Not human nature only, but explores 
All natures, — to the end that he may find 
The law that governs each; and where be- 
gins 
The union, the partition where, that makes 
Kind and degree, among all visible Beings; 
The constitutions, powers, and faculties, 
Which they inherit, — cannot step be- 
yond, — 
And camiot fall beneath; that do assign 340 
To every class its station and its qffice, 
Through all the mighty commonwealth of 

things 
Up from the creeping plant to sovereign 

Man. 
Such converse, if directed by a meek, 
Sincere, and humble spirit, teaches love: 
For knowledge is delight ; and such delight 
Breeds love: yet, suited as it rather is 
To thought and to the climbing intellect, 
It teaches less to love, than to adore; 
If that be not indeed the highest love ! " 350 

" Yet," said I, tempted here to interpose, 
" The dignity of life is not unpaired 
By aught that innocently satisfies 
The humbler cravings of the heart; and he 
Is a still happier man, who, for those heights 
Of speculation not unfit, descends ; 
And such benign affections cultivates 
Among the inferior kinds ; not merely those 
That he may call his own, and which de- 
pend, 
As individual objects of regard, 360 

Upon his care, from whom he also looks 
For signs and tokens of a mutual bond; 
But others, far beyond this narrow sphere, 
Whom, for the very sake of love, he loves. 
Nor is it a mean praise of rural life 
And solitude, that they do favour most, 
Most frequently call forth, and best sustain, 
These pure sensations; that can penetrate 
The obstreperous city; on the barren seas 
Are not unfelt; and much might recom- 
mend, 370 
How much they might inspirit and endear, 
The loneliness of this sublime retreat ! " 



" Yes," said the Sage, resuming the dis- 
course 
Again directed to his downcast Friend, 
" If, with the froward will and grovelling 

soul 
Of man, offended, liberty is here, 
And invitation every hour renewed, 
To mark their placid state, who never heard 
Of a command which they have power to 

break, 
Or rule which they are tempted to trans- 
gress: 3S0 
These, with a soothed or elevated heart, 
May we behold; their knowledge register; 
Observe their wavs; and, free from envy, 

find 
Complacence there: — but wherefore this to 

you ? 
I guess that, welcome to your lonely hearth, 
The redbreast, ruffled up by winter's cold 
Into a ' feathery bunch, 9 feeds at your hand: 
A box, perchance, is from your casement 

hung 
For the small wren to build hi ; — not hi 

vain, 
The barriers disregarding that surround 390 
This deep abiding place, before your sight 
Mounts on the breeze the butterfly; and 

soars, 
Small creature as she is, from earth's bright 

flowers, 
Into the dewy clouds. Ambition reigns 
In the waste wilderness: the Soul ascends 
Drawn towards her native firmament of 

heaven, 
When the fresh eagle, in the month of May, 
Upborne, at evening, on replenished wing, 
This shaded valley leaves; and leaves the 

dark 
Empurpled hills, conspicuously renewing 
A proud communication with the sun 401 
Low sunk beneath the horizon ! — List ! — 

I heard, 
From yon huge breast of rock, a voice sent 

forth 
As if the visible mountain made the cry. 
Again ! " — The effect upon the soul was 

such 
As he expressed: from out the mountain's 

heart 
The solemn voice appeared to issue, star- 
tling 
The blank air — for the region all around 
Stood empty of all shape of life, and si- 
lent 409 



BOOK IV 



THE EXCURSION 



453 



Save for that single cry, the unanswered 
bleat 

Of a poor lamb — left somewhere to itself, 

The plaintive spirit of the solitude ! 

He paused, as if unwilling to proceed, 

Through consciousness that silence in such 
place 

Was best, the most affecting eloquence. 

But soon his thoughts returned upon them- 
selves, 

And, in soft tone of speech, thus he re- 
sumed. 

" Ah ! if the heart, too confidently raised, 
Perchance too lightly occupied, or lulled 
Too easily, despise or overlook 420 

The vassalage that binds her to the earth, 
Her sad dependence upon time, and all 
The trepidations of mortality, 
What place so destitute and void — but 

there 
The little flower her vanity shall check; 
The trailing worm reprove her thoughtless 
pride ?* 

These craggy regions, these chaotic wilds, 
Does that benignity pervade, that warms 
The mole contented with her darksome 
walk 429 

In the cold ground; and to the emmet gives 
Her foresight, and intelligence that makes 
The tiny creatures strong by social league; 
Supports the generations, multiplies 
Their tribes, till we behold a spacious plain 
Or grassy bottom, all, with little hills — 
Their labour, covered, as a lake with waves; 
Thousands of cities, in the desert place 
Built up of life, and food, and means of 

life ! 
. Nor wanting here, to entertain the thought, 
Creatures that in communities exist, 44 o 
Less, as might seem, for general guardian- 
ship 
Or through dependence upon mutual aid, 
Than by participation of delight 
And a strict love of fellowship, combined. 
What other spirit can it be that prompts 
The gilded summer flies to mix and weave 
Their sports together in the solar beam, 
Or in the gloom of twilight hum their joy ? 
More obviously the self-same influence rules 
The feathered kinds; the fieldfare's pensive 
flock, 450 

The cawing rooks, and sea-mews from afar, 
Hovering above these inland solitudes, 



By the rough wind unscattered, at whose 

call 
Up through the trenches of the long-drawn 

vales 
Their voyage was begun: nor is its power 
Unfelt among the sedentary fowl 
That seek yon pool, and there prolong their 

stay 
In silent congress; or together roused 
Take flight; while with their clang the air 

resounds: 
And, over all, in that ethereal vault, 460 
Is the mute company of changeful clouds; 
Bright apparition, suddenly put forth, 
The rainbow smiling on the faded storm; 
The mild assemblage of the starry heavens ; 
And the great smi, earth's universal lord ! 

How bountiful is Nature ! he shall find 
Who seeks not; and to him, who hath not 

asked, 
Large measure shall be dealt. Three sab- 
bath-days 
Are scarcely told, since, on a service bent 
Of mere humanity, you clomb those heights ; 
And what a marvellous and heavenly show 
Was suddenly revealed ! — the swains 
moved on, 472 

And heeded not: you lingered, you per- 
ceived f 
And felt, deeply as living man could feel. 
There is a luxury in self-dispraise; 
And inward self-disparagement affords 
To meditative spleen a grateful feast. 
Trust me, pronouncing on your own desert, 
You judge untkankf ully : distempered 

nerves 
Infect the thoughts: the languor of the 
frame 480 

Depresses the soul's vigour. Quit your 

couch — 
Cleave not so fondly to your moody cell; 
Nor let the hallowed powers, that shed 

from heaven 
Stillness and rest, with disapproving eye 
Look down upon your taper, through a 

watch 
Of midnight hours, unseasonably twinkling 
In this deep Hollow, like a sullen star 
Dimly reflected in a lonely pool. 
Take courage, and withdraw yourself from 

ways 
That run not parallel to nature's course. 490 
Rise with the lark ! your matins shall obtain 
Grace, be their composition what it may, 



454 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK IV 



If but with hers performed; climb once 

again, 
Climb every day, those ramparts; meet the 

breeze 
Upon their tops, adventurous as a bee 
That from your garden tbither soars, to feed 
On new-blown heath; let yon commanding 

rock 
Be your frequented watch-tower; roll the 

stone 
In thunder down the mountains; with all 

your might 
Chase the wild goat; and if the bold red 

deer 500 

Fly to those harbours, driven by hound 

and horn 
Loud echoing, add your speed to the pur- 
suit ; 
So, wearied to your hut shall you return, 
And sink at evening into sound repose." 

The Solitary lifted toward the hills 
A kindling eye: — accordant feelings rushed 
Into my bosom, whence these words broke 

forth: 
" Oh ! what a joy it were, in vigorous health, 
To have a body (this our vital frame 
With shrinking sensibility endued, 510 

And all the nice regards of flesh and blood) 
And to the elements surrender it 
As if it were a spirit ! — How divine, 
The liberty, for frail, for mortal, man 
To roam at large among unpeopled glens 
And mountainous retirements, only trod 
By devious footsteps; regions consecrate 
To oldest time ! and, reckless of the storm 
That keeps the raven quiet in her nest, 
Be as a presence or a motion — one 520 

Among the many there; and while the mists 
Flying, and rainy vapours, call out shapes 
And phantoms from the crags and solid earth 
As fast as a musician scatters sounds 
Out of an instrument ; and while the streams 
(As at a first creation and in haste 
To exercise their untried faculties) 
Descending from the region of the clouds, 
And starting from the hollows of the 

earth 529 

More multitudinous every moment, rend 
Their way before them — what a joy to roam 
An equal among mightiest energies; 
And haply sometimes with articidate voice, 
Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard 
By him that utters it, exclaim aloud, 
• Rage on ye elements ! let moon and stars 



Their aspects lend, and murjle in their turn 
With this commotion (ruinous though it be) 
From day to night, from night to day, pro- 
longed ! ' " 

" Yes," said the Wanderer, taking from 

my lips 540 

The strain of transport, " whosoe'er in youth 
Has, through ambition of his sold, given 

way 
To such desires, and grasped at such de- 

light, 
Shall feel congenial stirrings late and long, 
In spite of all the weakness that life brings, 
Its cares and sorrows ; he, though taught to 

own 
The tranquillizing power of time, shall wake, 
Wake sometimes to a noble restlessness — 
Loving the sports which once he gloried 



Compatriot, Friend, remote are Garry's 

hills, 550 

The streams far distant of your native glen; 

Yet is their form and image here expressed 

With brotherly resemblance. Turn your 

steps 
Wherever fancy leads ; by day, by night, 
Are various engines working, not the same 
As those with which your soul in youth was 

moved, 
But by the great Artificer endowed 
With no inferior power. You dwell alone; 
You walk, you live, you speculate alone ; 
Yet doth remembrance, like a sovereign 
prince. 560 

For you a stately gallery maintain 
Of gay or tragic picture-?. You have seen, 
Have" acted, suffered, travelled far, observed 
With no incurious eye ; and books are yours, 
Within whose silent chambers treasure lies 
Preserved from age to age; more precious 

far 
Than that accumulated store of gold 
And orient gems, which, for a day of need, 
The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. 
These hoards of truth you can unlock at 
will: 570 

And music waits upon your skilful touch, 
Sounds which the wandering shepherd from 

these heights 
Hears, and forgets his purpose ; — furnished 

thus, 
How can you droop, if willing to be up- 
raised ? 



BOOK IV 



THE EXCURSION 



455 



A piteous lot it were to flee from Man — 
Yet not rejoice in Nature. He, whose hours 
Are hy domestic pleasures uncaressed 
And unenlivened; who exists whole years 
Apart from benefits received or done 579 
'Mid the transactions of the bustling crowd; 
Who neither hears, nor feels a wish to hear, 
Of the world's interests — such a one hath 

need 
Of a quick fancy, and an active heart, 
That, for the day's consumption, books may 

yield 
Food not unwholesome ; earth and air correct 
His morbid humour, with delight supplied 
Or solace, varying as the seasons change. 
— Truth has her pleasure-grounds, her 

haunts of ease 
And easy contemplation; gay parterres, 
And labyrinthine walks, her sunny glades 
And shady groves hi studied contrast — 

each, 591 

For recreation, leading hito each: 
These may he range, if willing to partake 
Their soft indulgences, and in due time 
May issue thence, recruited for the tasks 
And course of service Truth requires from 

those 
Who tend her altars, wait upon her 

throne, 
And guard her fortresses. Who thinks, and 

feels, 
And recognises ever and anon 599 

The breeze of nature stirring in his soul, 
Why need such man go desperately astray, 
And nurse ' the dreadful appetite of death ? ' 
If tired with systems, each in its degree 
Substantial, and all crumbling in their turn, 
Let him build systems of his own, and smile 
At the fond work, demolished with a touch ; 
If unreligious, let him be at once, 
Among ten thousand innocents, enrolled 
A pupil hi the many-chambered school, 
Where superstition weaves her airy dreams. 

Life's autumn past, I stand on winter's 
verge; 61 1 

And daily lose what I desire to keep: 
Yet rather would I instantly decline 
To the traditionary sympatbies 
Of a most rustic ignorance, and take 
A fearful apprehension from the owl 
Or death-watch: and as readily rejoice, 
If two auspicious magpies crossed my 

way ; — ■ 
To this would rather bend than see and hear 



The repetitions wearisome of sense, 620 

Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no 

place ; 
Where knowledge, ill begun in cold remark 
On outward things, with formal inference 

ends ; 
Or, if the mind turn inward, she recoils 
At once — or, not recoiling, is perplexed — 
Lost in a gloom of uninspired research; 
Meanwhile, the heart within the heart, the 

seat 
Where peace and happy consciousness 

should dwell, 
On its own axis restlessly revolving, 
Seeks, yet can nowhere find, the light of 

truth. 630 

Upon the breast of new-created earth 
Man walked; and when and whereso'er he 

moved, 
Alone or mated, solitude was not. 
He heard, borne on the wind, the articulate 

voice 
Of God; and Angels to his sight appeared 
Crowning the glorious hills of paradise; 
Or through the groves gliding like morning 

mist 
Enkindled by the sun. He sate — and talked 
With winged Messengers; who daily 

brought r 

To his small island in the ethereal deep 640 
Tidings of joy and love. — FrOm those pure 

heights 
(Whether of actual vision, sensible 
To sight and feeling, or that hi this sort 
Have condescendingly been shadowed forth 
Communications spiritually maintained, 
And intuitions moral and divine) 
Fell Human-kind — to banishment con- 
demned 
That flowing years repealed not: and dis- 
tress 
And grief spread wide; but Man escaped 

the doom 
Of destitution; — solitude was not. 650 

— Jehovah — shapeless Power above all 

Powers, 
Single and one, the omnipresent God, 
By vocal utterance, or blaze of light, 
Or cloud of darkness, localised hi heaven; 
On earth, enshrined within the wandering 

ark ; 
Or, out of Sion, thundering from his throne 
Between the Cherubim — on the chosen 
Race 



456 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK IV 



Showered miracles, and ceased not to dis- 
pense 
Judgments, that filled the land from age 

to age 
With hope, and love, and gratitude, and 
fear; 660 

And with amazement smote ; — thereby to 

assert 
His scorned, or unacknowledged, sover- 
eignty. 
And when the One, ineffable of name, 
Of nature indivisible, withdrew 
From mortal adoration or regard, 
Not then was Deity engulphed; nor Man, 
The rational creature, • left, to feel the 

weight 
Of his own reason, without sense or thought 
Of higher reason and a purer will, 
To benefit and bless, through mightier 
power ; — 670 

Whether the Persian — zealous to reject 
Altar and image, and the inclusive walls 
And roofs of temples built by human 

hands — 
To loftiest heights ascending, from their 

tops, 
With myrtle-wreathed tiara on his brow, 
Presented sacrifice to moon and stars, 
And to the winds and mother elements, 
And the whole circle of the heavens, for 

him 
A sensitive existence, and a God, 
With lifted hands invoked, and songs of 
praise : 680 

Or, less reluctantly to bonds of sense 
Yielding his soul, and Babylonian framed 
For influence undefined a personal shape; 
And, from the plain, with toil immense, 

vipreared 
Tower eight times planted on the top of 

tower, 
That Belus, nightly to his splendid couch 
Descending, there might rest; upon that 

height 
Pure and serene, diffused — to overlook 
Winding Euphrates, and the city vast 
Of his devoted worshippers, far-stretched, 
With grove and field and garden inter- 
spersed; 691 
Their town, and foodful region for support 
Against the pressure of beleaguering war. 

Chaldean Shepherds, ranging trackless 
fields, 
Beneath the concave of unclouded skies 



Spread like a sea, in boundless solitude, 
Looked on the polar star, as on a guide 
And guardian of their course, that never 

closed 
His stedfast eye. The planetary Five 
With a submissive reverence they beheld ; 
Watched, from the centre of their sleeping 

flocks, 701 

Those radiant Mercuries, that seemed to 

move 
Carrying through ether, hi perpetual round, 
Decrees and resolutions of the Gods; 
And, by their aspects, signifying works 
Of dun futurity, to Man revealed. 
— The imaginative faculty was lord 
Of observations natural ; and, thus 
Led on, those shepherds made report of 

stars 
In set rotation passing to and fro, 710 

Between the orbs of our apparent sphere 
And its invisible counterpart, adorned 
With answering constellations, imder earth, 
Removed from all approach of living sight 
But present to the dead; who, so they 

deemed, 
Like those celestial messengers beheld 
All accidents, and judges were of all. 

The lively Grecian, in a land of hills, 
Rivers and fertile plains, and sounding 

shores, — 
Under a cope of sky more variable, 720 

Could find commodious place for every God, 
Promptly received, as prodigally brought, 
From the surrounding countries, at the 

choice 
Of all adventurers. With unrivalled skill, 
As nicest observation furnished hints 
For studious fancy, his quick hand bestowed 
On fluent operations a fixed shape; 
Metal or stone, idolatrously served. 
And yet — triumphant o'er this pompous 

show 
Of art, this palpable array of sense, 730 
On every side encountered; in despite 
Of the gross fictions chanted hi the streets 
By wandering Rhapsodists; and in contempt 
Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged 
Amid the wrangling schools — a spirit 

hung, 
Beautiful region ! o'er thy towns and farms, 
Statues and temples, and memorial tombs; 
And emanations were perceived; and acts 
Of immortality, in Nature's course, 739 

Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 



BOOK IV 



THE EXCURSION 



457 



As bonds, on grave philosopher imposed 
And armed warrior; and in every grove 
A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed, 
When piety more awful had relaxed. 
— ' Take, running river, take these locks of 

mine ' — 
Thus would the Votary say — ' this severed 

hair, 
1 My vow fulfilling, do I here present, 
• Thankful for my beloved child's return. 
6 Thy banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod, 
5 Thy murmurs heard ; and drunk the crystal 

lymph 75° 

' With which thou dost refresh the thirsty 

lip, 
' And, all day long, moisten these flowery 

fields ! ' 
And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair 

was shed 
Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose 
Of Life continuous, Being unimpaired; 
That hath been, is, and where it was and is 
There shall endure, — existence unexposed 
To the blind walk of mortal accident; 
From diminution safe and weakening age ; 
While man grows old, and dwindles, and 

decays ; 760 

And countless generations of mankind 
Depart; and leave no vestige where they 

trod. 

We live by Admiration, Hope and Love; 
And, even as these are well and wisely 

fixed, 
In dignity of being we ascend. 
But what is error ? " — " % Answer he who 

can ! " 
The Sceptic somewhat haughtily exclaimed: 
" Love, Hope, and Admiration, — are they 

not 
Mad Fancy's favourite vassals ? Does not 

life 
Use them, full oft, as pioneers to ruin, 77 o 
Guides to destruction ? Is it well to trust 
Imagination's light when reason's fails, 
The unguarded taper where the guarded 

faints ? 
— Stoop from those heights, and soberly 

declare 
What error is; and, of our errors, which 
Doth most debase the mind; the genuine 

seats 
Of power, where are they ? Who shall 

regulate, 
With truth, the scale of intellectual rank ? " 



" Methinks," persuasively the Sage re- 
plied, 779 
" That for this arduous office you possess 
Some rare advantages. Your early days 
A grateful recollection must supply 
Of much exalted good by Heaven vouch- 
safed 
To dignify the humblest state. — Your voice 
Hath, in my hearing, often testified 
That poor men's children, they, and they 

alone, 
By their condition taught, can understand 
The wisdom of the prayer that daily asks 
For daily breath A consciousness is yours 
How feelingly religion may be learned 790 
In smoky cabins, from a mother's tongue — 
Heard where the dwelling vibrates to the 

din 
Of the contiguous torrent, gathering 

strength 
At every moment — and, with strength, in- 
crease 
Of fury; or, while snow is at the door, 
Assaulting and defending, and the wind, 
A sightless labourer, whistles at his work — ■ 
Fearful; but resignation tempers fear, 
And piety is sweet to infant minds. 
— The Shepherd-lad, that hi the sunshine 
carves, 800 

On the green turf, a dial — to divide 
The silent hours ; and who to that report 
Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt, 
Throughout a long and lonely summer's 

day 
His round of pastoral duties, is not left 
With less intelligence for moral things 
Of gravest import. Early he perceives, 
Within himself, a measure and a rule, 
Which to the sun of truth he can apply, 
That shines for him, and shines for all 
mankind. 810 

Experience daily fixing his regards 
On nature's wants, he knows how few they 

are, 
And where they lie, how answered and ap- 
peased. 
This knowledge ample recompense affords 
For manifold privations; he refers 
His notions to this standard; on this rock 
Rests his desires; and hence, in after life, 
Soul-strengthening patience, and sublime 

content. 
Imagination — not permitted here 
To waste her powers, as in the worldling's 
mind, 820 



458 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK IV 



On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares, 
And trivial ostentation — is left free 
And puissant to range the solemn walks 
Of time and nature, girded by a zone 
That, while it binds, invigorates and sup- 
ports. 
Acknowledge, then, that whether by the 

side 
Of his poor hut, or on the mountain top, 
Or in the cultured field, a Man so bred 
(Take from him what you will upon the 

score 
Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 
For noble purposes of mind: his heart ^31 
Beats to the heroic song of ancient days; 
His eye distinguishes, bis soul creates. 
And those illusions, which excite the scorn 
Or move the pity of unthinking minds, 
Are they not mainly outward ministers 
Of inward conscience ? with whose service 

charged 
They came and go, appeared and disappear, 
Diverting evil purposes, remorse 
Awakening, chastening an intemperate 

grief, 840 

Or pride of heart abating: and, whene'er 
For less important ends those phantoms 

move, 
Who would forbid them, if then' presence 

serve — 
On thinly-peopled mountains and wild 

heaths, 
Filling a space, else vacant — to exalt 
The forms of Nature, and enlarge her 

powers ? 

Once more to distant ages of the world 
Let us revert, and place before our 

thoughts 
The face which rural solitude might wear 
To the unenlightened swains of pagan 

Greece. 850 

— In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, 

stretched 
On the soft grass through half a summer's 

day, 
With music lulled his indolent repose : 
And, in some fit of weariness, if he, 
When his own breath was silent, chanced to 

hear 
A distant strain, far sweeter than the 

sounds 
Which his poor skill could make, his fancy 

fetched, 
Even from the blazing chariot of the sun, 



A beardless Youth, who touched a golden 

lute, 
And filled the illumined groves with ravish- 
ment. 860 
The nightly hunter, lifting a bright eye 
Up towards the crescent moon, with grate- 
ful heart 
Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed 
That timely light, to share his joyous sport: 
And hence, a beaming Goddess with her 

Nymphs, 
Across the lawn and through the darksome 

grove, 
Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes 
By echo multiplied from rock or cave, 
Swept in the storm of chase; as moon and 

stars 
Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven, 
When winds are blowing strong. The trav- 
eller slaked 871 
His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and 

thanked 
The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills 
Gliding apace, with shadows in their train, 
Might, with small help from fancy, be 

transformed 
Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly. 
The Zephyrs fanning, as they passed, their 

wings, 
Lacked not, for love, fair objects whom 

they wooed 
With gentle whisper. Withered boughs 

grotesque, 
Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary 
age, 880 

From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth 
In the low vale, or on steep mountain side ; 
And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring 

horns 
Of the live deer, or goat's depending 

beard, — 
These were the lurkmg Satyrs, a wild brood 
Of gamesome Deities; or Pan himself, 
The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring 
God ! " 

The strain was aptly chosen; and I 

could mark 
Its kindly influence, o'er the yielding brow 
Of our Companion, gradually diffused; 890 
While listening, he had paced the noiseless 

turf, 
Like one whose untired ear a murmuring 

stream 
Detains; but tempted now to interpose, 



BOOK IV 



THE EXCURSION 



459 



He with a smile exclaimed: — 

" 'T is well you speak 
At a safe distance from our native land, 
And from the mansions where our youth 

was taught. 
The true descendants of those godly men 
Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of 

zeal, 
Shrine, altar, image, and the massy piles 
That harboured them, — the souls retaining 

yet 900 

The churlish features of that after-race 
Who fled to woods, caverns, and jutting 

rocks, 
In deadly scorn of superstitious rites, 
Or what their scruples construed to be 

such — 
How, think you, would they tolerate this 

scheme 
Of fine propensities, that tends, if urged 
Far as it might be urged, to sow afresh 
The weeds of Romish phantasy, in vain 
Uprooted; would re-consecrate our wells 
To good Saint Fillan and to fair Saint Anne ; 
And from long banishment recall Saint 

Giles, 911 

To watch again with tutelary love 
O'er stately Edinborough throned on crags ? 
A blessed restoration, to behold 
The patron, on the shoulders of his priests, 
Once more parading through her crowded 

streets, 
Now simply guarded by the sober powers 
Of science, and philosophy, and sense ! " 



Yc 



have 



This answer followed, 
turned my thoughts 
Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose 920 
Againsc idolatry with warlike mind, 
And shrunk from vain observances, to lurk 
In woods, and dwell under impending rocks 
Ill-sheltered, and oft wanting fire and food; 
Why ? — for this very reason that they felt, 
And did acknowledge, wheresoe'er they 

moved, 
A spiritual presence, oft-times miscon- 
ceived, 
But still a high dependence, a divine 
Bounty and government, that filled their 

hearts 

With joy, and gratitude, and fear, and love; 

And from their fervent lips drew hymns of 

praise, 93 1 

That through the desert rang. Though 

favoured less, 



Far less, than these, yet such, in their de- 
gree, 

Were those bewildered Pagans of old time. 

Beyond their own poor natures and above 

They looked; were humbly thankful for 
the good 

Which the warm sun solicited, and earth 

Bestowed ; were gladsome, — and their 
moral sense 

They fortified with reverence for the Gods ; 

And they had hopes that overstepped the 
Grave. 940 

Now, shall our great Discoverers," he 

exclaimed, 
Raising his voice triumphantly, " obtain 
From sense and reason, less than these 

obtained, 
Though far misled ? Shall men for whom 

our age 
Unbaffled powers of vision hath prepared, 
To explore the world without and world 

within, 
Be joyless as the blind ? Ambitious spirits — ■ 
Whom earth, at this late season, hath 

produced 
To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh 
The planets in the hollow of their hand; 
And they who rather dive than soar, whose 

pains 95 1 

Have solved the elements, or analysed 
The thinking principle — shall they in fact 
Prove a degraded Race ? and what avails 
Renown, if their presumption make them 

such ? 
Oh ! there is laughter at their work in 

heaven ! 
Inquire of ancient Wisdom ; go, demand 
Of mighty Nature, if 't was ever meant 
That we should pry far off yet be un- 

raised ; 
That we should pore, and dwindle as we 

pore, 9 to 

Viewing all objects unremittingly 
In disconnection dead and spiritless; 
And still dividing, and dividing still, 
Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied 
With the perverse attempt, while littleness 
May yet become more little; waging thus 
An impious warfare with the very life 
Of our own souls ! 

And if indeed there be 
An all-pervading Spirit, upon whom 
Our dark foundations rest, could he design 
That this magnificent effect of power, 971 



460 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK IV 



The earth we tread, the sky that we behold 
By day, and all the pomp which night re- 
veals ; 
That these — and that superior mystery 
Our vital frame, so fearfully devised, 
And the dread soul within it — should exist 
Only to be examined, pondered, searched, 
Probed, vexed, and criticised ? Accuse me 

not 
Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as I am, 
If, having walked with Nature threescore 
years, 980 

And offered, far as frailty would allow, 
My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth, 
I now affirm of Nature and of Truth, 
Whom I have served, that then- Divinity 
Revolts, offended at the ways of men 
Swayed by such motives, to such ends em- 
ployed; 
Philosophers, who, though the human soul 
Be of a thousand faculties composed, 
And twice ten thousand interests, do yet 

prize 
This soul, and the transcendent universe, 
No more than as a mirror that reflects 991 
To proud Self-love her own intelligence ; 
That one, poor, finite object, hi the abyss 
Of infinite Being, twinkling restlessly ! 

Nor higher place can be assigned to him 
And his compeers — the laughing Sage of 

France. — ■ 
Crowned was he, if my memory do not 

err, 
With laurel planted upon hoary hairs, 
In sign of conquest by his wit achieved 
And benefits his wisdom had conferred; 
His stooping body tottered with wreaths of 
flowers ioot 

Opprest, far less becoming ornaments 
Than Spring oft twines about a moulder- 
ing tree; 
Yet so it pleased a fond, a vain, old Man, 
And a most frivolous people. Him I mean 
Who penned, to ridicule confiding faith, 
This sorry Legend; which by chance we 

found 
Piled in a nook, through malice, as might 

seem, 
Among more innocent rubbish." — Speak- 
ing thus, 
With a brief notice when, and how, and 
where, 1010 

We had espied the book, he drew it forth; 
And courteously, as if the act removed, 



At once, all traces from the good Mau ; s 

heart 
Of unbenign aversion or contempt, 
Restored it to its owner. " Gentle Friend," 
Herewith he grasped the Solitary's hand, 
" You have known lights and guides better 

than these. 
Ah ! let not aught amiss within dispose 
A noble mind to practise on herself, 1019 
And tempt opinion to support the wrongs 
Of passion: whatsoe'er be felt or feared, 
From higher judgment-seats make no ap- 
peal 
To lower: can you question that the soul 
Inherits an allegiance, not by choice 
To be cast off, upon an oath proposed 
By each new upstart notion ? In the ports 
Of levity no refuge can be found, 
No shelter, for a spirit in distress. 
He, who by wilful disesteem of life 
And proud insensibility to hope, 1030 

Affronts the eye of Solitude, shall learn 
That her mild nature can be terrible ; 
That neither she nor Silence lack the power 
To avenge their own insulted majesty. 

O blest seclusion ! when the mind admits 
The law of duty; and can therefore move 
Through each vicissitude of loss and gain, 
Linked in entire complacence with her 

choice ; 
When youth's presumptuousness is mellowed 

down, 
And manhood's vain anxiety dismissed ; 1040 
When wisdom shows her seasonable fruit, 
Upon the boughs of sheltering leisure hung 
In sober plenty; when the spirit stoops 
To drink with gratitude the crystal stream 
Of unreproved enjoyment; and is pleased 
To muse, and be saluted by the air 
Of meek repentance, wafting wall-flower 

scents 
From out the crumbling ruins of fallen 

pride 
And chambers of transgression, now for- 
lorn. 
0, calm contented days, and peaceful 

nights ! 1050 

Who, when such good can be obtained, 

would strive 
To reconcile his manhood to a couch 
Soft, as may seem, but, under that disguise, 
Stuffed with the thorny substance of the 

past 
For fixed annoyance; and full oft beset 



BOOK IV 



THE EXCURSION 



461 



With floating dreams, black and disconso- 
late, 
The vapoury phantoms of futurity ? 

Within the soul a faculty abides, 105S 
That with interpositions, which would hide 
And darken, so can deal that they become 
Contingencies of pomp; and serve to exalt 
Her native brightness. As the ample moon, 
In the deep stillness of a summer even 
Rising behind a thick and lofty grove, 
Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light, 
In the green trees ; and, kindling on all sides 
Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil 
Into a substance glorious as her own, 
Yea, with her own incorporated, by power 
Capacious and serene. Like power abides 
In man's celestial spirit; virtue thus 107 1 
Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds 
A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire, 
From the encumbrances of mortal life, 
From error, disappointment — nay, from 

guilt; 
And sometimes, so relenting justice wills, 
From palpable oppressions of despair." 

The Solitary by these words was touched 
With manifest emotion, and exclaimed; 
" But how begin ? and whence ? — ' The 

Mind is free — 1080 

Resolve,' the haughty Moralist would say, 
' This single act is all that we demand.' 
Alas ! such wisdom bids a creature fly 
Whose very sorrow is, that tune hath shorn 
His natural whigs ! — To* friendship let 

him turn 
For succour; but perhaps he sits alone 
On stormy waters, tossed in a little boat 
That holds but him, and can contain no 

more ! 
Religion tells of amity sublime 
Which no condition can preclude ; of One 
Who sees all suffering, comprehends all 

wants, 1 09 1 

All weakness fathoms, can supply all needs : 
But is that bounty absolute ? — His gifts, 
Are they not, still, in some degree, rewards 
For acts of service ? Can his love extend 
To hearts that own not him ? Will showers 

of grace, 
When in the sky no promise may be seen, 
Fall to refresh a parched and withered 

land? 
Or shall the groaning Spirit cast her load 
At the Redeemer's feet ? " 



In rueful tone, 
With some impatience in his mien, he spake: 
Back to my mind rushed all that had been 

urged 1 102 

To calm the Sufferer when his story closed; 
I looked for counsel as unbending now; 
But a discriminating sympathy 
Stooped to this apt reply : — 

" As men from men 
Do, in the constitution of their souls, 
Differ, by mystery not to be explained; 
And as we fall by various ways, and sink 
One deeper than another, self-condemned, 
Through manifold degrees of guilt and 

shame; mi 

So manifold and various are the ways 
Of restoration, fashioned to the steps 
Of all infirmity, and tending all 
To the same point, attainable by all — 
Peace in ourselves, and union with our God. 
For you, assuredly, a hopeful road 
Lies open : we have heard from you a voice 
At every moment softened hi its course 
By tenderness of heart ; have seen your 

eye, 1120 

Even like an altar lit by fire from heaven, 
Kindle before us. — Your discourse this day, 
That, like the fabled Lethe, wished to flow 
In creeping sadness, through oblivious 

shades 
Of death and night, has caught at every 

turn 
The colours of the sun. Access for you 
Is yet preserved to principles of truth, 
Which the imaginative Will upholds 
In seats of wisdom, not to be approached 
By the inferior Faculty that moulds, 1130 
With her minute and speculative pains, 
Opinion, ever changing ! 

I have seen 
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell; 
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
Listened intensely; and his countenance 

soon 
Brightened with joy; for from within were 

heard 
Murmurings, whereby the monitor ex- 
pressed 
Mysterious union with its native sea. 1140 
Even such a shell the universe itself 
Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 
Authentic tidings of invisible things; 



462 



THE EXCURSION" 



BOOK IV 



Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power; 
And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
Of endless agitation. , Here you stand, 
Adore, and worship, when you know it not; 
Pious beyond the intention of your thought; 
Devout above the meaning of your will. 1150 
— Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to 

feel. 
The estate of man would be indeed for- 
lorn 
If false conclusions of the reasoning power 
Made the eye blind, and closed the passages 
Through which the ear converses with the 

heart. 
Has not the soul, the being of your life, 
Received a shock of awful consciousness, 
In some calm season, when these lof ty rocks 
At night's approach bring down the un- 
clouded sky, 
To rest upon their circumambient walls ; 
A temple framing of dimensions vast, 1161 
And yet not too enormous for the sound 
Of human anthems, — choral song, or burst 
Sublime of instrumental harmony, 
To glorify the Eternal ! What if these 
Did never break the stillness that prevails 
Here, — if the solemn nightingale be 

mute, 
And the soft woodlark here did never chant 
Her vespers, — Nature fails not to provide 
Impulse and utterance. The whispering 
air 1 1 70 

Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights, 
And blind recesses of the caverned rocks; 
The little rills, and waters numberless, 
Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes 
With the loud streams: and often, at the 

hour 
When issue forth the first pale stars, is 

heard, 
Within the circuit of this fabric huge, 
One voice — the solitary raven, flying 
Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome, 
Unseen, perchance above all power of 
sight — 1 1 So 

An iron knell ! with echoes from afar 
Faint — and still fainter — as the cry, with 

which 
The wanderer accompanies her flight 
Through the calm region, fades upon the 

ear, 
Diminishing by distance till it seemed 
To expire; yet from the abyss is caught 

again, 
And yet again recovered ! 



But descending 
From these imaginative heights, that yield 
Far-stretching views into eternity, 
Acknowledge that to Nature's humbler 

power n 9 o 

Your cherished sullenness is forced to bend 
Even here, where her amenities are sown 
With sparing hand. Then trust yourself 

abroad 
To range her blooming bowers, and spa- 
cious fields, 
Where on the labours of the happy throng 
She smiles, including in her wide embrace 
City, and town, and tower, — and sea with 

ships 
Sprinkled; — be our Companion while we 

track 
Her rivers populous with gliding life ; 
While, free as air, o'er printless sands we 

march, 1200 

Or pierce the gloom of her majestic woods; 
Roaming, or resting under grateful shade 
In peace and meditative cheerfulness; 
Where living things, and things inanimate, 
Do speak, at Heaven's command, to eye 

and ear, 
And speak to social reason's inner sense, 
With inarticidate language. 

For, the Man — 
Who, in this spirit, communes with the 

Forms 
Of nature, who with understanding heart 
Both knows and loves such objects as excite 
No morbid passions, no disquietude, 1211 
No vengeance, and no hatred — needs must 

feel 
The joy of that pure principle of love 
So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aught 
Less pure and exquisite, he cannot choose 
But seek for objects of a kindred love 
In fellow-natures and a kindred joy. 
Accordingly he by degrees perceives 
His feelings of aversion softened down; 
A holy tenderness pervade his frame. 1220 
His sanity of reason not impaired, 
Say rather, all his thoughts now flowing 

clear, 
From a clear foimtain flowing, he looks 

round 
And seeks for good ; and finds the good he 

seeks: 
Until abhorrence and contempt are things 
He only knows by name ; and, if he hear, 
From other mouths, the language which 

they speak, 



BOOK IV 



THE EXCURSION 



463 



He is compassionate ; and has no thought, 
No feeling, which can overcome his love. 

And further; by contemplating these 
Forms 1230 

In the relations which they bear to man, 
He shall discern, how, through the various 

means 
Which silently they yisld, are multiplied 
The spiritual presences of absent things. 
Trust me, that for the instructed, time will 

come 
When they shall meet no object but may 

teach 
Some acceptable lesson to their minds 
Of human suffering, or of human joy. 
So shall they learn, while all things speak 

of man, 
Their duties from all forms; and general 
laws, 1240 

And local accidents, shall tend alike 
To rouse, to urge; and, with the will, 

confer 
The ability to spread the blessings wide 
Of true philanthropy. The light of love 
Not failing, perseverance from their steps 
Departing not, for them shall be con- 
firmed 
The glorious habit by which sense is made 
Subservient still to moral purposes, 
Auxiliar to divine. That change shall 

clothe 
The naked spirit, ceasing to deplore 1250 
The burthen of existence. Science then 
Shall be a precious visitant; and then, 
And only then, be worthy of her name : 
For then her heart shall kindle; her dull 

eye, 
Dull and inanimate, no more shall hang 
Chained to its object in brute slavery; 
But taught with patient interest to watch 
The processes of things, and serve the cause 
Of order and distinctness, not for this 
Shall it forget that its most noble use, 1260 
Its most illustrious province, must be found 
In furnishing clear guidance, a support 
Not treacherous, to the mind's excursive 

power. 
— So build we up the Being that we are ; 
Thus deeply drinking-in the soul of things 
We shall be wise perforce; and, while in- 
spired 
By choice, and conscious that the Will is 

free, 
Shall move unswerving, even as if impelled 



By strict necessity, along the path 1269 

Of order and of good. Whate'er we see, 
Or feel, shall tend to quicken and refine; 
Shall fix, in calmer seats of moral strength, 
Earthly desires ; and raise, to loftier heights 
Of divine love, our intellectual soul." 

Here closed the Sage that eloquent ha- 
rangue, 
Poured forth with fervour in continuous 

stream, 
Such as, remote, 'mid savage wilderness, 
An Indian Chief discharges from his breast 
Into the hearing of assembled tribes, 1279 
In open circle seated round, and hushed 
As the unbreathing air, when not a leaf 
Stirs in the mighty woods. — So did he 

speak : 
The words he uttered shall not pass away 
Dispersed, like music that the wind takes up 
By snatches, and lets fall, to be forgotten; 
No — they sank into me, the bounteous gift 
Of one whom time and nature had made 

wise, 
Gracing his doctrine with authority 
Which hostile spirits silently allow; 
Of one accustomed to desires that feed 1290 
On fruitage gathered from the tree of life ; 
To hopes on knowledge and experience 

built ; r 

Of one in whom persuasion and bebef 
Had ripened into faith, and faith become 
A passionate intuition; whence the Soid, 
Though bound to earth by ties of pity and 

love, 
From all injurious servitude was free. 

The Sun, before his place of rest were 
reached, 
Had yet to travel far, but unto us, 
To us who stood low in that hollow dell, 
He had become invisible, — a pomp 1301 
Leaving behind of yellow radiance spread 
Over the mountain sides, in contrast bold 
With ample shadows, seemingly, no less 
Than those resplendent lights, his rich be- 
quest; 
A dispensation of his evening power. 
— Adown the path that from the glen had 

led 
The funeral train, the Shepherd and his 

Mate 
Were seen descending: — forth to greet 

them ran 
Our little Page: the rustic pair approach; 



464 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK V 



And in the Matron's countenance may be 
read 13 u 

Plain indication that the words, which told 
How that neglected Pensioner was sent 
Before his time into a quiet grave, 
Had done to her humanity no wrong: 
But we are kindly welcomed — promptly 

served 
With ostentatious zeal. — Along the floor 
Of the small Cottage in the lonely Dell 
A grateful couch was spread for our repose; 
Where, hi the guise of mountaineers, we lay, 
Stretched upon fragrant heath, and lulled 
by soimd 132 1 

Of far-off torrents charming the still night, 
And, to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts, 
Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness. 



BOOK FIFTH 
THE PASTOR 

ARGUMENT 

Farewell to the Valley — Reflections — A 
large and populous Vale described — The Pas- 
tor's Dwelling, and some account of him — 
Church and Monuments — The Solitary musing, 
and where — Roused — In the Churchyard the 
Solitary communicates the thoughts which had 
recently passed through his mind — Lofty tone 
of the Wanderer's discourse of yesterday ad- 
verted to — Rite of Baptism, and the profes- 
sions accompanying it, contrasted with the real 
state of human life — Apology for the Rite — 
Inconsistency of the best men — Acknowledg- 
ment that practice falls far below the injunc- 
tions of duty as existing in the mind — General 
complaint of a falling-off in the value of life 
after the time of youth — Outward appearances 
of content and happiness in degree illusive — 
Pastor approaches — Appeal made to him — 
His answer — Wanderer in sympathy with him 
— Suggestion that the least ambitious enquirers 
may be most free from error — The Pastor is 
desired to give some portraits of the living or 
dead from his own observation of life among 
these Mountains — And for what purpose — 
Pastor consents — Mountain cottage — Excel- 
lent qualities of its Inhabitants — Solitary ex- 
presses his pleasure ; but denies the praise of 
virtue to worth of this kind — Feelings of the 
Priest before he enters upon his account of per- 
sons interred in the Churchyard — Graves of 
unbaptized Infants — Funeral and sepulchral 
observances, whence — Ecclesiastical Estab- 
lishments, whence derived — Profession of be- 
lief in the doctrine of Immortality. 



"Farewell, deep Valley, with thy one 

rude House, 
And its small lot of life-supporting fields, 
And guardian rocks I '■ — Farewell, attractive 

seat ! 
To the still influx of the morning light 
Open, and day's pure cheerfulness, but 

veiled 
From human observation, as if yet 
Primeval forests wrapped thee round with 

dark 
Impenetrable shade; once more farewell, 
Majestic circuit, beautiful abyss, 9 

By Nature destined from the birth of things 
For quietness profound ! " 

Upon the side 
Of that brown ridge, sole outlet of the vale 
Which foot of boldest stranger would at- 
tempt, 
Lingering behind my comrades, thus I 

breathed 
A partmg tribute to a spot that seemed 
Like the fixed centre of a troubled world. 
Again I halted with reverted eyes; 
The chain that would not slacken, was at 

length 
Snapt, — and, pursuing leisurely my way, 
How vain, thought I, is it bj r change of place 
To seek that comfort which the mind 
denies; 21 

Yet trial and temptations oft are shunned 
Wisely ; and by such tenure do we hold 
Frail life's possessions, that even they whose 

fate 
Yields no peculiar reason of complaint 
Might, by the promise that is here, be won 
To steal from active duties, and embrace 
Obscurity, and undisturbed repose. 
— Knowledge, methinks, in these disor- 
dered times, 
Should be allowed a privilege to have 30 
Her anchorites, like piety of old; 
Men, who, from faction sacred, and un- 
stained 
By war, might, if so minded, turn aside 
Uncensured, and subsist, a scattered few 
Livmg to God and nature, and content 
With that communion. Consecrated be 
The spots where such abide ! But happier 

still 
The Man, whom, furthermore, a hope at- 
tends 
That meditation and research may guide 
His privacy to principles and powers 40 
Discovered or invented; or set forth, 



BOOK V 



THE EXCURSION 



465 



Through his acquaintance with the ways of 

truth, 
In lucid order; so that, when his course 
Is run, some faithful eulogist may say, 
Ke sought not praise, and praise did over- 
look 
His unobtrusive merit; but his life, 
Sweet to himself, was exercised in good 
That shall survive his name and memory. 

Acknowledgments of gratitude sincere 49 
Accompanied these musings; fervent thanks_ 
For my own peacef id lot and happy choice ; 
A choice that from the passions of the" 

world 
Withdrew, and fixed me in a still retreat; 
Sheltered, but not to social duties lost, 
Secluded, but not buried; and with song 
Cheering my days, and with industrious 

thought ; 
With the ever-welcome company of books; 
With virtuous friendship's soul-sustaining 

aid, 
And with the blessings of domestic love. 

Thus occupied in mind I paced along, 60 
Following the rugged road, by sledge or 

wheel 
Worn in the moorland, till I overtook 
My two Associates, hi the morning sunshine 
Halting together on a rocky knoll, 
Whence the bare road descended rapidly 
To the green meadows of another vale. 

Here did our pensive Host put forth his 

hand 
In sign of farewell. " Nay," the old Man 

said, 
"The fragrant air its coolness still retains; 
Tbe herds and flocks are yet abroad to crop 
The dewy grass; you cannot leave us now, 71 
We must not part at this inviting hour." 
He yielded, though reluctant ; for his mind 
Instinctively disposed him to retire 
To his own covert; as a billow, heaved 
Upon the beach, rolls back into the sea. 
— So we descend: and winding round a 

rock 
Attain a point that showed the valley — 

stretched 
In length before us; and, not distant far, 
Upon a rising ground a grey church-tower, 
Whose battlements were screened by tufted 

trees. 81 

And towards a crystal Mere, that lay beyond 



Among steep hills and woods embosomed, 

flowed 
A copious stream with boldly - winding 

course ; 
Here traceable, there hidden — there again 
To sight restored, and glittering in the sun. 
On the stream's bank, and everywhere, ap- 
peared 
Fair dwellings, single, or in social knots; 
Some scattered o'er the level, others perched 
On the hill sides, ateheerful quiet scene, 90 
Now in its mornmgpurity arrayed. 

" As 'mid some happy valley of the 
Alps," 
Said I, " once happy, ere tyrannic power, 
Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss, 
Destroyed their unoffending commonwealth, 
A popular equality reigns here, 
Save for yon stately House beneath whose 

roof 
A rural lord might dwell." — "No feudal 

pomp, 
Or power," replied the Wanderer, " to that 

House 
Belongs, but £here in his allotted Home 100 
Abides, from year to year, a genuine 

Priest, 
The shepherd of his flock; or, as a king 
Is styled, when most affectionately praised, 
The father of his people. Such is he; 
And rich and poor, and young and old, 

rejoice 
Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouch- 
safed 
To me some portion of a kind regard; 
And something also of his inner mind 
Hath he imparted — - but I speak of him 
As he is known to all. 

The calm delights 
Of unambitious piety he chose, m 

And learning's solid dignity; though born 
Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful 

friends. 
Hither, hi prime of manhood, he withdrew 
From academic bowers. He loved the spot — 
Who does not love his native soil ? — he 

prized 
The ancient rural character, composed 
Of simple manners, feelings unsupprest 
And undisguised, and strong and serious 

thought, 
A character reflected in himself, 120 

With such embellishment as well be- 
seems 



466 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK V 



His rank and sacred function. This deep 

vale 
Winds far in reaches hidden from our sight, 
And one a turreted manorial hall 
Adorns, hi which the good Man's ancestors 
Have dwelt through ages, Patrons of this 

Cure. 
To them, and to his own judicious pains, 
The Vicar's dwelling, and the whole do- 
main, 
Owes that presiding aspect which might 

well 
Attract your notice ; statelier than could else 
Have been bestowed, through course of 
common chance, 131 

On an unwealthy mountain Benefice." 

This said, oft pausing, we pursued our 

way;" 
Nor reached the village-churchyard till the 

sun 
Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had 

risen 
Above the summits of the highest hills, 
And round our path darted oppressive 

beams. 

As chanced, the portals of the sacred 

Pile 
Stood open; and we entered. On my 

frame, 
At such transition from the fervid air, 140 
A grateful coolness fell, that seemed to 

strike 
The heart, in concert with that temperate 

awe 
And natural reverence which the place in- 
spired. 
Not raised in nice proportions was the pile, 
But large and massy ; for duration built ; 
With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld 
By naked rafters intricately crossed, 
Like leafless underboughs, in some thick 

wood, 
All withered by the depth of shade above. 
Admonitory texts inscribed the walls, 150 
Each, in its ornamental scroll, enclosed ; 
Each also crowned with winged heads — a 

pair 
Of rudely-painted Cherubim. The floor 
Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise, 
Was occupied by oaken benches ranged 
In seemly rows; the chancel only showed 
Some vain distinctions, marks of earthly 

state 



By immemorial privilege allowed ; 
Though with the Enchicture's special 

sanctity 
But ill according. An heraldic shield, 160 
Varying its tincture with the changeful 

light, 
Imbued the altar-window ; fixed aloft 
A faded hatchment bung, and one by time 
Yet undiscoloured. A capacious pew 
Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery 

lined ; 
And marble monuments were here displayed 
Thronging the walls; and on the floor be- 
neath 
Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems 

graven 
And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with 

small 
And shining effigies of brass inlaid. 170 

The tribute by these various records 
claimed, 
Duly we paid, each after each, and read 
The ordinary chronicle of birth, 
Office, alliance, and promotion — all 
Ending in dust ; of upright magistrates, 
Grave doctors strenuous for the mother- 
church, 
And uncorrupted senators, alike 
To king and people true. A brazen plate, 
Not easily deciphered, told of one 
Whose course of earthly honour was begun 
In quality of page among the train 181 

Of the eighth Henry, when he crossed the 

seas 
His royal state to show, and prove his 

strength 
In tournament, upon the fields of France. 
Another tablet registered the death, 
And praised the gallant bearing, of a Knight 
Tried in the sea-fights of the second 

Charles. 
Near this brave Knight his Father lay en- 
tombed ; 
And, to the silent language giving voice, 
I read, — how in his manhood's earlier day 
He, 'mid the afflictions of intestine war 191 
And rightful government subverted, found 
One only solace — that he had espoused 
A virtuous Lady tenderly beloved 
For her benign perfections ; and yet more 
Endeared to him, for this, that, in her state 
Of wedlock richly crowned with Heaven's 

regard, 
She with a numerous issue filled his house, 



BOOK V 



THE EXCURSION 



467 



Who throve, like plants, uninjured by the 

storm 
That laid their country waste. No need to 
speak 200 

Of less particular notices assigned 
To Youth or Maiden gone before their time, 
And Matrons and un wedded Sisters old; 
Whose charity and goodness were rehearsed 
In modest panegyric. 

" These dim lines, 
What would they tell? " said I, — but, from 

the task 
Of puzzling out that faded narrative, 
With whisper soft my venerable Friend 
Called me; and, looking down the dark- 
some aisle, 
I saw the Tenant of the lonely vale 210 

Standing apart; with curved arm re- 
clined 
On the baptismal font; his pallid face 
Upturned, as if his mind were rapt, or lost 
In some abstraction; — gracefully he stood, 
The semblance bearing of a sculptured form 
That leans upon a monumental urn 
In peace, from morn to night, from year to 
year. 

Him from that posture did the Sexton 

rouse ; 
Who entered, humming carelessly a tune, 
Continuation haply of the notes 220 

That had beguiled the work from which he 

came, 
With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder 

hung ; 
To be deposited, for future need, 
In their appointed place. The pale Recluse 
Withdrew; and straight we followed, — to 

a spot 
Where sun and shade were intermixed; for 

there 
A broad oak, stretching forth its leafy arms 
From an adjoining pasture, overhung 
Small space of that green churchyard with 

a light 
And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown 

wall 230 

My ancient Friend and I together took 
Our seats; and thus the Solitary spake, 
Standing before us: — 

" Did you note the mien 
Of that self-solaced, easy-hearted churl, 
Death's hireling, who scoops out his neigh- 
bour's grave, 
Or wraps an old acquaintance up in clay, 



All unconcerned as he would bind a sheaf, 
Or plant a tree ? And did you hear his 

voice ? 
I was abruptly summoned by the sound 
From some affecting images and thoughts, 
Which then were silent; but crave utter- 
ance now. 241 

Much," he continued, with dejected look, 
" Much, yesterday, was said in glowing 

phrase, 
Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes 
For future states of being; and the wings 
Of speculation, joyfully outspread, 
Hovered above our destiny on earth: 
But stoop, and place the prospect of the 

soul 
In sober contrast with reality, 
And man's substantial life. If this mute 

earth 250 

Of what it holds could speak, and every 

grave 
Were as a volume, shut, yet capable 
Of yielding its contents to eye and ear, 
We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and 

shame, 
To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how 

ill 
That which is done accords with what is 

known 
To reason, and by conscience is enjoined ; 
How idly, how perversely, life's whole 

course, 
To this conclusion, deviates from the line, 
Or of the end stops short, proposed to all 
At her aspiring outset. 

Mark the babe 261 
Not long accustomed to this breathing 

world; 
One that hath barely learned to shape a 

smile, 
Though yet irrational of soul, to grasp 
With tiny finger — to let fall a tear; 
And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, 
To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might 

seem, 
The outward functions of intelligent man; 
A grave proficient in amusive feats 
Of puppetry, that from the lap declare 270 
His expectations, and announce his claims 
To that inheritance which millions rue 
That they were ever born to ! In due time 
A day of solemn ceremonial comes; 
When they, who for this Minor hold in 

trust 



468 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK V 



Rights that transcend the loftiest heritage 
Of mere humanity, present their Charge, 
For this occasion daintily adorned, 
At the baptismal font. And when the pure 
And consecrating element hath cleansed 
The original stain, the child is there re- 
ceived 281 
Into the second ark, Christ's church, with 

trust 
That he, from wrath redeemed, therein 

shall float 
Over the billows of this troublesome world 
To the fair land of everlasting life. 
Corrupt affections, covetous desires, 
Are all renounced; high as the thought of 

man 
Can carry virtue, virtue is professed; 
A dedication made, a promise given 
For due provision to control and guide, 290 
And unremitting progress to ensure 
In holiness and truth." 

" You cannot blame," 
Here interposing fervently I said, 
" Rites which attest that Man by nature lies 
Bedded for good and evil in a gulf 
Fearfully low ; nor will your judgment scorn 
Those services, whereby attempt is made 
To lift the creature toward that eminence 
On which, now fallen, erewhile in majesty 
He stood ; or if not so, whose top serene 
At least he feels 't is given him to de- 
scry ; 301 
Not without aspirations, evermore 
Returning, and injunctions from within 
Doubt to cast off and weariness; in trust 
That what the Soul perceives, if glory lost, 
May be, through pains and persevering 

hope, 
Recovered; or, if hitherto unknown, 
Lies within reach, and one day shall be 
gained." 

" I blame them not," he calmly answered 

— "no; 
The outward ritual and established forms 
With which communities of men invest 311 
These inward feelings, and the aspiring vows 
To which the lips give public utterance 
Are both a natural process; and by me 
Shall pass uncensured; though the issue 

prove, 
Bringing from age to age its own reproach, 
Incongruous, impotent, and blank. — But, 

oh! 
If to be weak is to be wretched — miserable, 



As the lost Angel by a human voice 
Hath mournfully pronounced, then, in my 
mind, 320 

Far better not to move at all than move 
By impulse sent from such illusive power, — 
That finds and cannot fasten down; that 

grasps 
And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps ; 
That tempts, emboldens — for a time sus- 
tains, 
And then betrays; accuses and inflicts 
Remorseless punishment; and so retreads 
The inevitable circle: better far 
Than this, to graze the herb hi thoughtless 

peace, 
By foresight or remembrance, undisturbed ! 

Philosophy ! and thou more vaunted 

name 331 

Religion ! with thy statelier retinue, 
Faith, Hope, and Charity — from the visible 

world 
Choose for your emblems whatsoe'er ye find 
Of safest guidance or of firmest trust — 
The torch, the star, the anchor; nor except 
The cross itself, at whose unconscious feet 
The generations of mankind have knelt 
Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears, 
And through that conflict seeking rest — of 

you, 340 

High-titled Powers, am I constrained to 

ask, 
Here standing, with the unvoyageable sky 
In faint reflection of infinitude 
Stretched overhead, and at my pensive feet 
A subterraneous magazine of bones, 
In whose dark vaults my own shall soon be 

laid, 
Where are your triumphs ? your dominion 

where ? 
And in what age admitted and confirmed ? 
— Not for a happy land do I enquire, 
Island or grove, that hides a blessed few 
Who, with obedience willing and sincere, 351 
To yotir serene authorities conform; 
But whom, I ask, of individual Souls, 
Have ye withdrawn from passion's crooked 

ways, 
Inspired, and thoroughly fortified ? — If the 

heart 
Could be inspected to its inmost folds 
By sight undazzled with the glare of praise, 
Who shall be named — in the resplendent 

line 
Of sages, martyrs, confessors — the man 



BOOK V 



THE EXCURSION 



469 



Whom the hest might of faith, wherever 
fixed, 360 

For one day's little compass, has pre- 
served 
From painful and discreditable shocks 
Of contradiction, from some vague desire 
Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse 
To some unsanctioned fear ? " 

" If this be so, 
And Man," said I, " be in his noblest shape 
Thus pitiably infirm ; then, he who made, 
And who shall judge the creature, will for- 
give. 
— Yet, in its general tenor, your complaint 
Is all too true; and surely not misplaced: 
For, from this pregnant spot of ground, 
such thoughts 371 

Rise to the notice of a serious mind 
By natural exhalation. With the dead 
In their repose, the living in their mirth, 
Who can reflect, unmoved, upon the round 
Of smooth and solemnized complacencies, 
By which, on Christian lands, from age to 

age 
Profession mocks performance. Earth is 

sick, 
And Heaven is weary, of the hollow words 
Which States and Kingdoms utter when 
they talk 3S0 

Of truth and justice. Turn to private life 
And social neighbourhood; look we to our- 
selves; 
A light of duty shines on every day 
For all; and yet how few are warmed or 

cheered ! 
How few who mingle with their fellow-men 
And still remain self-governed, and apart, 
Like this our honoured Friend; and thence 

acquire 
Right to expect his vigorous decline, 
That promises to the end a blest old age ! " 

" Yet," with a smile of triumph thus 

exclaimed 390 

The Solitary, " hi the life of man, 
If to the poetry of common speech 
Faith may be given, we see as in a glass 
A true reflection of the circling year, 
With all its seasons. Grant that Spring is 

there, 
In spite of many a rough untoward blast, 
Hopeful and promising with buds and 

flowers; 
Yet where is glowing Summer's long rich 

day, 



That ought to follow faithfully expressed ? 

And mellow Autumn, charged with boun- 
teous fruit, 400 

Where is she imaged ? hi what favoured 
clime 

Her lavish pomp, and ripe magnificence ? 

— Yet, while the better part is missed, the 
worse 

In man's autumnal season is set forth 

With a resemblance not to be denied, 

And that contents him ; bowers that hear 
no more 

The voice of gladness, less and less supply 

Of outward sunshine and internal warmth ; 

And, with this change, sharp ah" and falling 
leaves, 

Foretelling aged Winter's desolate sway. 

How gay the habitations that bedeck 4 n 
This fertile valley ! Not a house but seems 
To give assurance of content within; 
Embosomed happiness, and placid love; 
As if the sunshine of the day were met 
With answering brightness hi the hearts of 

all 
Who walk this favoured ground. But 

chance-regards, 
And notice forced upon incurious ears; 
These, if these only, acting in despite 
Of the encomiums by my Friend pronounced 
On humble life, forbid the judging mind 421 
To trust the smiling aspect of this fair 
And noiseless commonwealth. The simple 

race 
Of mountaineers (by nature's self removed 
From foul temptations, and by constant 

care 
Of a good shepherd tended as themselves 
Do tend their flocks) partake man's general 

lot 
With little mitigation. They escape, 
Perchance, the heavier woes of guilt; feel 

not 
The tedium of fantastic idleness: 430 

Yet life, as with the multitude, with them 
Is fashioned like an ill-constructed tale ] ' 
That on the outset wastes its gay desires, 
Its fair adventures, its enlivening hopes, 
And pleasant interests — for the sequel 

leaving 
Old things repeated with diminished grace; 
And all the laboured novelties at best 
Imperfect substitutes, whose use and power 
Evince the want and weakness whence they 

spring." 



47 o 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK V 



While in this serious mood we held dis- 
course, 44° 
The reverend Pastor toward the churchyard 

gate 
Approached; and, with a mild respectful air 
Of native cordiality, our Friend 
Advanced to greet him. With a gracious 

mien 
Was he received, and mutual joy prevailed. 
Awhile they stood in conference, and I guess 
That he, who now upon the mossy wall 
Sate by my side, had vanished, if a wish 
Could have transferred him to the Hying 

clouds, 
Or the least penetrable hiding-place 450 
In his own valley's rocky guardianship. 
— For me, I looked upon the pair, well 

pleased : 
Nature had framed them both, and both 

were marked 
By circumstance, with intermixture fine 
Of contrast and resemblance. To an oak 
Hardy and grand, a weather-beaten oak, 
Fresh in the strength and majesty of age, 
One might be likened : flourishing appeared, 
Though somewhat past the fulness of his 

prime, 
The other — like a stately sycamore, 460 
That spreads, hi gentle pomp, its honied 
shade. 

A general greeting was exchanged; and 

soon 
The Pastor learned that his approach had 

given 
A welcome interruption to discourse 
Grave, and in truth too often sad. — " Is 

Man 
A child of hope ? Do generations press 
On generations, without progress made ? 
Halts the individual, ere his hairs be grey, 
Perforce ? Are we a creature in whom 

good 
Preponderates, or evil ? Doth the will 470 
Acknowledge reason's law ? A living 

power 
Is virtue, or no better than a name, 
Fleeting as health or beauty, and unsound ? 
So that the only substance which remains, 
(For thus the tenor of complaint hath run) 
Among so many shadows, are the pains 
And penalties of miserable life, 
Doomed to decay, and then expire in dust ! 
— Our cogitations, this way have been 

drawn, 



These are the points," the Wanderer said, 

" 011 which 4 So 

Our inquest turns. — Accord, good Sir ! 

the light 
Of your experience to dispel this gloom: 
By your persuasive wisdom shall the heart 
That frets, or languishes, be stilled and 
cheered." 

" Our nature," said the Priest, in mild 
reply, 
" Angels may weigh and fathom : they per- 
ceive, 
With undistempered and unclouded spirit, 
The object as it is; but, for ourselves, 
That speculative height we may not reach. 
The good and evil are our own; and we 490 
Are that which we would contemplate from 

far. 
Knowledge, for us, is difficult to gain — 
Is difficult to gain, and hard to keep — 
As virtue's self; like virtue is beset 
With snares; tried, tempted, subject to de- 
cay. 
Love, admiration, fear, desire, and hate, 
Blind were we without these : through these 

alone 
Are capable to notice or discern 
Or to record ; we judge, but cannot be 
Indifferent judges. 'Spite of proudest 
boast, 500 

Reason, best reason, is to imperfect man 
An effort only, and a noble aim ; 
A crown, an attribute of sovereign power, 
Still to be courted • — never to be won. 
— Look forth, or each man dive into him- 
self; 
What sees he but a creature too perturbed ; 
That is transported to excess; that yearns, 
Regrets, or trembles, wrongly, or too much; 
Hopes rashly, in disgust as rash recoils; 
Battens on spleen, or moulders in despair ? 
Thus comprehension fails, ; and truth is 
missed ; 511 

Thus darkness and delusion round our path 
Spread, from disease, whose subtle injury 

lurks 
Within the very faculty of sight. 

Yet for the general purposes of faith 
In Providence, for solace and support, 
We may not doubt that who can best sub- 
ject 
The will to reason's law, can strictliest live 
And act in that obedience, he shall gain 



BOOK V 



THE EXCURSION 



47 1 



The clearest apprehension of those truths, 
Which unassisted reason's utmost power 521 
Is too infirm to reach. But, waiving this, 
And our regards confining within bounds 
Of less exalted consciousness, through 

which 
The very multitude are free to range, 
We safely may affirm that human life 
Is either fair and tempting, a soft scene 
Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul, 
Or a forbidden tract of cheerless view; 
Even as the same is looked at, or ap- 
proached. 530 
Thus, when hi changeful April fields are 

white 
With new-fallen snow, if from the sullen 

north 
Your walk conduct you hither, ere the sun 
Hath gained his noontide height, this 

churchyard, filled 
With mounds transversely lying side by 

side 
From east to west, before you will appear 
An unillummed, blank, and dreary plain, 
With more than wmtry cheerlessness and 

gloom 
Saddening the heart. Go forward, and 

look back; 
Look, from the quarter whence the lord of 

light, 540 

Of life, of love, and gladness doth dispense 
His beams; 'which, uuexcluded in their fall, 
PUpon the "southern side of every grave 
TIave gently exercised a melting power; 
Then will a vernal prospect greet your eye, 
All fresh and beautiful, and green and 

bright, 
Hopeful and cheerful: — vanished is the pall 
That overspread and chilled the sacred turf, 
Vanished or hidden ; and the whole domain, 
To some, too lightly minded, might appear 
A meadow carpet for the dancing hours. 551 
— This contrast, not unsuitable to life, 
\ Is to that other state more apposite, 
Death and its two-fold aspect ! wintry — 

one, 
Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut 

out; 
The other, which the ray divine hath 

touched, 
Replete with vivid promise, bright as 

spring." 

" We see, then, as we feel," the Wan- 
derer thus 



With a complacent animation spake, 
" And in your judgment, Sir ! the mind's 
repose 56a 

On evidence is not to be ensured 
By act of naked reason. Moral truth 
Is no mechanic structure, built by rule; 
And which, once built, retains a stedfast 

shape 
And undisturbed proportions; but a thing 
Subject, you deem, to vital accidents; 
And, like the water-lily, lives and thrives, 
Whose root is fixed in stable earth, whose 

head 
Floats on the tossing waves. With joy sin- 
cere 
I re-salute these sentiments confirmed 570 
By^yjo ur~aut hority. But how acquire 
Themward principle that gives effect 
To outward argument; the passive wdl 
•Meek to admit; the active energy, 
Strong and unbounded to embrace, and firm 
To keep and cherish ? how shall man unite 
With self-forgetting tenderness of heart 
An earth-despising dignity of sold ? 
Wise in that union, and without it blind ! " 

" The way," said I, " to court, if not ob- 
tain 580 
The ingenuous mind, apt to be set aright; 
This, in the lonely dell discoursing, you 
Declared at large; and by what exercise 
From visible nature, or the inner self 
Power may be trained, and renovation 

brought 
To those who need the gift. But, after all, 
Is aught so certain as that man is doomed 
To breathe beneath a vault of ignorance ? 
The natural roof of that dark house in 

which 
His soul is pent ! How little can be 
known — 590 

This is the wise man's sigh; how far we 

err — 
This is the good man's not unf requent pang ! 
And they perhaps err least, the lowly class 
Whom a benign necessity compels 
To follow reason's least ambitious course ; 
Such do I mean who, unperplexed by 

doubt, 
And unincited by a wish to look 
Into high objects farther than they may, 
Pace to and fro, from morn till eventide. 
The narrow avenue of daily toil 600 

For daily bread." 

" Yes," buoyantly exclaimed 



47 2 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK V 



The pale Recluse — " praise to the sturdy 

plough, 
And patient spade; praise to the simple 

crook, 
And ponderous loom — resounding while it 

hulds 
Body and mind in one captivity; 
And let the light mechanic tool be hailed 
With honour ; which, encasing by the power 
Of long companionship, the artist's hand, 
Cuts off that hand, with all its world of 

nerves, 609 

From a too busy commerce with the heart ! 

— Inglorious implements of craft and toil, 
Both ye that shape and budd, and ye that 

force, 
By slow solicitation, earth to yield 
Her annual bounty, sparingly dealt forth 
With wise reluctance; you would I extol, 
Not for gross good alone which ye produce, 
But for the impertinent and ceaseless strife 
Of proofs and reasons ye preclude — in 

those 
Who to your dull society are born, 
And with their humble birthright rest con- 
tent. 620 

— Woidd I had ne'er renounced it ! " 

A slight flush 
Of moral anger previously had tinged 
The old Man's cheek; but, at this closing 

turn 
Of self-reproach, it passed away. Said he, 
" That which we feel we utter ; as we think 
So have we argued; reaping for our pains 
No visible recompense. For our relief 
You," to the Pastor turning thus he spake, 
" Have kindly interposed. May I entreat 
Your further help ? The mine of real life 
Dig for us; and present us, in the shape 631 
Of virgin ore, that gold which we, by pains 
Fruitless as those of aery alchemists, 
Seek from the torturing crucible. [There lies 
Around us a domain where you have long 
Watched both the outward course and inner 

heart : 
Give us, for our abstractions, solid facts; 
For our disputes, plain pictures.*~7Say what 

man — ' 

He is who cultivates yon hanging field; 
What qualities of mind she bears, who 

comes, 640 

For morn and evening service, with her 

pail, 
To that green pasture; place before our 

sight 



The family who dwell within yon house 
Fenced round with glittering laurel; or in 

that 
Below, from which the curling smoke as- 

scends. 
Or rather, as we stand on holy earth, 
And have the dead around us, take from 

them 
Your instances; for they are both best 

known, 
And by frail man most equitably judged. 
Epitomise the life ; pronounce, you can, 650 
Authentic epitaphs on some of these 
Who, from their lowly mansions hither 

brought, 
Beneath this turf lie mouldering at our 

feet: 
So, by your records, may our doubts be 

solved ; 
And so, not searching higher we may learn 
To prize the breath we share with human 

kind; 
And look upon the dust of man with awe." 

The Priest replied — " An office you im- 
pose 
For which pecxdiar requisites are mine; 
Yet much, I feel, is wanting — else the 

task 660 

Would be most grateful. True indeed it 

is 
That they whom death has hidden from our 

sight 
Are worthiest of the mind's regard; with 

these 
The future cannot contradict the past: 
Mortality's last exercise and proof 
Is undergone ; the transit made that shows 
The very Soul, revealed as she departs. 
Yet, on your first suggestion, will I give, 
Ere we descend into these silent vaults, 
One picture from the living. 

You behold, 
High on the breast of yon dark mountain, 

dark 671 

With stony barrenness, a shining speck 
Bright as a sunbeam sleeping till a shower 
Brush it away, or cloud pass over it; 
And snch it might be deemed — a sleeping 

sunbeam ; 
But 't is a plot of cultivated ground, 
Cut off, an island in the dusky waste: 
And that attractive brightness is its own. 
The lofty site, by nature framed to tempt 
Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones 680 



BOOK V 



THE EXCURSION 



473 



The tiller's hand, a hermit might have 

chosen, 
For opportunity presented, thence 
Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er 

land 
And ocean, and look down upon the works, 
The habitations, and the ways of men, 
Himself unseen ! But no tradition tells 
That ever hermit dipped his maple dish 
In the sweet spring that lurks 'mid yon 

green fields; 
And no such visionary views belong 
To those who occupy and till the ground, 
High on that mountain where they long 
have dwelt 691 

A wedded pair in childless solitude. 
A house of stones collected on the spot, 
By rude hands built, with rocky knolls in 

front, 
Backed also by a ledge of rock, whose 

crest 
Of birch-trees waves over the chimney top; 
A rough abode — in colour, shape, and size, 
Such as hi unsafe times of border-war 
Might have been wished for and contrived, 

to elude 
The eye of roving plunderer — for their 
need 700 

Suffices; and unshaken bears the assault 
Of their most dreaded foe, the strong South- 
west 
In anger blowing from the distant sea. 
— Alone within her solitary hut ; 
There, or within the compass of her fields, 
At any moment may the Dame be found, 
True as the stock-dove to her shallow nest 
And to the grove that holds it. She be- 
guiles 
By intermingled work of house and field 
The summer's day, and winter's; with suc- 
cess 710 
Not equal, but sufficient to maintain, 
Even at the worst, a smooth stream of con- 
tent, 
Until the expected hour at which her Mate 
From the far-distant quarry's vault re- 
turns ; 
And by his converse crowns a silent day 
With evening cheerfulness. In powers of 

mind, 
In scale of culture, few among my flock 
Hold lower rank than this sequestered pair: 
But true humility descends from heaven; 
And that best gift of heaven hath fallen on 
them ; 720 



Abundant recompense for every want. 

— Stoop from your height, ye proud, and 

copy these ! 
Who, in their noiseless dwelling-place, can 

hear 
The voice of wisdom whispering scripture 

texts 
For the mind's government, or tempter's 

peace ; 
And recommending for their mutual need, 
Forgiveness, patience, hope, and charity ! " 

" Much was I pleased," the grey-haired 

Wanderer said, 
" When to those shining fields our notice 

first 
You turned; and yet more pleased have 

from your lips 730 

Gathered this fair report of them who 

dwell 
In that retirement; whither, by such course 
Of evil hap and good as oft awaits 
A tired way-faring man, once 7 was brought 
While traversing alone yon mountain pass. 
Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell, 
And night succeeded with unusual gloom, 
So hazardous that feet and hands became 
Guides better than mine eyes — until a 

light 
High in the gloom appeared, too high, 

methought, 740 

For human habitation; but I longed 
To reach it, destitute of other hope. 
I looked with steadiness as sailors look 
On the north star, or watch-tower's distant 

lamp, 
And saw the light — now fixed — and shift- 
ing now — 
Not like a dancing meteor, but in line 
Of never- varying motion, to and fro. 
It is no night-fire of the naked hills, 
Thought I — some friendly covert must be 

near. 
With this persuasion thitherward my steps 
I turn, and reach at last the guiding 

light; 75 1 

Joy to myself ! but to the heart of her 
Who there was standing on the open hill, 
(The same kind Matron whom your tongue 

hath praised) 
Alarm and disappointment ! The alarm 
Ceased, when she learned through what 

mishap I came, 
And by what help had gamed those distant 

fields. 



474 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK V 



Drawn froni her cottage, on that aery 

height, 
Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood, 
Or paced the ground — to guide her Hus- 
band home, 760 
By that unwearied signal, kenned afar; 
An anxious duty ! which the lofty site, 
Traversed but by a few irregular paths, 
Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance 
Detains him after his accustomed hour 
Till night lies black upon the ground. ' But 

come, 
Come,' said the Matron, • to our poor abode ; 
Those dark rocks hide it ! ' Entering, I 

beheld 
A blazing fire — beside a cleanly hearth 
Sate down; and to her office, with leave 

asked, 770 

The Dame returned. 

Or ere that glowing pile 
Of mountain turf required the builder's 

hand 
Its wasted splendour to repair, the door 
Opened, and she re-entered with glad looks, 
Her Helpmate following. Hospitable fare, 
Frank conversation, made the evening's 

treat : 
Need a bewildered traveller wish for more? 
But more was given; I studied as we sate 
By the bright fire, the good Man's form, 

and face 
Not less than beautiful; an open brow 780 
Of undisturbed humanity; a cheek 
Suffused with something of a feminine 

hue; 
Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard; 
But, in the quicker turns of the discourse, 
Expression slowly varying, that evinced 
A tardy apprehension. From a fount 
Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time, 
But honoured once, those features and that 

mien 
May have descended, though I see them 

here. 
In such a man, so gentle and subdued, 790 
Withal so graceful in his gentleness, 
A race illustrious for heroic deeds, 
Humbled, but not degraded, may expire. 
This pleasing fancy (cherished and upheld 
By sundry recollections of such fall 
From high to low, ascent from low to high, 
As books record, and even the careless 

mind 
Cannot but notice among men and things) 
Went with me to the place of my repose. 



Roused by the crowing cock at dawn of 
day, goo 

I yet had risen too late to interchange 

A morning salutation with my Host, 

Gone forth already to the far-off seat 

Of his day's work. ' Three dark mid-winter 
months 

Pass,' said the Matron, ' and I never see, 

Save when the sabbath brings its kind re- 
lease, 

My Helpmate's face by light of day. He 
quits 

His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns. 

And, through Heaven's blessing, thus we 
gain the bread 

For which we pray; and for the wants pro- 
vide 810 

Of sickness, accident, and helpless age. 

Companions have I many; many friends, 

Dependants, comforters — my wheel, my 
fire, 

All day the house-clock ticking hi mine 
ear, 

The cackling hen, the tender chicken 
brood, 

And the wild birds that gather round my 
porch. 

This honest sheep-dog's countenance I 
read ; 

With him can talk; nor blush to waste a 
word 

On creatures less intelligent and shrewd. 

And if the blustering wind that drives the 
clouds S20 

Care not for me, he lingers round my 
door, 

And makes me pastime when our tempers 
suit ; — 

But, above all, my thoughts are my sup- 
port, \ 

My comfort: — would that they were 
oftener fixed 

On what, for guidance in the way that 
leads 

To heaven, I know, by my Redeemer 
taught.' 

The Matron ended — nor could I forbear 

To exclaim — ' O happy ! yielding to the 
law 

Of these privations, richer in the main ! — 

/While thankless thousands are opprest and 

clogged 830 

By ease and leisure ; by the very wealth 

And pride of opportunity made poor; 

While tens of thousands falter in their path, 



BOOK V 



THE EXCURSION 



475 



And sink, through utter want of cheering 

light; 
For you the hours of labour do not flag ; 
For you each evening hath its sliming star, 
And every sabbath-day its golden sunT^J 

" Yes ! " said the Solitary with a smile 
That seemed to break from an expanding 

heart, 
" The untutored bird may found, and so 

construct, 840 

And with such soft materials line, her 

nest 
Fixed in the centre of a prickly brake, 
That the thorns wound her not; they only 

guard. 
Powers not unjustly likened to those gifts 
Of happy instinct which the woodland bird 
Shares with her species, nature's grace 

sometimes 
Upon the individual doth confer, 
Among her higher creatures born and 

trained 
To use of reason. And, I own that, tired 
Of the ostentatious world — a swelling stage 
With empty actions and vain passions 

stuffed, 851 

And from the private struggles of mankind 
Hoping far less than I coidd wish to hope, 
Far less than once I trusted and believed — 
I love to hear of those, who, not contending 
Nor summoned to contend for virtue's 

prize, 
Miss not the humbler good at which they 

aim, 
Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt 
The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn 
Into their contraries the petty plagues 860 
And hindrances with which they stand 

beset. 
In early youth, among my native hills, 
I knew a Scottish Peasant who possessed 
A few small crofts of stone-encumbered 

ground ; 
Masses of every shape and size, that lay 
Scattered about under the mouldering 

walls 
Of a rough precipice ; and some, apart, 
In quarters unobnoxious to such chance, 
As if the moon had showered them down 

in spite. 
But he repined not. Though the plough 

was scared 870 

By these obstructions, 'round the shady 

stones 



' A fertilising moisture,' said the Swain, 
'Gathers, and is preserved; and feeding 

dews 
' And damps, through all the droughty 

summer day 
' From out their substance issuing, maintain 
'Herbage that never fails; no grass springs 

up 
' So green, so fresh, so plentiful, as mine ! ' 
But thinly sown these natures; rare, at 

least, 
The mutual aptitude of seed and soil 
That yields such kindly product. He, whose 
bed 8S0 

Perhaps yon loose sods cover, the poor 

Pensioner 
Brought yesterday from our sequestered 

dell 
Here to lie down in lasting quiet, he, 
If living now, could otherwise report 
Of rustic lbneliness: that grey-haired Or- 
phan — 
So call him, for humanity to him 
No parent was — feelingly could have told, 
In life, in death, what solitude can breed 
Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice; 
Or, if it breed not, hath not power to cure. 
— But your compliance, Sir ! with our re- 
quest 891 
My words too long have hindered." 

Undeterred, 
Perhaps incited rather, by these shocks, 
In no imgracious opposition, given 
To the confiding spirit of his own 
Experienced faith, the Reverend Pastor 

said, 
Around him looking; " Where shall I be- 
gin ? 
Who shall be first selected from my flock 
Gathered together in their peaceful fold ? " 
He paused — and having lifted up his eyes 
To the pure heaven, he cast them down 
again 90 1 

Upon the earth beneath his feet; and 
spake : — 

" To a mysteriously-united pair 
This place is consecrate ; to Death and Life, 
And to the best affections that proceed 
From their conjunction; consecrate to faith 
In him who bled for man upon the cross; 
Hallowed to revelation; and no less 
To reason's mandates: and the hopes di- 
vine 
Of pure imagination; — above all, 910 



476 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK V 



To charity, and love, that have provided, 
Within these precincts, a capacious bed 
And receptacle, open to the good 
And evil, to the just and the unjust; 
In which they find an equal resting-place: 
Even as the multitude of kindred brooks 
And streams, whose murmur fills this hol- 
low vale, 
Whether their course be turbulent or 

smooth, 
Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost 
Within the bosom of yon crystal Lake, 920 
And end their journey in the same repose. 

And blest are they who sleep; and we 
that know, 
While in a spot like this we breathe and 

walk, 
That all beneath us by the wings are cov- 
ered 
Of motherly humanity, outspread 
And gathering all within their tender shade, 
Though loth and slow to come ! A battle- 
field, 
In stillness left Avhen slaughter is no more, 
With this compared, makes a strange spec- 
tacle ! 
A dismal prospect yields the wild shore 
strewn 93° 

With wrecks, and trod by feet of young 

and old 
Wandering about in miserable search 
Of friends or kindred, whom the angry 

sea 
Restores not to their prayer ! Ah ! who 

would think 
That all the scattered subjects which com- 
pose 
Earth's melancholy vision through the space 
Of all her climes — these wretched, these 

depraved, 
To virtue lost, insensible of peace, 
From the delights of charity cut off, 
To pity dead, the oppressor and the op- 
prest ; 94° 

Tyrants who utter the destroying word, 
And slaves who will consent to be de- 
stroyed — 
Were of one species with the sheltered few, 
Who, with a dutiful and tender hand, 
Lodged, in a dear appropriated spot, 
This file of infants; some that never 

breathed 
The vital air; others, which, though al- 
lowed 



That privilege, did yet expire too soon, 
Or with too brief a warning, to admit 
Administration of the holy rite 950 

That lovingly consigns the babe to the 

arms 
Of Jesus, and his everlasting care. 
These that in trembling hope are laid apart ; 
And the besprinkled nursling, unrequired 
Till he begins to smile upon the breast 
That feeds him ; and the tottering little-one 
Taken from air and sunshine when the 

rose 
Of infancy first blooms upon his cheek; 
The thinking, thoughtless, school-boy; the 

bold youth 
Of soul impetuous, and the bashfid maid 
Smitten while all the promises of life 961 
Are opening round her; those of middle 

age, 
Cast down while confident in strength they 

stand, 
Like pillars fixed more firmly, as might 

seem, 
And more secure, by very weight of all 
That, for support, rests on them; the de- 
cayed 
And burthensome; and lastly, that poor few 
W hose light of reason is with age extinct ; 
The hopeful and the hopeless, first and 

last, 
The earliest summoned and the longest 

spared — 970 

Are here deposited, with tribute paid 
Various, but unto each some tribute paid ; 
As if, amid these peaceful hills and groves, 
Society were touched with kind concern, 
And gentle ' Nature grieved, that one 

should die ; ' 
Or, if the change demanded no regret, 
Observed the liberating stroke — and 

blessed. 

And whence that tribute ? wherefore 

these regards ? 
Not from the naked Heart alone of Man 
(Though claiming high distinction upon 

earth 9 80 

As the sole spring and fountain-head of 

tears, 
His own peculiar utterance for distress 
Or gladness) — No," the philosophic Priest 
Continued, " 'tis not in the vital seat 
Of feeling to produce them,\without aid 
From the pure soul, the soul>-snblime and 

pure; 



BOOK VI 



THE EXCURSION 



477 



With her two faculties of eye and ear, I 

The one by which a creature, whom his 

sins 
Have rendered prone, can upward look to 
heaven; 98 j 

The other that empowers him to perceive 
The voice of Deity, on height and plain, 
Whispering those truths hi stillness, which 

the Word, 
To the four quarters of the winds, pro- 
claims. 
Not without such assistance could the use 
Of these benign observances prevail: 
Thus are they born, thus fostered, thus 

maintained; 
And by the care prospective of our wise 
Forefathers, who, to guard agahist the 

shocks 
The fluctuation and decay of things, 999 
Embodied and established these high truths 
In solemn institutions : — men convinced 
That life is love and immortality, 
The being one, and one the element. 
There lies the channel, and original bed, 
From the beginning, hollowed out and 

scooped 
For Man's affections — else betrayed and 

lost, 
And swallowed up 'mid deserts infinite ! 
This is the genuine course, the aim, and end 
Of prescient reason; all conclusions else 
Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and per- 
verse. IOIO 
The faith partaking of those holy times, 
Life, I repeat, is energy of love 
Divine or human; exercised in pain, 
In strife, and tribulation; and ordained, 
If so approved and sanctified, to pass, 
Through shades and silent rest, to endless 

joy." 

BOOK SIXTH 

THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE 
MOUNTAINS 

ARGUMENT 

Poet's Address to the State and Church of 
England — The Pastor not inferior to the an- 
cient Worthies of the Church — He begins his 
Narratives with an instance of unrequited Love 
— Anguish of mind subdued, and how — The 
lonely Miner — An instance of perseverance — 
Which leads by contrast to an example of 
abused talents, irresolution, and weakness — 



Solitary, applying this covertly to his own case, 
asks for an instance of some Stranger, whose 
dispositions may have led him to end his days 
here — Pastor, in answer, gives an account of 
the harmonising influence of Solitude upon two 
men of opposite principles, who had encoun- 
tered agitations in public life — The rule by 
which Peace may be obtained expressed, and 
where — Solitary hints at an overpowering Fa- 
tality — Answer of the Pastor — What subjects 
he will exclude from his Narratives — Conversa- 
tion upon this — Instance of an unamiable char- 
acter, a Female, and why given — Contrasted 
with this, a meek sufferer, from unguarded and 
betrayed love — Instance of heavier guilt, and 
its consequences to the Offender — With this 
instance of a Marriage Contract broken is con- 
trasted one of a Widower, evidencing his faith- 
ful affection towards his deceased wife by his 
care of their female Children. 

Hail to the crown by Freedom shaped — 

to gird 
An English Sovereign's brow ! and to the 

throne 
Whereon he sits ! Whose deep foundations 

lie 
In veneration and the people's love; 
Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law. 
— Hail to the State of England ! And con- 
join 
With tins a salutation as devout, 
Made to the spiritual fabric of her Church; 
Founded in truth; by blood of Martyrdom 
Cemented; by the hands of Wisdom 

reared 10 

In beauty of holiness, with ordered pomp, 
Decent and unreproved. The voice, that 

greets 
The majesty of both, shall pray for both; 
That, mutually protected and sustained, 
They may endure long as the sea surrounds 
This favoured Land, or sunshine warms her 

soil. 

And 0, ye swelling hills, and spacious 
plains 
Besprent from shore to shore with steeple- 
towers, 
And spires whose 'silent finger points to 

heaven; ' 
Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 20 
Of ancient minster lifted above the cloud 
Of the dense air, which town or city breeds 
To intercept the sun's glad beams — may 

ne'er 
That true succession fail of English hearts, 



478 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VI 



Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive 
What hi those""lloly structures ye possess 
Of ornamental interest, and the charm 
Of pious sentiment diffused afar, 
And human charity, and social love. 

— Thus never shall the indignities of time 
Approach their reverend graces, unop- 
posed; 3' 

Nor shall the elements be free to hurt 
Their fair proportions; nor the blinder rage 
Of bigot zeal madly to overturn ; 
And, if the desolating hand of war 
Spare them, they shall continue to bestow 
Upon the thronged abodes of busy men 
(Depraved, and ever prone to fill the mind 
Exclusively with transitory things) 
An ah and mien of dignified pursuit; 40 
Of sweet civility, on rustic wilds. 

The Poet, fostering for his native land 
Such hope, entreats that servants may 

abound 
Of those pure altars worthy; ministers 
Detached from pleasure, to the~love of gain 
Superior, insusceptible of pride, 
And by ambitious longings undisturbed; 
Men, whose delight is where their duty 

*""" leads ^ 
Or fixes them; f whose least distinguished 

day «— ' 
Shines with some portion of that heavenly 

lustre 5° 

Which makes the sabbath lovely in the 

sight 
Of blessed angels, pitying human cares. 

— And, as on earth it is the doom of truth 
To be perpetually attacked by foes 

Open or covert, be that priesthood still, 
For her defence, replenished with a band 
Of strenuous champions, in scholastic arts 
Thoroughly disciplined ; nor (if in course 
Of the revolving world's disturbances 
Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven 

avert ! 60 

To meet such trial) from their spiritual 

sires 
Degenerate; who, constrained to wield the 

sword 
Of disputation, shrunk not, though assailed 
With hostile din, and combating in sight 
Of angry umpires, partial and unjust; 
And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in 

fire, 
So to declare the conscience satisfied: 
Nor for their bodies would accept release; 



But, blessing God and praising him, be- 
queathed 

With their last breath, from out the smoul- 
dering flame, 7 o 

The faith which they by diligence had 
earned, 

Or, through illuminating grace, received, 

For their dear countrymen, and all man- 
kind. 

O high example, constancy divine ! 

Even such a Man (inheriting the zeal 
And from the sanctity of elder times 
Not deviating, — a priest, the like of whom 
If multiplied, and in their stations set, 
Would o'er the bosom of a joyful land 79 
Spread true religion and her genuine fruits) 
Before me stood that day; 011 holy ground 
Fraught with the relics of mortality, 
Exalting tender themes, by just degrees 
To lofty raised; and to the highest, last; 
The head and mighty paramount of 

truths, — 
Immortal life, in never-fading worlds, 
For mortal creatures, conquered and se- 
cured. 

That basis laid, those principles of faith 
Announced, as a preparatory act 89 

Of reverence dorre Lu Hie TTpirit of the place, 
The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground; 
Not, as before, like one oppressed with awe 
But with a mild and social cheerfulness; 
Then to the Solitary turned, and spake. 

" At morn or eve, hi your retired domain, 
Perchance you not unfrequeutly have 

marked 

A Visitor — hi quest of herbs and flowers; 
Too delicate employ, as would appear, 
For"one,"wEo, though of droophig mien, had 

yet 
From nature's kindliness received a frame 
Robust as ever rural labour bred." 101 

The Solitary answered: "Such a Form 
Full well I recollect. We often crossed 
Each other's path; but, as the Intruder 

seemed 
Fondly to prize the silence which he kept, 
And as I willingly did cherish mine, 
We met, and passed, like shadows. I have 

heard, 
From my good Host, that being crazed in 

brain 



BOOK VI 



THE EXCURSION 



479 



By unrequited love, he scaled the rocks, _ 
Divepl into oaves, and pierced the matted 

woods, no 

In hope to find some virtuous herb of 

power 
To cure his malady ! " 

The Vicar smiled, — 
" Alas ! before to-morrow's sun goes down 
His habitation will be here: for him 
That open grave is destined." 

" Died he then 
Of pain and grief ? " the Solitary asked, 
" Do not believe it; never could that be ! " 

" He loved," the Vicar answered, " deeply 

loved, 
Loved fondly, tridy, fervently; and dared 
At length to tell his love, but sued in 

vain; 120 

Rejected, yea repelled ; and, if with scorn 
Upon the haughty maiden's brow, 't is but 
A high-prized plume which female Beauty 

wears 
In wantonness of conquest; or puts on 
To cheat the world, or from herself to hide 
Himiiliation, when no longer free. 
That he could brook, and glory in; — but 

when 
The tidings came that she whom he had 

wooed 
Was wedded to another, and his heart 
Was forced to rend away its only hope; 130 
Then, Pity could have scarcely found on 

earth 
An object worthier of regard than he, 
In the transition of that bitter hour ! 
Lost was she, lost; nor could the Sufferer 

say 
That in the act of preference he had been 
Unjustly dealt with; but the Maid was 

gone ! 
Had vanished from his prospects and de- 
sires; 
Not by translation to the heavenly choir 
Who have put off their mortal spoils — ah 

no ! 139 

She lives another's wishes to complete, — 
' Joy be their lot, and happiness,' he cried, 
• His lot and hers, as misery must be mine ! ' 

Such was that strong concussion ; but the 

Man, 
Who trembled, trunk and limbs, like some 

huge oak 
By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resumed 



The stedfast quiet natural to a mind 

Of composition gentle and sedate, 

And, in its movements, circumspect and 

slow. 
To books, and to the long-forsaken desk, 
O'er which enchained by science he had 

loved 1 5 , 

To bend, he stoutly re-addressed himself, 
Resolved to quell his pain, and search for 

truth 
With keener appetite (if that might be) 
And closer industry. Of what ensued 
Within the heart no outward sign appeared 
Till a betrajing sickliness was seen 
To tinge his cheek; and through his frame 

it crept 
With slow mutation unconcealable; 
Such universal change as autumn makes 
In the fair body of a leafy grove, ifo 

Discoloured, then divested. 

'T is affirmed 
By poets skilled in nature's secret ways 
That Love will not submit to be con- 
trolled 
By mastery : — and the good Man lacked 

not friends 
Who strove to instil this truth into his 

mind, 
A mind in all heart-mysteries unversed. 
'Go to the hills,' said one, ' remit a while 
' This baneful diligence : — at early morn 
' Court the fresh air, explore the heaths and 

woods ; 
' And, leaving it to others to foretell, 170 
' By calculations sage, the ebb and flow 
' Of tides, and when the moon will be 

eclipsed, 
' Do you, for your own benefit, construct 
' A calendar of flowers, plucked as they 

blow 
' Where health abides, and cheerfulness, 

and peace.' 
The attempt was made; — 'tis needless to 

report 
How hopelessly; but innocence is strong, 
And an entire simplicity of mind, 
A thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven; 
That opens, for such sufferers, relief 180 
Within the soul, fountains of grace divine; 
And doth commend their weakness and 

disease 
To Nature's care, assisted in her office 
By all the elements that round her wait 
To generate, to preserve, and to restore; 
And by her beautiful array of forms 



48o 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VI 



Shedding sweet influence from above; or 

pure 
Delight exhaling from the ground they 

tread." 

" Impute it not to impatience, if, ex- 
claimed 189 
The Wanderer, " I inf er that he was healed 
By perseverance in the course prescribed." 

" You do not err: the powers, that had 
been lost 

By slow degrees, were gradually regained; 

The fluttering nerves composed; the beat- 
ing heart 

In rest established; and the jarring 
thoughts 

To harmony restored. — But yon dark 
mould 

Will cover him, in the fulness of his 
strength, 

Hastily smitten by a fever's force; 

Yet not with stroke so sudden as refused 

Time to look back with tenderness on her 

Whom he had loved in passion; and to 
send 201 

Some farewell words — with one, but one, 
request; 

That, from his dying hand, she would ac- 
cept 

Of his possessions that which most he 
prized ; 

A book, upon whose leaves some chosen 
plants, 

By his own hand disposed with nicest care, 

In undecaying beauty were preserved; 

Mute register, to him, of time and place, 

And various fluctuations in the breast; 

To her, a monument of faithful love 210 

Conquered, and in tranquillity retained ! 

y 

Close to his destined habitation, lies 
One who achieved a humbler victory, 
Though marvellous in its kind. A place 

there is 
High in these mountains, that allured a 

band 
Of keen adventurers to unite their pains 
In search of precious ore: they tried, were 

foiled — 
And all desisted, all, save him alone. 
He, taking counsel of his own clear 

thoughts, 219 

And trusting only to his own weak hands, 
Urged unremittingly the stubborn work, 



Unseconded, uncountenanced ; then, as 

time 
Passed on, while still his lonely efforts 

found 
No recompense, derided ; and at length, 
By many pitied, as insane of mind; 
By others dreaded as the luckless thrall 
Of subterranean Spirits feeding hope 
By various mockery of sight and sound; 
Hope after hope, encouraged and destroyed. 
— But when the lord of seasons had ma- 
tured 230 
The fruits of earth through space of twice 

ten years, 
The mountain's entrails offered to his view 
And trembling grasp the long-deferred 

reward. 
Not with more transport did Columbus 

greet 
A world, his rich, discovery ! But our 

Swam, 
A very hero till his point was gained, 
Proved all unable to support the weight 
Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he 

looked 
With an unsettled liberty of thought, 
Wishes and endless schemes; by daylight 
walked 240 

Giddy and restless; ever and anon 
Quaffed in his gratitude immoderate cups; 
And truly might be said to die of joy ! 
He vanished; but conspicuous to this day 
The path remains that linked his cottage- 
door 
To the mine's mouth; a long and slanting 

track, 
Upon the rugged mountain's stony side, 
Worn by his daily visits to and from 
The darksome centre of a constant hope. 
This vestige, neither force of beating rain, 
Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw 251 
Shall cause to fade, till ages pass away ; 
And it is named, hi memory of the event, 

The^PATH OF PERSEVERANS g." 

"~Tnou from whom 
Man has his strength," exclaimed the 

Wanderer, " oh ! 
Do thou direct it ! To the virtuous grant 
The penetrative eye which can perceive 
In this blind world the guiding vein of 

hope; 
That, like this Labourer, such may dig their 

way 
' Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified; ' 260 
Grant to the wise his firmness of resolve ! " 



BOOK VI 



THE EXCURSION 



481 



" That prayer were not superfluous," 

said the Priest, 
" Amid the noblest relics, proudest dust, 
That Westminster, for Britain's glory, 

holds 
Within the bosom of her awful pile, 
Ambitiously collected. Yet the sigh, 
Which wafts that prayer to heaven, is due 

to all, 
Wherever laid, who living fell below 
Their virtue's humbler mark; a sigh of 

pain 
If to the opposite extreme they sank. 270 
How woidd you pity her who yonder rests; 
Him, farther off; the pair, who here are 

laid; 
But, above all, that mixture of earth's 

mould 
Whom sight of this green hillock to my 

mind 
Recalls ! 

He lived not till his locks were nipped 
By seasonable frost of age ; nor died 
Before his temples, prematurely forced 
To mix the manly brown with silver grey, 
Gave obvious instance of the sad effect 
Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath 

usurped 2S0 

The natural crown that sage Experience 

wears. 
Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn, 
And prompt to exhibit all that lie possessed 
Or could perform ; a zealous actor, hired 
Into the troop of mirth, a soldier, sworn 
Into the lists of giddy enterprise — 
Such was he; yet, as if within his frame 
Two several souls alternately had lodged, 
Two sets of manners could the Youth put 

on ; 28g 

And, fraught with antics as the Indian bird 
That writhes and chatters hi her wiry cage, 
Was graceful, when it pleased him, smooth 

and still 
As the mute swan that floats adown the 

stream, 
Or, on the waters of the unruffled lake, 
Anchors her placid beauty. Not a leaf, 
That flutters on the bough, lighter than he; 
And not a flower, that droops in the green 

shade, 
More winningly reserved ! If ye enquire 
How such consummate elegance was bred 
Amid these wilds, this answer may suffice; 
'T was Nature's will; who sometimes un- 
dertakes, 301 



For the reproof of human vanity, 
Art to outstrip hi her peculiar walk. 
Hence, for this Favourite — lavishly en- 
dowed 
With personal gifts, and bright instiuctive 

wit, 
While both, embellishing each other, stood 
Yet farther recommended by the charm 
Of fine demeanour, and by dance and song, 
And skill in letters — every fancy shaped 
Fair expectations ; nor, when to the world's 
Capacious field forth went the Adventurer, 
there 311 

Were he and his attainments overlooked, 
Or scantily rewarded; b ut all hopes. 
Cherished for him, lie suffered to depart, 
Like blighted buds; or clouds that mim- 
icked land 
Before the sailor's eye; or diamond drops 
That sparkling decked the morning grass; 

or aught 
That was attractive, and hath ceased to be ! 

Yet, when this Prodigal returned, the 

rites 
Of joyful greeting were on him bestowed, 
Who, by humiliation undeterred, 321 

Sought for his weariness a place of rest 
Within his Father's gates. — Whence came 

he ? — clothed 
In tattered garb, from hovels where abides 
Necessity, the stationary host 
Of vagrant poverty; from rifted barns 
Where no one dwells but the wide-staring 

owl 
And the owl's prey; from these bare haunts, 

to which 
He had descended from the proud saloon, 
He came, the ghost of beauty and of health, 
The wreck of gaiety ! But soon revived 331 
In strength, in power refitted, he renewed 
His suit to Fortune; and she smiled again 
Upon a fickle Ingrate. Thrice he rose, 
Thrice sank as willingly. For he — whose 

nerves 
Were used to thrill with pleasure, while his 

voice 
Softly accompanied the tuneful harp, 
By the nice finger of fair ladies touched 
In glittering halls — was able to derive 
No less enjoyment from an abject choice. 
Who happier for the moment — who more 

blithe 341 

Than this fallen Spirit ? in those dreary 

holds 



4 8: 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VI 



His talents lending to exalt the freaks 
Of merry-making beggars, — nor provoked 
To laughter multiplied hi louder peals 
By his malicious wit; then, all enchained 
With mute astonishment, themselves to see 
In their own arts outdone, their fame 

eclipsed, 
As by the very presence of the Fiend 
Who dictates and inspires illusive feats, 350 
For knavish purposes ! The city, too, 
(With shame I speak it) to her guilty bowers 
Allured him, sunk so low in self-respect 
As there to linger, there to eat his bread, 
Hired minstrel of voluptuous blandishment; 
Charming the air with skill of hand or voice, 
Listen who would, be wrought upon who 

might, 
Sincerely wretched hearts, or falsely gay. 
— Such the too frequent tenor of his boast 
In ears that relished the report; — but all 
Was from his Parents happily concealed; 361 
Who saw enough for blame and pitying 

love. 
They also were permitted to receive 
His last repentant breath; and closed his 

eyes, 
No more to open on that irksome world 
Where he had long existed in the state 
Of a young fowl beneath one mother 

hatched, 
Though from another sjjrimg, different in 

kind : 
Where he had lived, and could not cease to 

live, 
Distracted in propensity ; content 370 

With neither element of good or ilr; 
And yet in both rejoicing; man unblest; 
Of contradictions infinite the slave, 
Till his deliverance, when Mercy made him 
One with himself, and one with them that 

sleep." 

(/\ 

" 'T is strange," observed the Solitary, 

" strange 
It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful, 
That in a land where charity provides 
For all that can no longer feed themselves, 
A man like this should choose to bring his 

shame 3 So 

To the parental door; and with his sighs 
Infect the air which he had freely' breathed 
In happy infancy. He could not pine. 
Through lack of converse; no — he must 

have found 
Abundant exercise for thought and speech, 



In his dividual being, self-reviewed, 

Self - catechised, self - punished. — Some 

there are 
Who, drawing near their final home, and 

much 
And daily longing that the same were 

reached, 
Would rather shun than seek the fellowship 
Of kindred mould. — Such haply here are 

laid?" 30 , 

" Yes," said the Priest, " the Genius of 
-oujJrUJs — 
Who seems, by these stupendous barriers 

east 
Round his domain, desirous not alone 
To keep his own, but also to exclude 
All other progeny — doth sometimes lure, 
Even by his studied depth o± privacy7 
The unhappy alien hoping to obtain 
Concealment, or seduced by wish to find, 
In place f 10111 outward molestation free, 400 
Helps to internal ease. Of many such 
Could I discourse; but as their stay was 

brief, 
So their departure only left behind 
Fancies, and loose conjectures. Other trace 
Survives, for worthy mention, of a pair 
Who, from the pressure of their several 

fates, 
Meeting as strangers, in a petty town 
Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach 
Of this far-winding vale, remained as friends 
True to their choice; and gave their bones 

in trust 410 

To this loved cemetery, here to lodge 
With unescutcheoned privacy interred 
Far from the family vault. — A Chieftain 

one 
By right of birth; within whose spotless 

breast 
The fire of ancient Caledonia burned: 
He, with the foremost whose impatience 

hailed 
The Stuart, landing to resume, by force 
Of arms, the crown which bigotry had lost, 
Aroused his clan; and, fighting at their 

head, 
With his brave sword endeavoured to pre- 
vent 420 
Culloden's fatal overthrow. Escaped 
From that disastrous rout, to foreign shores 
He fled; and when the lenient hand of time 
Those troubles had appeased, he sought 

and gained, 



BOOK VI 



THE EXCURSION 



483 



For his obscured condition, an obscure 
Retreat, within this nook of English ground. 

The other, born in Britain's southern 
tract, 
Had fixed his milder loyalty, and placed 
His gentler sentiments of love and hate, 
There, where they placed them who in con- 
science prized 43° 
The new succession, as a line of kings 
Whose oath had virtue to protect the land 
Against the dire assaults of papacy 
And arbitrary rule. But launch thy bark 
On the distempered flood of public life, 
And cause for most rare triumph will be 

thine 
If, spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand, 
The stream, that bears thee forward, prove 

not, soon 
Or late, a perilous master. He — who oft, 
Beneath the battlements and stately trees 
That round his mansion cast a sober gloom, 
Had moralised on this, and other truths 442 
Of kindred import, pleased and satisfied — - 
Was forced to vent his wisdom with a 

sigh 
Heaved from the heart in fortune's bitter- 
ness, 
When he had crushed a plentiful estate 
By ruinous contest, to obtain a seat 
In Britain's senate. Fruitless was the at- 
tempt: 
And while the uproar of that desperate strife 
Continued yet to vibrate on his ear, 450 

The vanquished Whig, under a borrowed 

name, 
(For the mere sound and echo of his own 
Haunted him with sensations of disgust 
That he was glad to lose) slunk from the 

world 
To the deep shade of those untravelled 

Wilds; 
In which the Scottish Laird had long pos- 
sessed 
An undisturbed abode. Here, then, they 

met, 
Two doughty champions; flaming Jacobite 
And sullen Hanoverian ! You might think 
That losses and vexations, less severe 460 
Than those which they had severally sus- 
tained, 
Would have inclined each to abate his zeal 
For his ungrateful cause; no, — I have 

heard 
My reverend Father tell that, 'mid the calm 



Of that small town encountering thus, they 

filled, 
Daily, its bowling-green with harmless 

strife ; 
Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the 

church ; 
And vexed the market-place. But in the 

breasts 
Of these opponents gradually was wrought, 
Wltir little change of general sentiment, 
Such leaning towards each other, that their 

days 471 

By choice were spent in constant fellowship ; 
And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke, 
Those very bickerings made them love it 

more. 

A favourite boundary to their lengthened 

walks 
This Churchyard was. And, whether they 

had come 
Treading their path in sympathy and linked 
In social converse, or by some short space 
Discreetly parted to preserve the peace, 
One spirit seldom failed to extend its sway 
Over both minds, when they awhile had 

marked 4S1 

The visible quiet of this holy ground, 
And breathed its soothing air: — the spirit 

of hope 
And saintly magnanimity; that — spurning 
The field of selfish difference and dispute, 
And every care which transitory things, 
Earth and the kingdoms of the earth, 

create — 
Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness, 
Preclude forgiveness, from the praise de- 
barred, 
Which else the Christian virtue might have 

claimed. 490 

IS 

There live who yet remember here to 

have seen 
Their courtly figures, seated on the stump 
Of an old yew, their favourite resting-place. 
But as the remnant of the long-lived tree 
Was disappearing by a swift decay, 
They, with joint care, determined to erect, 
Upon its site, a dial, that might stand 
For public use preserved, and thus survive 
As their own private monument: for this 
Was the particular spot, hi which they 

wished 500 

(And Heaven was pleased to accomplish 

the desire) 



4 s 4 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VI 



That, undivided, their remains should lie. 
So, where the mouldered tree had stood, 

was raised 
Yon structure, framing, with the ascent of 

steps 
That to the decorated pillar lead, 
A work of art more sumptuous than might 

seem 
To suit this place; yet built in no proud 

scorn 
Of rustic homeliness; they only aimed 
To ensure for it respectful guardianship. 
Around the margin of the plate, whereon 
The shadow falls to note the stealthy 

hours, 511 

Winds an inscriptive legend." — At these 

words 
Thither we turned; and gathered, as we 

read, 
The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers 

couched : 
" Time flies; it is his melancholy task, 
To bring, and bear away, delusive hopes, 
And re-produce the troubles he destroys. 
But, ivhile his blindness thus is occupied, 
Discerning Mortal ! do thou serve the will 
Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace, 520 
Which the world wants, shall be for thee con- 
firmed ! " 

" Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered 

Muse," 
Exclaimed the Sceptic, " and the strain of 

thought 
Accords with nature's language ; — the soft 

voice 
Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks 
Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect. 
If, then, their blended influence be not lost 
Upon our hearts, not wholly lost, I grant, 
Even upon mine, the more are we required 
To feel for those among our fellow-men, 530 
Who, offering no obeisance to the world, 
Are yet made desperate by ' too quick a 

sense 
Of constant infelicity,' cut off 
From peace like exiles on some barren rock, 
Their life's appointed prison; not more free 
Than sentinels, between two armies, set, 
With nothing better, in the chill night air, 
Than their own thoughts to comfort them. 

Say why 
That ancient story of Prometheus chained 
To the bare rock, on frozen Caucasus; 540 
The vulture, the inexhaustible repast 



Drawn from his vitals ? Say what meant 

the woes 
By Tantalus entailed upon his race, 
And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes ? 
Fictions in form, but in their substance 

truths, 
Tremendous truths ! familiar to the men 
Of long-past times, nor obsolete in ours. 
Exchange the shepherd's frock of native 

grey_ 
For robes with regal purple tinged; convert 
The crook into a sceptre ; give the pomp 550 
Of circumstance; and here the tragic 

Muse 
Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. 
Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills, 
The generations are prepared; the pangs, 
The internal pangs, are ready; the dread 

strife ■ 

Of poor humanity's afflicted will 
Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny." 

" Though," said the Priest in answer, 

" these be terms 
Which a divine philosophy rejects, 
We, whose established and unfailing trust 
Is in controlling Providence, admit 561 

That, through all stations, human life 

abounds 
With mysteries ; — for, if Faith were left 

untried, 
How could the might, that lurks within her, 

then.— — ~~ 
Be shown ? her glorious excellence — that 

ranks 
Among the first of Powers and Virtues — 

proved ? 
Our system is not fashioned to preclude 
That sympathy which you for others ask; 
And I could tell, not travelling for my 

theme 
Beyond these humble graves, of grievous 

crimes 570 

And strange disasters; but I pass them 

by, 

Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hushed 

hi peace. 
— Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat 
Of Man degraded hi his Maker's sight 
By the deformities of brutish vice: 
For, in such portraits, though a vulgar face 
And a coarse outside of repulsive life 
And unaffecting manners might at once 
Be recognised by all " — " Ah ! do not 

think," 



BOOK VI 



THE EXCURSION 



485 



The Wanderer somewhat eagerly ex- 
claimed, 580 
" Wish could be ours that you, for such 

poor gain, 
(Gain shall I call it ? — gain of what ? — 

for whom ?) 
Should breathe a word tending to violate 
Your own pure spirit. Not a step we look 

for 
In slight of that forbearance and reserve 
Which common human-heartedness inspires, 
And mortal ignorance and frailty claim, 
Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else." 

" True," said the Solitary, " be it far 
From us to infringe the laws of charity. 590 
Let judgment here in mercy be pro- 
nounced ; 
This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and 

this 
Wisdom enjoins; but if the thing we seek 
Be genuine knowledge, bear we then hi mind 
How, from his lofty throne, the sun can 

fling 
Colours as bright on exhalations bred 
By weedy pool or pestilential swamp, 
As by the rivulet sparkling where it runs, 
Or the pellucid lake." 

" Small risk," said I, 
" Of such illusion do we here incur; 600 

Temptation here is none to exceed the 

truth ; 
No evidence appears .that they who rest 
Within this ground, were covetous of praise, 
Or of remembrance even, deserved or not. 
Green is the Churchyard, beautiful and 

green, 
Ridge-rising gently by the side of ridge, 
A heaving surface, almost wholly free 
From interruption of sepulchral stones, 
And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf 
And everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen 

trust ST5 

The "lingering gleam of their departed 

■ c lis e*----^ 
To oral record, and the silent heart ; 
Depositories faithful and more kind 
Thau fondest epitaph: for, if those fail, 
What boots the sculptured tomb ? And 

who can blame, 
Who rather would not envy, men that feel 
This mutual confidence; if, from such 

source, 
The practice flow, — if thence, or from a 

deep 



And general humility in death ? 
Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring 
From disregard of time's destructive 
power, 621 

As only capable to prey on things 
Of earth, and human nature's mortal part. 

Yet — in less simple districts, where we 

see 
Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone 
In courting notice; and the ground all 

paved 
With commendations of departed worth : 
Reading, where'er we turn, of innocent 

lives, 
Of each domestic charity fulfilled, 
And sufferings meekly borne — I, for my 

part, 630 

Though with the silence pleased that here 

prevails, 
Among those fair recitals also range, 
Soothed by the natural spirit which they 

breathe. 
And, in the centre of a world whose soil 
Is rank with all unkindness, compassed 

round 
With such memorials, I have sometimes 

felt, 
It was no momentary happiness 
To have one Enclosure where the voice that 

speaks 
In envy or detraction is not heard; 
Which malice may not enter; where the 

traces 640 

Of evil inclinations are unknown; 
Where love and pity tenderly unite 
With resignation; and no jarring tone 
Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb 
Of amity and gratitude." 

" Thus sanctioned," 
The Pastor said, " I willingly confine 
My narratives to subjects that excite 
Feelings with these accordant; love, es- 
teem, 
And admiration; lifting up a veil, 
A sunbeam introducing among hearts 650 
Retired and covert; so that ye shall have 
Clear images before your gladdened eyes 
Of nature's unambitious underwood, 
And flowers that prosper in the shade. 

And when 
I speak of such among my flock as swerved 
Or fell, those only shall be singled out 
Upon whose lapse, or error, something 

more 



4 86 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VI 



Than brotherly forgiveness may attend; 
To such will we restrict our notice, else 
Better my tongue were mute. 

And yet there are, 
I feel, good reasons why we should not 

leave 66 1 

Wholly untraced a more forbidding way. 
For, strength to persevere and to support, 
And energy to conquer and repel — 
These elements of virtue, that declare 
The native grandeur of the human soul — 
Are oft-times not improfltably shown 
In the perverseness of a selfish course: 
Truth every day exemplified, no less 
In the grey cottage by the murmuring 

stream 670 

Than in fantastic conqueror's roving camp, 
Or 'mid the factious senate, unappalled 
Whoe'er may sink, or rise — to sink again, 
As merciless proscription ebbs and flows. 

There," said the Vicar, pointing as he 
spake, 
" A woman rests in peace ; surpassed by few 
In power of mind, and eloquent discourse. 
Tall was her stature; her complexion dark 
And saturnine ; her head not raised to hold 
Converse with heaven, nor yet deprest to- 
wards earth, 6S0 
But in projection carried, as she walked 
For ever musing. Sunken were her eyes; 
Wrinkled and furrowed with habitual 

thought 
Was her broad forehead; like the brow of 

one 
Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful 

glare 
Of overpowering light. — While yet a child, 
She, 'mid the humble flowerets of the vale, 
Towered like the imperial thistle, not un- 
furnished 
With its appropriate grace, yet rather 

seeking 
To be admired, than coveted and loved. 690 
Even at that age she ruled, a sovereign 

queen, 
Over her comrades ; else their simple sports, 
Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind, 
Had crossed her only to be shunned with 

scorn. 
■ — Oh ! pang of sorrowful regret for those 
Whom, in their youth, sweet study has 

enthralled, 
That they have lived for harsher servitude, 
Whether in soul, in body, or estate ! 



Such doom was hers; yet nothing could 

subdue 
Her keen desire of knowledge, nor efface 
Those brighter hnages by books imprest 701 
Upon her memory, faithfully as stars 
That occupy their places, and, though oft 
Hidden by clouds, and oft bedimmed by 

haze, 
Are not to be extinguished, nor impaired. 

Two passions, both degenerate, for they 
both 

Began hi honour, gradually obtained 

Rule over her, and vexed her daily life; 

An unremitting, avaricious thrift; 

And a strange thraldom of maternal love, 

Xhatjield her "spirit, in its own despite, 711 

Bound — by vexation, and regret, and scorn, 

Constrained forgiveness, and relenting vows, 

And tears, in pride suppressed, in shame 
concealed — 

To a poor dissolute Son, her only child. 

— Her wedded days had opened with mis- 
hap, 

Whence dire dependence. What could she 
perform 

To shake the burthen off ? Ah ! there was 
felt, 

Indignantly, the weakness of her sex. 

She mused, resolved, adhered to her re- 
solve ; 720 

The hand grew slack in alms-giving, the 
heart 

Closed by degrees to charity; heaven's 
blessing 

Not seeking from that source, she placed 
her trust 

In ceaseless pains — and strictest parsimony 

Which sternly hoarded all that could be 
spared, 

From each day's need, out of each day's 
least gain. 

Thus all was re-established, and a pile 
Constructed, that sufficed for every end, 
Save the contentment of the builder's mind; 
A mind by nature indisposed to aught 730 
So placid, so inactive, as content; 
A mind intolerant of lasting peace, 
And cherishing the pang her heart deplored. 
Dread life of conflict ! which I oft compared 
To the agitation of a brook that runs 
Down a rocky mountain, buried now and lost 
In silent pools, now in strong eddies 
chained; 



BOOK VI 



THE EXCURSION 



487 



But never to be charmed to gentleness: 

Its best attainment fits of such repose 

As timid eyes might shrink from fathoming. 

A sudden illness seized her hi the 
strength 741 

Of life's autumnal season. — Shall I tell 
How on her bed of death the Matron lay, 

To Providence submissive, so she thought; 
But fretted, vexed, and wrought upon, 

almost 
To anger, by the malady that griped 
Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing power, 
As the fierce eagle fastens on the lamb ? 
She prayed, she moaned; — her husband's 

sister watched 
Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs; 750 
And yet the very sound of that kind foot 
Was anguish to her ears ! ' And must she 

rule,' 
This was the death-doomed Woman heard 

to say 
In bitterness, ' and must she rule and reign, 
Sole Mistress of this house, when I am gone ? 
Tend what I tended, calling it her own ! ' 
Enough ; — I fear too much. — One vernal 

evening, 
While she was yet in prime of health and 

strength, 
I well remember, while I passed her door 
Alone, with loitering step, and upward eye 
Turned towards the planet Jupiter that 

hung 761 

Above the centre of the Vale, a yoice 
Roused me, her voice ; it said, '[That glori- 
ous star ^~ 
In its untroubled element will shine 
As now it shines, when we are laid in 

earth 
And safe from all our sorrows.' With a 

sigh 
She spake, yet, I believe, not unsustained 
By faith in glory that shall far transcend 
Aught by these perishable heavens disclosed 
To sight or mind. Nor less than care 

divine 770 

Is divine mercy. She, who had rebelled, 
Was into meekness softened and subdued; 
Did, after trials not in vain prolonged, 
With resignation sink into the grave ; 
And her uncharitable acts, I trust, 
And harsh unkindnesses are all forgiven, 
Tho', in this Vale, remembered with deep 



The Vicar paused; and toward a seat ad- 
vanced, 
A long stone-seat, fixed in the Churchyard 

wall; 
Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part 780 
Offering a sunny resting-place to them 
Who seek the House of worship, while the 

bells 
Yet ring with all their voices, or before 
The last hath ceased its solitary knoll. 
Beneath the shade we all sate down; and 

there, 
His office, uninvited, he resumed.. 

! i* As on a sunny bank, a tender lamb 

Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of 

March, 
Screened by its parent, so that little mound 
Lies guarded by its neighbour; the small 

heap . 790 

Speaks for itself; an Infant there doth 

rest; 
The sheltering hillock is the Mother's 

grave. 
If mild discQUMftT, and manners that con- 
ferred 
A natural dignity on humblest rank; 
If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks, 
That for a face not beautiful did more 
Than beauty for the fairest face can do; 
And if religious tenderness of heart, 
Grieving for sin, and penitential tears 
Shed when the clouds had gathered and 

distained 800 

The spotless ether of a maiden life ; 
If these may make a hallowed spot of 

earth 
More holy ha the sight of God or Man; 
Then, o'er that mould, a sanctity shall 

brood 
Till the stars sicken at the day of doom. 

Ah ! what a warning for a thoughtless 

man, 
Coidd field or grove, could any spot of 

earth, 
Show to his eye an image of the pangs 
Which it hath witnessed; render back an 

echo 
Of the sad steps by which it hath been 

trod ! 810 

There, by her innocent Baby's precious 

grave, 
And on the very turf that roofs her own, 
The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VI 



In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene. 
Now she is not; the swelling turf reports 
Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's 

tears 
Is silent; nor is any vestige left 
Of the path worn by mournful tread of 

her 
Who, at her heart's light bidding, once had 

moved /^^ 

In virgin fearlessness^/with step that 

seemed _.-— -* 820 

Caught from the pressure of elastic turf 
Upon the mountains gemmed with morning 

dew, 
In the prime hour of sweetest scents and 

airs. 

— Serious and thoughtful was her rnind; 

and yet, 
By reconcdement exquisite and rare, 
The form, port, motions, of this Cottage- 
girl 
Were such as might have quickened and 

inspired 
A Titian's hand, addrest to picture forth 
Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade 
What tune the himter's earliest horn is 

heard 830 

Startling the golden hills. 

A wide-spread elm 
Stands in our valley, named The Joyful 

Tree; 
From dateless usage which our peasants 

hold 
Of giving welcome to the first of May 
By dances round its trunk. — And if the 

sky 
Permit, like honours, dance and song, are 

paid 
To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty 

stars 
Or the clear moon. The queen of these 

gay sports, 
If not in beauty yet in sprightly air, 
Was hapless Ellen. — No one touched the 

groimd 840 

So deftly, and the nicest maiden's locks 
Less gracefully were braided ; — but this 

praise, 
Methinks, would better suit another place. 

She loved, and fondly deemed herself 
beloved. 

— The road is dim, the current unper- 

ceived, 
The weakness painful and most pitiful, 



By which a virtuous woman, in pure youth, 
May be delivered to distress and shame. 
Such fate was hers. — The last time Ellen 

danced, 
Among her equals, round The Joyful 

Tree, 850 

She bore a secret burthen; and full soon 
Was left to tremble for a breaking vow, — 
Then, to bewaU a sternly-broken vow, 
Alone, within her widowed Mother's house. 
It was the season of unfolding leaves, 
Of days advancing toward their utmost 

length, 
And small birds singing happily to mates 
Happy as they. With spirit-saddening 

power 
Winds pipe through fading woods; but 

those blithe notes 859 

Strike the deserted to the heart; I speak 
Of what I know, and what we feel within. 

— Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt 
Stands a tall ash-tree; to whose topmost 

twig 
A thrush resorts, and annually chants, 
At morn and evening from that naked 

perch, 
While all the undergrove is thick with 

leaves, 
A time-beguiling ditty, for delight 
Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. 

— 'Ah why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself, 
' Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn 

pledge ; 870 

And nature that is kind in woman's 

breast, 
And reason that in man is wise and good, 
And fear of him who is a righteous judge; 
Why do not these prevail for human life, 
To keep two hearts together, that began 
Their spring-time with one love, and that 

have need 
Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 
To grant, or be received; while that poor 

bird — 
O come and hear him ! Thou who hast to 

me 
Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly 

creature, sso ■ 

One of God's simple children that yet know 

not 
The universal Parent, how he sings 
As if he wished the firmament of heaven 
Should listen, and give back to him the 

voice 
Of his triumphant constancy and love; 



BOOK VI 



THE EXCURSION 



489 



The proclamation that he makes, how far 
His darkness doth transcend our fickle 

light ! ' \^y 

Such was the tender passage, not by me 
Repeated without loss of simple phrase, 
Which I perused, even as the words had 

been 890 

Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand 
To the blank margin of a Valentine, 
Bedropped with tears. 'T will please you 

to be told 
That, studiously withdrawing from the eye 
Of all companionship, the Sufferer yet 
In lonely reading found a meek resource: 
How thankful for the warmth of summer 

days, 
When she could slip into the cottage-barn, 
And find a secret oratory there ; 
Or, in the garden, under friendly veil 900 
Of their long twilight, pore upon her book 
By the last lingering help of the open sky 
Until dark night dismissed her to her bed ! 
Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose 
The unconquerable pang of despised love. 

A kindlier passion opened on her soul 
When that poor Child was born. Upon its 

face 
She gazed as on a pure and spotless gift 
Of unexpected promise, where a grief 
Or dread was all that had been thought of, 

— joy _ 910 

Far livelier than bewildered traveller feels, 
Amid a perilous waste that all night long 
Hath harassed him toiling through fearful 

storm, 
When he beholds the first pale speck se- 
rene 
Of day-spring, in the gloomy east, revealed, 
And greets it with thanksgiving. ' Till 

this hour,' 
Thus, in her Mother's hearing Ellen spake, 
• There was a stony region in my heart ; 
But He, at whose command the parched 

rock 
Was smitten, and poured forth a quenching 

stream, 920 

Hath softened that obduracy, and made 
Unlooked-for gladness in the desert place, 
To save the perishing; and, henceforth, I 

breathe 
The air with cheerful spirit, for thy sake 
My infant ! and for that good Mother 

dear, 



Who bore me; and hath prayed for me in 
vain; — 

Yet not in vain; it shall not be in vain.' 

She spake, nor was the assurance unful- 
filled; 

And if heart-rending thoughts would oft 
return, 

They stayed not long. — The blameless 
Infant grew; 930 

The Child whom Ellen and her Mother 
loved 

They soon were proud of; tended it and 
nursed ; 

A soothing comforter, although forlorn; 

Like a poor singing-bird from distant 
lands ; 

Or a choice shrub, which he, who passes by 

With vacant mind, not seldom may ob- 
serve 

Fair-flowering in a thinly-peopled house, 

Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns. 

Through four months' space the Infant 

drew its food 

From the maternal breast; then scruples 

rose; 940 

Thoughts, which the rich are free from, 

came and crossed 
The fond affection. She no more could 

bear 
By her offence to lay a twofold weight 
On a kind parent willing to forget 
Their slender means: so, to that parent's 

care 
Trusting her child, she left their common 

home, 
And undertook with dutiful content 
A Foster-mother's office. 

'T is, perchance, 
Unknown to you that in these simple vales 
The natural feeling of equality 950 

Is by domestic service unimpaired; 
Yet, though such service be, with us, re- 
moved 
From sense of degradation, not the less 
The ungentle mind can easily find means 
To impose severe restraints and laws un- 
just, 
Which hapless Ellen now was doomed to 

feel: 
For (blinded by an over-anxious dread 
Of such excitement and divided thought 
As with her office would but ill accord) 
The pair, whose infant she was bound to 
nurse, 960 



490 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VI 



e 



Forbade her all communion with her own. 
Week after week, the mandate they en- 
forced. 

— So near ! yet not allowed, upon that 

sight 

To fix her eyes — alas ! 't was hard to bear ! 

But worse affliction must be borne — far 
worse ; 

For 't is Heaven's will — that, after a dis- 
ease 

Begun and ended within three days' space, 

Her child should die; as Ellen now ex- 
claimed, 

Her own — deserted child ! — Once, only 
once, 

She saw it in that mortal malady; 970 

And, on the burial-day, could scarcely 
gain 

Permission to attend its obsequies. 

She reached the house, last of the funeral 
train ; 

And some one, as she entered, having 
chanced 

To urge unthinkingly their prompt depar- 
ture, 

'Nay,' said she, with commanding look, 
a spirit 

Of anger never seen hi her before, 

' Nay, ye must wait my time ! ' and down 
she sate, 

And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat 

Weeping and looking, looking on and 
weeping, 980 

Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child, 

Until at length her' soul was satisfied. 

You see the Infant's Grave; and to this 
spot, 
The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad, 
On whatsoever errand, urged her steps: 
Hither she came; here stood, and some- 
times knelt 
In the broad day, a rueful Magdalene ! 
So call her; for not only she bewailed 
A mother's loss, but mourned in bitterness 
Her own transgression; penitent sincere 990 
As ever raised to heaven a streaming eye. 

— At length the parents of the foster-child, 
Noting that in despite of their commands 
She still renewed and could not but renew 
Those visitations, ceased to send her forth ; 
Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, con- 
fined. 

I failed not to remind them that they erred ; 
For holy Nature might not thus be crossed, 



Thus wronged hi woman's breast: in vain 

I pleaded — 
But the green stalk of Ellen's life was 

snapped, 1000 

And the flower drooped; as every eye 

could see, 
It hung its head hi mortal languishment. 

— Aided by this appearance, I at length 
Prevailed; and, from those bonds released, 

she went 
Home to her mother's house. 

The Youth was fled; 
The rash betrayer could not face the shame 
Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had 

caused ; 
And little would his presence, or proof 

given 
Of a relenting soul, have now availed; 
For, like a shadow, he was passed away 
From Ellen's thoughts; had perished to 

her mind ion 

For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love, 
Save only those which to their common 

shame, 
And to his moral being appertained: 
Hope from that quarter would, I know, 

have brought 
A heavenly comfort; there she recognised 
An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need; 
There, and, as seemed, there only. 

She had built, 
Her fond maternal heart had built, a nest 
In blindness all too near the river's edge; 
That work a summer flood with hasty 

swell 102 1 

Had swept away; and now her Spirit 

longed 
For its last flight to heaven's security. 

— The bodily frame wasted from day to 

day; 
Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares, 
Her mind she strictly tutored to find -*eace 
And pleasure in endurance. Much she 

thought, 
And much she read; and brooded feelingly 
Upon her own unworthiness. To me, 
As to a spiritual comforter and friend, 1030 
Her heart she opened; and no pains were 

spared 
To mitigate, as gently as I could, 
The sthig of self-reproach, with healing 

words. 
Meek Saint ! through patience glorified on 

earth ! 
In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate, 



BOOK VI 



THE EXCURSION 



491 



The ghastly face of cold decay put on 
A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine ! 
May I not mention — that, within those 

walls, 
In due observance of her pious wish, 
The congregation joined with me in prayer 
For her soul's good ? Nor was that office 

vain. 1 04 1 

— Much did she suffer: but, if any friend, 
Beholding her condition, at the sight 
Gave way to words of pity or complaint, 
She stilled them with a prompt reproof, 

and said, 
' He who afflicts me knows what I can 

bear; 
And, when I fail, and can endure no more, 
Will mercifully take me to himself.' 

CSo, through the cloud of death, her Spirit 
«^ passed 

Into that pure and unknown world of love 
Where injury cannot come ' Jaa » and here is 
laid 105 1 

The mortal Body by her Infant's side." 

The Vicar ceased; and downcast looks 

made known 
That each had listened with his inmost 

heart. 
For me, the emotion scarcely was less 

strong 
Or less benign than that which I had felt 
When seated near my venerable Friend, 
Under those shady elms, from him I heard 
The story that retraced the slow decline 
Of Margaret, sinking on the lonely heath 
With the neglected house to which she 

clung. 1061 

— I noted that the Solitary's cheek 
Confessed the power of nature. — Pleased 

though sad, 
More pleased than sad, the grey-haired 

Wanderer sate; 
Thanks to his pure imaginative soul 
Capacious and serene; his blameless life, 
His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and 

love 
Of human kind ! He was it who first broke 
The pensive silence, sayings — 

" Blest are they 
Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong 107c 
Than to do wrong, albeit themselves have 

erred. 
This tale gives proof that Heaven most 

gently deals 
With such, in their affliction. — Ellen's fate, 



Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart, 
Call to my mind dark hints which I have 

heard 
Of one who died within this vale, by doom 
Heavier, as his offence was heavier far. 
Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid the 

bones 
Of Wilfrid Armathwaite ? " 

The Vicar answered, 
" In that green nook, close by the Church- 
yard wall, 10S0 
Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself 
In memory and for warning, and in sign 
Of sweetness where dire anguish had been 

known, 
Of reconcilement after deep offence — 
There doth he rest. No theme his fate 

supplies 
For the smooth glozings of the indulgent 

world ; 
Nor need the windings of his devious course 
Be here retraced; — enough that, by mishap 
And vernal error, robbed of competence, 
And her obsequious shadow, peace of mind, 
He craved a substitute in troubled joy; 1091 
Against his conscience rose in arms, and, 

braving 
Divine displeasure, broke the marriage- 

"vow. 

That which he had been weak enough to do 
Was misery in remembrance ; he was stung, 
Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the 

smiles 
Of wife and children stung to agony. 
Wretched at home, he gained no peace 

abroad ; 
Ranged through the mountains, slept upon 

the earth, 
Asked comfort of the open air, and found 
No quiet in the darkness of the night, hoi 
No pleasure in the beauty of the day. 
His flock he slighted: his paternal fields 
Became a clog to him, whose spirit wished 
To fly — but whither ! And this gracious 

Church, 
That wears a look so full of peace and hope 
And love, benignant mother of the vale, 
How fair amid her brood of cottages ! 
She was to him a sickness and reproach. 
Much to the last remained unknown: but 

this 1 1 10 

Is sure, that through remorse and grief he 

died ; 
•Though pitied among men, absolved by 
\ God, 



492 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VI 



He could not find forgiveness in himself; 
Nor could endure the weight of his own 
shame. 

Here rests a Mother. But from her I turn 
And from her grave. — Behold — upon that 

ridge, 
That, stretching boldly from the mountain 

side, 
Carries into the centre of the vale 
Its rocks and woods — the Cottage where 

she dwelt 
And where yet dwells her faithful Partner, 

left 1 120 

(Full eight years past) the solitary prop 
Of many helpless Children. I begin 
With words that might be prelude to a tale 
Of sorrow and dejection; but I feel 
No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes 
See daily hi that happy family. 
— Bright garland form they for the pensive 

brow 
Of their xmdrooping Father's widowhood, 
Those six fair Daughters, budding yet — 

not one, 
Not one of all the band, a full-blown flower. 
Deprest, and desolate of soul, as once 1131 
That Father was, and filled with anxious 

fear, 
Now, by experience taught, he stands as- 
sured, 
That God, who takes away, yet takes not 

half 
Of what he seems to take; or gives it back, 
Not to our prayer, batffar beyond our 

_ prayer; 
He gives it — the boon produce of a soil 
Which our endeavours have refused to till, 
And hope hath never watered. The Abode, 
Whose grateful owner can attest these 

truths, 1 140 

Even were the object nearer to our sight, 
Would seem in no distraction to surpass 
The rudest habitations. Ye might think 
That it had sprung self-raised from earth, 

or grown 
Out of the living rock, to be adorned 
By nature only; but, if thither led, 
Ye would discover, then, a studious work 
Of many fancies, prompting many hands. 

Brought from the woods the honeysuckle 
twines 
Around the porch, and seems, in that trim 
place, 1 1 50 



A plant no longer wild; the cultured rose 
There blossoms, strong in health, and will 

be soon 
Roof -high; the wild pink crowns the gar- 
den-wall, 
And with the flowers are intermingled 

stones 
Sparrv and bright, rough scatterings of 

the hills. 
These ornaments, that fade not with the 

year, 
A hardy Girl continues to provide; 
Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky heights, 
Her Father's prompt attendant, does for 

him 
All that a boy could do, but with delight 
More keen and prouder daring; yet hath 

she, 1 161 

Within the garden, like the rest, a bed 
For her own flowers and favourite herbs, 

a space, 
By sacred charter, holden for her use. 
— These, and whatever else the garden 

bears 
Of fruit or flower, permission asked or not, 
I freely gather; and my leisure draws 
A not unfrequent pastime from the hum 
Of bees aroimd their range of sheltered 

hives 
Busy in that enclosure; while the rill, 1170 
That sparkling thrids the rocks, attimes 

his voice 
To the pure course of human life which 

there 
Flows on in solitude. But, when the gloom 
Of night is falling round my steps, then 

most 
This Dwelling charms me; often I stop 

short, 
(Who could refrain ?) and feed by stealth 

my sight 
With prospect of the company within, 
Laid open through the blazing window: — 

there 
I see the eldest Daughter at her wheel 
Spinning amain, as if to overtake 1180 

The never-halting time; or, in her turn, 
Teaching some Novice of the sisterhood 
That skill in this or other household work, 
Which, from her Father's honoured hand, 

herself, 
While she was yet a little-one, had learned. 
Mild Man ! he is not gay, but they are gay ; 
And the whole house seems filled with 

gaiety. 



* 



BOOK VII 



THE EXCURSION 



493 



-I- Thrice happy, then, the Mother may be 
^-— .... deemed, 

The Wife, from whose consolatory grave 
I turned, that ye in mind might witness 
where, m» 

And how, her Spirit yet survives on earth ! " 



BOOK SEVENTH 

THE CHURCHYARD AMONG THE 
MOUNTAINS — {continued) 

ARGUMENT 

Impression of these Narratives upon the 
Author's mind — Pastor invited to give account 
of certain Graves that lie apart — Clergyman 
and his Family — Fortunate influence of change 
of situation — Activity in extreme old age —y- 
Another Clergyman, a character of resolute 
Virtue — Lamentations over misdirected ap- 
plause — Instance of less exalted excellance in 
a deaf man — Elevated character of a blind 
min — Reflection upon Blindness — Inter- 
rupted by a Peasant who passes — His animal 
cheerfulness and careless vivacity — He occa- 
sions a digression on the fall of beautiful and in- 
teresting Trees — A female Infant's Grave — 
Joy at her Birth — Sorrow at her Departure — A 
youthful Peasant — His patriotic enthusiasm 
and distinguished qualities — His untimely 
death — Exultation of the Wanderer, as a pa- 
triot, in this Picture — Solitary how affected — 
Monument of a Knight — Traditions concerning' 
him — Peroration of the Wanderer on the 
tranaitoriness of things and the revolutions of 
society — Hints at his own past Calling — 
Thanks the Pastor. 

While thus from, theme to theme the 

Historian passed, 
The words he uttered, and the scene that 

lay 
Before our eyes, awakened in my mind 
Vivid remembrance of those long-past hours, 
When, in the hollow of some shadowy vale, 
(What time the splendour of the setting sun 
Lay beautiful on Snowdon's sovereign brow, 
On Cader Idris, or huge Penmanmaur) 
I > wandering Youth, I listened with delight 
To pastoral melody or warlike air, 10 

Drawn from the chords of the ancient British 

harp 
By some accomplished Master, while he sate 
Amid the quiet of the green recess, 
And there did inexhaustibly dispense 
An interchange of soft or solemn tunes, 



Tender or blithe ; now, as the varying 

mood 
Of his own spirit urged, — now, as a voice 
From youth or maiden, or some honoured 

chief 
Of his compatriot villagers (that hung 
Around him, drinking in the impassioned 
notes 20 

Of the time-hallowed minstrelsy) required 
For their heart's ease or pleasure. Strains 

of power 
Were they, to seize and occupy the sense; 
! But to a higher mark than song can reach 
"Rose this pure eloquence. And, when the 

stream 
Which overflowed the soul was passed away, 
A consciousness remained that it had left, 
Deposited upon the silent shore 
Of memory, images and precious thoughts, 
That shall not die, and caimot be de- 
stroyed/^ 30 

" These grassy heaps lie amicably close," 
Said I, " like surges heaving in the wind 
Along the surface of a mountain pool: 
^Whence comes it, then, that yonder we 
behold 
Five graves, and only five, that rise to- 
gether 
Unsociably sequestered, and encroaching 
On the smooth playground of the village- 
school ? " V 

The Vicar answered, — " No disdainful 
pride 
In them who rest beneath, nor any course 
Of strange or tragic accident, hath helped 
To place those hillocks in that lonely guise. 
— Once more look forth, and follow with 
your sight 42 

The length of road that from yon moun- 
tain's base 
Through bare enclosures stretches, 'till its 

line 
Is lost within a little tuft of trees; 
Then, reappearing in a moment, quits 
The cultured fields; and up the heathy 

waste, 
Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine, 
Led towards an easy outlet of the vale, 
That little shady spot, that sylvan tuft, 50 
By which the road is hidden, also hides 
A cottage from our view ; though I discern 
(Ye scarcely can) amid its sheltering trees 
The smokeless chimney-top. — 



494 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VII 



All unembowered 
And naked stood that lowly Parsonage 
(For such in truth it is, and appertains 
To a small Chapel in the vale beyond) 
When hither came its last Inhabitant. 
Rough and forbidding were the choicest 

roads 
By which our northern wilds could then be 

crossed ; 60 

And into most of these secluded vales 
..Was no access for wain, heavy or light. 
So, at his dwelling-place the Priest arrived 
"With store of household goodS^iu panniers 

slung 
On sturdy horses graced with jingling bells, 
And on the back of more ignoble beast; 
That, with like burthen of effects most 

prized 
Or easiest carried, closed the motley train. 
Young was I then, a schoolboy of eight 

years ; 
But still, methinks, I see them as they 

passed 70 

In order, drawing toward their wished-for 

home. 
— Rocked by the motion of a trusty ass 
Two ruddy children hung, a well-poised 

freight, 
Each in his basket nodding drowsily; 
Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with 

flowers, 
Which told it was the pleasant month of 

June ; 
And, close behind, the comely Matron rode, 
A woman of soft speech and gracious 

smile, r~ 

And with a lady's mien. — j From far they 

came, 
Even from Northumbrian hills; yet theirs 

had been 80 

A merry journey, rich in pastime, cheered 
By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest; 1 . 
And freak put on, and arch word dropped' 

— to swell 
The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise 
That gathered round the slowly-moving 

train. 
— ' Whence do they come ? and with what 

errand charged ? 
Belong they to the fortune-telling tribe 
Who pitch their tents under the greenwood 

tree? 
Or Strollers are they, furnished to enact 
Fair Rosamond, and the Children of the 

Wood, 90 



And, by that whiskered tabby's aid, set 

forth 
The lucky venture of sage Whittington, 
When the next village hears the show an- 
nounced 
By blast of trumpet ? ' Plenteous was the 

growth 
Of such conjectures, overheard, or seen 
On many a staring countenance portrayed 
Of boor or burgher, as they marched along. 
And more than once their steadiness of face 
Was put to proof, and exercise supplied 
To their inventive humour, by stern looks, 
And questions in authoritative tone, 101 
From some staid guardian of the public 

peace, 
Checking the sober steed on which he rode. 
In his suspicious wisdom; oftener still, 
By notice indirect, or blunt demand 
From traveller halting hi his own despite, 
A simple curiosity to ease: 
Of which adventures, that beguiled and 

cheered 
Their grave migration, the good pair would 

tell, 
With undiminished glee, in hoary age. iip 

A Priest he was by function; but his 

course — « 

From his youth up, and high as manhood's 

noon, 
( The hour of life to which he then was 

brought) 
HadJbeen irregular, I might say, wild; 
By books uristeadied, by his pastoral care 
Too little checked. An active, ardent mind; 
A fancy pregnant with resource and scheme 
To cheat the sadness of a rainy day ; 
Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games; 
A generous spirit, and a body strong 120 
To cope with stoutest champions of the 

bowl — 
Had earned for him sure welcome, and the 

rights 
Of a prized visitant, in the jolly hall 
Of country 'squire ; or at the statelier board 
Of duke or earl, from scenes of courtly 

pomp 
Withdrawn, — to while away the summer 

hours 
In condescension among rural guests../ 

[/ 

With these high comrades he had revelled 
long, 
Frolicked industriously, a simple Clerk 



BOOK VII 



THE EXCURSION 



495 



By hopes of coming patronage beguiled 130 
Till the heart sickened. MSo, each loftier 

aim 
Abandoning and all his showy friends, 
For a life's stay (slender it was, but sure) 
He turned to this secluded ehapelr y^] 
That had been offered to his cloiibtful 

choice 
By an unthought-of patron. Bleak and 

bare 
They found the cottage, their allotted 

home ; 
Naked without, and rude within; a spot 
With which the Cure not long had been en- 
dowed: 139 
And far remote the chapel stood, — remote, 
And, from his Dwelling, unapproachable, 
Save through a gap high in the hills, an 

opening 
Shadeless and shelterless, by driving 

showers 
Frequented, and beset with howling winds. 
Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might 

hang 
On his own mind, to quarrel with the 

choice 
Or the necessity that fixed him here ; 
Apart from old temptations, and con- 
strained 148 
To punctual labour in his sacred charge. 
See him a constant preacher to the poor ! 
And visiting, though not with saintly zeal, 
Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will, 
The sick in body, or distrest in mind; 
And, by a salutary change, compelled 
To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day 
With no engagement, in his thoughts, more 

proud 
Or splendid than his garden could afford, 
His fields, or mountains by the heath-cock 

ranged 
Or the wild brooks; from which he now 

returned 
Contented to partake the quiet meal 160 
Of his own board, where sat his gentle 

Mate 
And three fair Children, plentifully fed 
Though simply, from their little household 

farm ; 
Nor wanted timely treat of fish or fowl 
By nature yielded to his practised hand ; — 
To help the small but certain comings-in 
Of that spare benefice. Yet not the less 
Theirs was a hospitable board, and theirs 
A charitable door. 

u < 



So days and years 
Passed on; — the inside of that rugged 
house •— 170 

Was trimmed and brightened by the Ma- 
tron's care, 
And gradually enriched with things of price, 
Which might be lacked for use or ornament? 
What, though no soft and costly sofa ther' 
Insidiously stretched out its lazy length, 
And no vain mirror glittered upon the walls, 
Yet were the windows of the low abode 
By shutters weather-fended, which at once 
Repelled the storm and deadened its loud 

roar. 
There snow-white curtains hung in decent 
folds; 1S0 

Tough moss, and long-enduring mountain 

plants, 
That creep along the ground with sinuous 

trail, 
Were nicely braided ; and composed a work 
Like Indian mats, that with appropriate 

grace 
Lay at the threshold and the inner doors; 
And a fair carpet, woven of homespun 

wool 
But tinctured daintily with florid hues, 
For seemliness and warmth, on festal days, 
Covered the smooth blue slabs of mountain- 
stone 
With which the parlour-floor, in simplest 
guise 19a 

Of pastoral homesteads, had been long in- 
laid. 

Those pleasing works the Housewife's 
skill produced: 
Meanwhile the unsedentary Master's hand 
Was busier with his task — to rid, to plant, 
To rear for food, for shelter, and delight ; 
A thriving covert I^Ajid when wishes, 

formed 
In youth, and sanctioned by the riper mind, 
Restores! me to my native valley, here 
To end my days; well pleased was I to see 
The once-bare cottage, on the mountain- 
side, 200 
Screened from assault of every bitter 

blast j_J 
While the dark shadows of the summer 

leaves 
Danced in the breeze, chequering its mossy 
— «-* roof. 

Time, which had thus afforded willing 
help 



<e 



49 6 



THE EXCURSION 



EOOK VII 



To beautify with nature's fairest growths 
This rustic tenement, had gently shed, 
Upon its Master's frame, a wintry grace ; 
The comeliness of unenfeebled age. ; 

But how could I say, gently ? for he still 
Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm, 210 
A stirring foot, a head which beat at nights 
Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes. 
Few likings had he dropped, few pleasures 

lost; 
Generous and charitable, prompt to serve ; 
And still his harsher passions kept their 

hold — 
Anger and indignation. Still he loved 
The sound of titled names, and talked in 

glee 
Of long-past banquetings with high-born 

friends : 
Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight 
Uproused by recollected injury, railed 220 
At their false ways disdainfully, — and oft 
In bitterness, and with a threatening eye 
Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow. 
— Those transports, with staid looks of 

pure good-will, 
And with soft smile, his consort would re- 
prove. 
She, far behind him in the race of years, 
Yet keeping her first mildness, was ad- 
vanced 
Far nearer, in the habit of her soul, 

b that still region whither all are bound; 
Him might we liken to the setting sun 230 
As seen not seldom on some gusty day, 
Struggling and bold, and shining from the 

west 
With an inconstant and unmellowed light; 
She was a soft attendant cloud, that hung 
As if with wish to veil the restless orb; 
From which it did itself imbibe a ray 
Of pleasing lustre^- But no more of this; 
I better love to sprinkle on the sod 
That now divides the pair, or rather say, 
That still iinitesthem^ praises, like heaven's 
dew, 240 

Without reserve descending upon both. 

r-J 
Our very first in eminence of years 
This old Man stood, the patriarch of the 

Vale I 
And, to his unmolested mansion, death 
Had never come, through space of forty 

years; 
Sparing both old and young in that abode. 






Suddenly then they disappeared: not twice 
Had summer scorched the fields; not twice 

had fallen, 
On those high peaks, the first autumnal 

snow, 
Before the greedy visiting was closed, 250 
And the long-privileged house left empty 

— swept 
As by a plague. Yet no rapacious plague 
Had been among tbemjjall was gentle 

death, **^. 

One after one, with intervals of peace. 
A happy consummation ! an accord 
Sweet, perfect, to be wished forT7save that 

here 
Was something which to mortal sense 

might sound 
Like harshness, — that the old grey-headed 

Sire, 
The oldest, he was taken last; survived 
When the meek Partner of his age, his Son, 
His Daughter, and that late and high-jjrized 

gift, 261 

His little smiling Grandchild, were no 

more. 

' All gone ; all vanished 1 he deprived and 

bare, 
How will he face the remnant of his life ? 
What will become of him ? ' we said, and 

mused 
In sad conjectures — 'Shall we meet him 

now 
Haunting with rod and line the craggy 

brooks ? 
Or shall we overhear him, as we pass, 
Striving to entertain the lonely hours 
With music ? ' (for he had not ceased to 

touch 270 

The harp or viol which himself had framed, 
For their sweet purposes, with perfect 

skill.) 
' What titles will he keep ? will he remain 
Musician, gardener, builder, mechanist, 
A planter, and a rearer from the seed ? 
! A man of hope and forward-looking mind 
JSven to the last ! ' — Such was he, unsub- 
dued. 1 
But Heaven-was gracious ; yet a little while, 
And this Survivor, with his cheerful throng 
Of open projects, and his inward hoard iSo 
Of unsunned griefs, too many and too keen, 
Was overcome by unexpected sleep, 
In one blest moment. [Like a shadow 

thrown 



BOOK VII 



THE EXCURSION 



497 



Softly and lightly from a passing cloud, 
Death fell upon ninjj while reclined he lay 
For noontide solace on the summer grass, 
The warm lap of his mother earth: and so, 
Their lenient term of separation past, 
That family (whose graves you there be- 
hold) 
By yet a higher privilege once more 290 
Were gathered to each other." 

Calm of mind 
And silence waited on these closing words; 
Until the Wanderer (whether moved by 

fear 
Lest in those passages of life were some 
That might have touched the sick heart of 

his Friend 
Too nearly, or intent to reinforce 
His own firm spirit in degree deprest 
By tender sorrow for our mortal state) 
Thus silence broke : — " Behold a thought- 
less Man 
From vice and premature decay preserved 
By useful habits, to a fitter soil 301 

Transplanted ere too late. — The hermit, 

lodged 
Amid the untrodden desert, tells his beads, 
With each repeating its allotted prayer, 
And thus divides and thus relieves the 

time ; 
Smooth task, with his compared, whose 

mind could string, 
Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread 
Of keen domestic anguish; and beguile 
A solitude, unchosen, unprofessed; 
Till gentlest death released him. 

Far from us 
Be the desire — too curiously to ask 3 1 1 
How much of this is but the blind residt 
Of cordial spirits and vital temperament, 
And what to higher powers is justly due. 
But you, Sir, know that in a neighbouring 

vale 
A Priest abides , : before whose life such 

doubts — I 
Fall to the ground; whose gifts of nature 

lie 
Retired from notice, lost in attributes 
Of reason, honourably effaced by debts 
Which her poor treasure-house is content to 
owe, 32° 

And conquest over her dominion gained, 
To which her frowardness must needs sub- 
mit. 
In this one Man is shown a temperance — 
proof 



Against all trials; industry severe 
And constant as the motion of the day; 
Stern self-denial round him spread, with 

shade 
That might be deemed forbidding, did not 

there 
All generous feelings nourish and rejoice ; 
Forbearance, charity in deed and thought, 
And resolution competent to take 33c 

Out of the bosom of simplicity 
All that her holy customs recommend, 
And the best ages of the world prescribe. 
— Preaching, administering, hi every work 
Of his sublime vocation, in the walks 
Of worldly intercourse between man and 

man, JUs*V 

And in his humble dwelling, he appears 
A labourer, with moral virtue girt, 
Wrtfc~~spiritual graces, like a glory, 

crowned." — — ----- 



" Doubt can be none," the Pastor said, 

" for whom 340 

This portraiture is sketched. The great, 

the good, 
The well-beloved, the fortunate, the wise, — 
These titles emperors and chiefs have 

borne, 
Honom' assumed or given: and him, the 

Wonderful, 
Our simple shepherds, speaking from the 

heart, 
Deservedly have styled.^j- From his abode 
In a dependent chapelry that lies 
Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild, 
Which in his soul he lovingly embraced, 
And, having once espoused, would never 

quit; 350 

Into its graveyard will ere long be. borne 
..That lowly, great, good Man."") A simple 

stone 
May cover him; and by its help, perchance, 
A century shall hear his name pronounced, 
With images attendant on the sound; 
Then, shall the slowly-gathering twilight 

close 
In utter- night; and of his course remain 
No cognizable vestiges, no more 
Than of this breath, which shapes itself in 

words 
To speak of him, and instantly dissolves." 

, —■ TPf^ 

The Pastor, pressed by thoughts which 

round his theme 3 fi » 

Still lingered, after a brief pause, resumed; 






498 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VII 



" Noise is there not enough in doleful war, 
But that the heaven-born poet must stand 

forth, 
And lend the echoes of his sacred shell, 
To multiply and aggravate the din ? 
Pangs are there not enough in hopeless 

love — 
And, in requited passion, all too much 
Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear — 
But that the minstrel of the rural shade 370 
Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse 
The perturbation in the suffering breast, 
And propagate its kind, far as he may ? 
— Ah who (and with such rapture as befits 
The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate 
The good man's purposes and deeds; re- 
trace 
His struggles, his discomfitures deplore, 
His triumphs hail, and glorify his end; 
That virtue, like the fumes and vapoury 

clouds 
Through fancy's heat redounding in the 
brain, 380 

And like the soft infections of the heart, 
By charm of measured words may spread 

o'er field, 
Hamlet, and town; and piety survive 
Upon the lips of men in hall or bower; 
Not for reproof, but high and warm delight, 
And grave encouragement, by song in- 
spired ? 
— Vain thought ! but wherefore murmur or 

j repine ? 

j The memory of the just survives in heaven : 
"And, without sorrow, will the ground re- 
ceive 
That venerable clay. ( Meanwhile the best 
Of what lies here coTTrmes us to degrees 391 
In excellence less difficult to reach, 
And milder worth: nor need we travel far 
From those to whom our last regards were 

paid, 
For such example. 

Almost at the root 
Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare 
And slender stem, while here I sit at eve, 
Oft stretches towards me, like a long 

straight path 
Traced faintly hi the greensward; there, 

beneath 
A plain blue stone, a gentle Dalesman lies, 
From whom, in early childhood, was with- 
drawn 401 
The precious gift of hearing. He grew up 
From year to year in loneliness of soul'f 



And this deep mountain-valley was to him 
Soundless, with all its streams. The bird 

of dawn 
Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep 
With startling summons ; not for his delight 
The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for him 
Murmured the labouring bee. When 

stormy winds 409 

Were working the broad bosom of the lake 
Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves, 
Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on 

cloud 
Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags, 
The agitated scene before his eye 
Was silent as a picture : evermore 
Were all things silent, wheresoe'er he 
r-~ moved. 

.Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts 
Upheld, he duieously pursued the round 
Of rural labours] the steep mountain-side 
Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog; 
The plough he guided, and the scythe he 

swayed; 421 

And the ripe corn before his sickle fell 
Among the jocund reapers. For himself, 
All watchful and industrious as he was, 
He wrought not: neither field nor flock he 

owned: 
No wish for wealth had place within his 

mind ; 
Nor husband's love, nor father's hope or 

care. 

Though born a younger brother, need 
was none 
That from the floor of his paternal home 
He should depart, to plant himself anew. 
And when, mature hi manhood, he be- 
held 43 1 
His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued 
Of rights to him; but he remained well 

pleased, 
By the pure bond of independent love, 
An inmate of a second family; 
The fellow-labourer and friend of him 
To whom the small inheritance had fallen. 
— Nor deem that his mild presence was a 

weight 
That pressed upon his brother's house j for 
books ^ 

Were rea3y_ comrades whom he could not 
tire ; 440 

Of whose society the blameless Man 
Was never satiate. Their familiar voice, 
Even to old age, with unabated charm 



BOOK VII 



THE EXCURSION 



499 



D 



Beguiled his leisure hours; refreshed his 

thoughts ; 
Beyond its natural elevation raised 
His introverted spirit; and bestowed 
Upon his life an outward dignity 
Which all acknowledged. The dark winter 

night, 
The stormy day, each had its own re- 
source ; 
Song of the muses, sage historic tale, 450 
Science severe, or word of holy Writ 
Announcing immortality and joy 
To the assembled spirits of just men 
Made perfect, and from injury secure. 
■ — Thus soothed at home, thus busy hi the 

field, 
To no perverse suspicion he gave way, 
No languor, peevishness, nor vain com- 
plaint : 
And they, who were about him, did not 

fail 

In reverence, or in courtesy; they prized 
His gentle manners: and his peaceful 
smiles, 460 

The gleams of his slow-varying counte- 
nance, 
Were met with answering sympathy and 

love.~"l , / 

- I (S 

At length, when sixty years and five were 

told, 
A slow disease insensibly consumed 
The powers of nature: and a few short 

steps 
Of friends and kindred bore him from his 

home 
(Yon cottage shaded by the woody crags) 
To the profounder stillness of the grave. 

— Nor was his funeral denied the grace 
Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful 

grief; . 47 o 

Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude. 
And now that monumental stone preserves 
His name, and unambitiously relates 
How long, and by what kindly outward 

aids, 
And in what pure contentedness of mind, 
The sad privation was by him endured. 

— And yon tall pine-tree, whose composing 

sound (ToL^-^-v^jS^i-^, 

Was wasted on the good Man's living ear, 
Hath now its own peculiar sanctity; 
And, at the touch of every wandering 

breeze, _ -4&\ 

Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave. ' 



Soul-cheering Light, most bountiful of 

things ! 
Guide of our way, mysterious comforter ! 
Whose sacred influence, spread through 

earth and heaven, 
We all too thanklessly participate, 
Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him 
Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch, 
Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he com- 
plained ; 
Ask of the channelled rivers if they held 
A safer, easier, more determined course. 490 
\Vhat terror doth it strike into the mind 
[To think of one, blind and alone, advancing 
Straight toward some precipice's airy brink ! 
But, timely warned, He would have stayed 

his steps, 
Protected, say enlightened, by his ear; 
And on the very edge of vacancy 
Not more endangered than a man whose 

eye 
Beholds the gulf beneath. — No floweret 

blooms 
Throughout the lofty range of these rough 

hills, 
Nor in the woods, that could from him 

conceal 500 

Its birth-place; none whose figure did not 

live 
Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth 
Enriched with knowledge his industrious 

mind ; 
The ocean paid him tribute from the stores 
Lodged in her bosom; and, by science led, 
His genius mounted to the plains of heaven. 
— Methinks I see him — how his eye-balls 

rolled, 
Beneath his ample brow, in darkness 

paired, — 
But each instinct with spirit ; and the frame 
Of the whole countenance ""alive with 

thought, 510 

Fancy, and understanding; while the voice 
Discoursed of natural or moral truth 
With eloquence, and such authentic power, 
That, in his presence, humbler knowledge 

stood 
Abashed, and tender pity overawed." is^ 

" A noble — and, to unreflecting minds, 
A marvellous spectacle," the Wanderer 

said, I^^-dL 

" Beings like these present ! But proof 

abounds 
Upon the earth that faculties, which seem 



5 jo 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VII 



Ex tinguished, do not, therefore, cease to 

be. Z^l 520 

And to the niind among her powers of 

sense 
This transfer is permitted, — not alone 
That the bereft their recompense may win; 
But for remoter purposes of love 
And charity; nor last nor least for this, 
That to the imagination may be given 
A type and shadow of an awful truth; 
How, likewise, under sufferance divine, 
Darkness is banished from the realms of 

death, 
By man's imperishable spirit quelled. 530 
Unto the men who see not as we see 
Futurity was thought, in ancient times, 
To be laid open, and they prophesied. 
And know we not that from the blind have 

flowed 
The highest, holiest, raptures of the lyre; 
And wisdom married to immortal verse ? " 

Among the humblefvVorthies, at our feet 
Lying insensible to human praise, 
Love, or regret, — whose lineaments would 

next 
Have been portrayed, I guess not; but it 

chanced 540 

That, near the quiet churchyard where we 

sate, 
A team of horses, with a ponderous freight 
Pressing behind, 'adown a rugged slope, 
Whose sharp descent confounded their 

array, 
Came at that moment, ringing noisily. 

s^ « 

" Here," said the Pastor, " do we muse, 

and mourn 
The waste of death; and lo ! the giant oak 
Stretched on his bier — that massy timber 

wain; 
Nor fail to note the Man who guides the 

team." 

He was a peasant of the lowest class: 550 
Grey locks profusely round his temples hung 
In clustering curls, like ivy, which the bite 
Of winter cannot thin; the fresh air lodged 
Within his cheek, as light within a cloud; 
And he returned. our greeting with a smile. 
When he had passed, the Solitary spake ; 
I" A Man he seems of cheerful yesterdays 
T^nd confident to-morrowsJ7with a face 
Not worldly-minded, for it bears too much 
Of Nature's impress, — gaiety and health, 



Freedom and hope; but keen, withal, and 
shrewd. 561 

His gestures note, — and hark ! his tones of 
voice 

Are all vivacious as his mien and looks." 

The Pastor answered: ^Y° u have read 

him well. 
Year after year is added to his store 
With silent increase: (Summers, winters — 

past, 
Past or to come; yea, boldly might I say, 
Ten summers and ten winters of a space 
That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds, 
Upon his sprigbtly vigour cannot fix 570 
The obligation of an anxious mind, 
A pride hi having, or a fear to lose; 
Possessed like outskirts of some large 

domain, 
By any one more thought of than by him 
Who holds the land hi fee, its careless 

lord ! 
Yet is the creature rational, endowed 
With foresight; hears, too, every sabbath 

day, 
The christian promise with attentive ear; 
Nor will, I trust, the Majesty of Heaven 
Reject the incense offered up by him, 380 
Though of the kind which beasts and birds 

present ' 

In grove or pasture ; chjejiuhifiss-Qf^smil, 
From trepidation and repining: free. 
How many scrupulous worshippers fall down 
Upon their knees, and daity homage pay 
Less worthy, less religious even, than his ! 

This qualified respect, the old Man's due, 
Is paid without reluctance; but in truth," 
(Said the good Vicar with a fond half-smile) 
" I feel at times a motion of despite 590 
Towards one, whose bold contrivances and 

skill, • 
As you have seen, bear such conspicuous 

part 
In works of havoc ; taking from these vales, 
One after one, their proudest ornaments. 
Full oft his doings leave me to deplore 
Tall ash-tree, sown by winds, by vapours 

nursed, 
In the dry crannies of the pendent rocks; 
Light birch, aloft upon the horizon's edge, 
A veil of glory for the ascending moon; 
And oak whose roots by noontide dew were 

damped, 600 

And on whose forehead inaccessible 



BOOK VII 



THE EXCURSION 



5°i 



The raven lodged in safety. — Many a ship 
Launched into Morecamb-bay to him hath 

owed 
Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that 

bears 
The loftiest of her pendants; he, from 

park 
Or forest, fetched the enormous axle-tree 
That whirls (how slow itself !) ten thousand 

spindles: 
And the vast engine labouring in the mine, 
Content with meaner prowess, must have 

lacked 
The trunk and body of its marvellous 

strength, 610 

If his undaunted enterprise had failed 
Among the mountain coves. 

Yon household fir, 
A guardian planted to fence off the blast, 
But towering high the roof above, as if 
Its humble destination were forgot — 
That sycamore, which annually holds 
Within its shade, as in a stately tent 
On all sides open to the fanning breeze, 
A grave assemblage, seated while, they shear 
The fleece-encumbered flock — rthe Joyful 

Elm, 620 

Around whose trunk the maidens dance hi 

May — 
And the Lord's Oak — would plead their 

several rights 
In vain, if he were master of their fate; 
His sentence to the axe would doom them 

aiirS 

But, gr'een**m age and lusty as he is, 
And promising to keep his hold on earth 
Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men 
Than with the forest's more enduring 

growth, 
His own appointed hour will come at last; 
And, like the haughty Spoilers of the 

world, 630 

This keen Destroyer, hi his turn, must fall. 

Now from the living pass we once again: 
From Age," the Priest continued, " turn 

your thoughts; 
From Age, that often unlamented drops, 
And mark that daisied hillock, three spans 

long ! 
— Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the 

board 
Of Gold-rill side ; and, when the hope had 

ceased 
Of other progeny, a Daughter then 




Was given, the crownhig bounty of the 

whole; 
And so acknowledged with a tremulous joy 
MFelt to the centre of that heavenly calm 641 
With which by nature every mother's soul 
Is stricken in the moment when her throes 
Are ended, and her ears have heard the cry 
Which tells her that a living child is bom; 
And she lies conscious, hi a blissful rest, 
That the dread storm is weathered by them 
both. 

The Father-— him at this unlooked-for 

A bolder transport seizes. From the side 
Of his bright hearth, and from his open 

door, 650 

Day after day the gladness is diffused 
To all that come, almost to all that pass; 
Invited, summoned, to partake the cheer 
Spread on the never-empty board, and drink 
Health and good wishes to his new-born 

girl, 
From cups replenished by his joyous hand. 

— Those seven fair brothers variously were 

moved 
Each by the thoughts best suited to his 

years : 
But most of all and with most thankful 

mind 659 

The hoary grandsire felt himself enriched; 
A happiness that ebbed not, but remained 
To fill the total measure of his sold ! 

— From the low tenement, his own abode, 
Whither, as to a little private cell, 

He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and 

noise, 
To spend the sabbath of old age in peace, 
Once every day he duteously repaired 
To rock the cradle of the slumbering babe : 
For in that female infant's name he heard 
The silent name of his departed wife ; 670 
Heart-stirring music ! hourly heard that 

name; 
Full blest he was, 'Another Margaret 

Green,' 
Oft did he say, ' was come to Gold-rill side.' 

Oh ' pang unthought of, as the precious 

boon 
Itself had been unlooked-for ; oh ! dire 

stroke 
Of desolating anguish for them all ! 

— Just as the Child could totter on the 

floor. 



502 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VII 



And, by some friendly finger's help up- 
stayed, 
Range round the garden walk, while she 

perchance 
Was catching at some novelty of spring, 680 
Ground-Mower, or glossy insect from its 

cell 
Drawn by the sunshine — at that hopeful 

season 
Tbe winds of March, smiting insidiously, 
Raised in the tender passage of the throat 
Viewless obstruction; whence, all unf ore- 
warned, 
The household lost their pride and soul's 

delight. 
— But time hath power to soften all re- 
grets, 
And prayer and thought can bring to worst 

distress ^-— • 
Due resignation. Therefore, though some 
tears 689 

Fail not to spring from either Parent's eye 
Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own, 
Yet this departed Little-one, too long 
The innocent troubler of their quiet, sleeps 
In what may now be called a peaceful bed, - 

On a bright day — so calm and bright, it 

seemed 
To us, with our sad spirits, heavenly-fair — 
These mountains echoed to an unknown 

sound ; 
A volley, thrice repeated o'er the Corse 
Let down into the hollow of that grave, 
Whose shelving sides are red with naked 

mould. 7°° 

Ye rains of April, duly wet this earth ! 
Spare, burning sun of midsummer, these 

sods, 
That they may knit together, and therewith 
Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness ! 
Nor so the Valley shall forget her loss. 
Dear Youth, by young and old alike be- 
loved, 
To me as precious as my own ! — Green 

herbs 
May creep (I wish that they would softly 

creep) 
Over thy last abode, and we may pasa 
Reminded less imperiously of thee; — 710 
The ridge itself may sink into the breast 
Of earth, the great abyss, and be no more; 
Yet shall not thy remembrance leave our 

hearts, 
Thy image disappear ! 



The Mountain-ash 
No eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove 
Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head 
Decked with autumnal berries, that out- 
shine 
Spring's richest blossoms; and ye may have 

marked, 
By a brook-side or solitary tarn, 719 

How she her station doth adorn: the pool 
Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks 
Are brightened round her. fin his native 

vale 
Such and so glorious did this Youth appear ; 
A sight that kindled pleasure hi all hearts 
By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam 
Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow, 
By all the graces with whjcli nature's hand 
Had lavishly arrayed hiirn^. As old bards 
Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods, 
Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form: 730 
Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the 

shade 
Discovered in their own despite to sense 
Of mortals (if such fables without blame 
May find chance-mention on this sacred 

ground) 
So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise, 
And through the impediment of rural cares, 
In bun revealed a scholar's genius shone; 
And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight, 
In bun the spirit of a hero walked ^ 
Our unpretending valley. — How the quoit 
Whizzed from the Stripling's arm ! If 

touched by him, 741 

The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the 

pitch 
Of the lark's flight, — or shaped a rainbow 

curve, 
Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field ! 
The indefatigable fox had learned 
To dread his perseverance in the chase. 
With admiration would he lift his eyes 
To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand 
Was loth to assault the majesty he loved: 
Else had the strongest fastnesses proved 

weak 750 

To guard the royal brood. The sailing 

glead, 
The wheeling swallow, and the darting 

snipe ; 
The sportive sea-gull dancing with the 

waves, 
And cautious water-fowl, from distant 

climes, 
Fixed at their seat, the centre of the Mere; 



BOOK VII 









THE EXCURSION 



5°3 



Were subject to young Oswald's steady- 
aim, 
And lived by his forbearance. 

From the coast 
Of France a boastful Tyrant hurled his 

threats ; 
Our Country marked the preparation vast 
Of hostile forces; and she called — with 

voice 760 

That filled her plains, that reached her ut- 
most shores, 
And in remotest vales was heard — to 

arms ! 
— Then, for the first time, here you might 

have seen 
The shepherd's grey to martial scarlet 

changed, 
That flashed uncouthly through the woods 

and fields. 
Ten hardy Striplings, all in bright attire, 
And graced with shining weapons, weekly 

marched, 
Fromjthis lone valley, to a central spot 
Where, in assemblage with the flower and 

choice 
Of the surrounding district, they might 

learn 770 

The-rudiments of war ; ten — hardy, strong, 
And valiant; but young Oswald, like a 

chief 
And yet a modest comrade, led them forth 
From their shy solitude, to face the world, 
With a gay confidence and seemly pride; 
Measuring the soil beneath their happy feet 
Like Youths released from labour, and yet 

bound 
To most laborious service, though to them 
A festival of unencumbered ease; 
The inner spirit keeping holiday, 780 

Like vernal ground to sabbath sunshine left. 

Oft have I marked him, at some leisure 
hour, 

Stretched on the grass, or seated in the 
shade, 

Among his fellows, while an ample map 

Before their eyes lay carefully outspread, 

From which the gallant teacher would dis- 
course, 

Now pointing this way, and now that, — 
' Here flows,' 

Thus would he say, ' the Rhine, that famous 
stream ! 

Eastward, the Danube toward this inland 
sea, 



A mightier river, winds from realm to 

realm ; 790 

And, like a serpent, shows his glittering 

back 
Bespotted — with innumerable isles: 
Here reigns the Russian, there the Turk; 

observe 
His capital city ! ' Thence, along a tract 
Of livelier interest to his hopes and fears, 
His finger moved, distinguishing the spots 
Where wide-spread conflict then most 

fiercely raged ; 
Nor left unstigmatized those fatal fields 
On which the sons of mighty Germany 
Were taught a base submission. — ' Here 

behold 800 

A nobler race, the Switzers, and their 

land, 
Vales deeper far than these of ours, huge 

woods, 
And mountains white with everlasting 

f*» snow ! ' 
— ^.nd, surely, he, that spake with kindling 

"* brow, 
Was a true patriot, hopeful as the best 
Of that young peasantry, who, hi our days, 
Have fought and perished for Helvetia's 

rights — ; 
Ah, not in vain ! — or those who, in old 

time, 
For work of happier issue, to the side 
Of Tell came trooping from a thousand 

huts, Sio 

When he had risen alone ! No braver 

Youth 
Descended from Judean heights, to march 
With righteous Joshua; nor appeared in 

arms 
When grove was felled, and altar was cast 

down, 
And Gideon blew the trumpet, soul-in- 
flamed, 
And strong in hatred of idolatry." 

The Pastor, even as if by these last words 

Raised from his seat within the chosen 
shade, 

Moved toward the grave ; — instinctively his 
steps 

We followed; and my voice with joy ex- 
claimed : 820 

" Power to the Oppressors of the world is 
given, 

A might of which they dream not. Oh ! 
the curse, 



5°4 



THE EXCURSION 



«jr 



BOOK VII 



To be the awakener of divinest thoughts, 
Father and founder of exalted deeds; 
And, to whole nations bound in servile 

straits, 
The liberal donor of capacities 
More than heroic ! this to be, nor yet 
Have sense of one connatural wish, nor 

yet 
Deserve the least return of human thanks; 
Winning no recompense but deadly hate 830 
With pity mixed, astonishment with scorn ! " 

When this involuntary strain had ceased, 
The Pastor said: " So Providence is served; 
The forked weapon of the skies can send 
Illumination into deep, dark holds, 
Which the mild sunbeam hath not power 

to pierce. 
Ye Thrones that have defied remorse, and 

east 
Pity away, soon shall ye quake with fear! 
For, not unconscious of the mighty debt 
Which to outrageous wrong the sufferer 

owes, 840 

Europe, through all her habitable bounds, 
Is thirsting for their overthrow, who yet 
Survive, as pagan temples stood of yore, 
By horror of their impious rites, preserved; 
Are still permitted to extend their pride, 
Like cedars on the top of Lebanon 
Darkening thesun. 

But less impatient thoughts, 
And love ' all Iioping and expecting all,' 
This hallowed grave demands, where rests 

in peace 
A humble champion of the better cause, 850 
A Peasant-youth, so call him, for he asked 
No higher name; in whom our country 

showed, 
As in a favourite son, most beautiful.^. 
In spite of vice, and misery, and disease, 
Spread with the spreading of her wealthy 

arts, 
England, the ancient and the free, appeared 
In him to stand before my swimming eyes, 
Unconquerably virtuous and secure. 
— No more of this, lest I offend his dust: 
Short was his life, and a brief tale re- 
mains, f S6 ° 

One day — a summer's day of annual 

pomp 
And solemn chase — from morn to sultry 

noon 
His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet, 



The red-deer driven along its native heights 
With cry of hound and horn; and, from 

that toil 
Returned with sinews weakened and re- 
laxed, 
This generous Youth, too negligent of self, 
Plunged — 'mid a gay and busy throng con- 
vened 
To wash the fleeces of his Father's flock — 
Into the chilling flood. Convulsions dire 
Seized him, that self-same night; and 

through the space 871 

Of twelve ensuing days his frame was 

wrenched, 
Till nature rested from her work in death. 
i To him, thus snatched away, his comrades 

paid 
A soldier's honours. At his funeral hour 
Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless 

blue — 
A golden lustre slept upon the hillsj^ 
And if by chance a stranger, wandering 

there, 
From some commanding eminence had 

looked 
Down on this spot, well pleased would he 

have seen 880 

A glittering spectacle; but every face 
Was pallid: seldom hath that eye been 

moist 
With tears, that wept not then; nor were 

the few, 
Who from their dwellings came not forth 

to join 
In this sad service, less disturbed than we. 
They started at the tributary peal 
Of instantaneous thunder, which announced, 
Through the still air, the closing of the 

Grave ; 
And distant mountains echoed with a sound 
Of lamentation, never heard before ! " 890 

The Pastor ceased. — My venerable 

Friend 
Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye; 
And, when that eulogy was ended, stood 
Enrapt, as if his inward sense perceived 
The prolongation of some still response, 
Sent by the ancient Soul of this wide land, 
The Spirit of its mountains and its seas, 
Its cities, temples, fields, its awful power, 
Its rights and virtues — by that Deity 
Descending, and supporting his pure 

heart 900 

With patriotic confidence and joy. 



BOOK VII 



THE EXCURSION 



5°S 



And, at the last of those memorial words, 
The pining Solitary turned aside; 
Whether through manly instinct to conceal 
Tender emotions spreading from the heart 
To his worn cheek; or with uneasy shame 
For those cold humours of habitual spleen 
That, fondly seeking in dispraise of man 
Solace and self-excuse, had sometimes 

urged 
To self-abuse a not ineloquent tongue. 910 
— Right toward the sacred Edifice his steps 
Had been directed; and we saw him now 
Intent upon a monumental stone, 
Whose uncouth form was grafted on the 

wall, 
Or rather seemed to have grown into the 

side 
Of the rude pile; as oft-times trunks of 

trees, 
Where ' nature works in wild and craggy 

spots, 
Are seen incorporate with the living rock — 
To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note 
Of his employment, with a courteous 

smile 920 

Exclaimed — 

" The sagest Antiquarian's eye 
That task would foil; " then, letting fall his 

voice 
While he advanced, thus spake: "Tradi- 
tion tells 
That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight 
Came on a war-horse sumptuously attired, 
And fixed his home in this sequestered 

vale. 
'T is left untold if here he first drew breath, 
Or as a stranger reached this deep recess, 
Unknowing and unknown. A pleasing 

thought 
I sometimes entertain, that haply bound 930 
To Scotland's court in service of his Queen, 
Or sent on mission to some northern Chief 
Of England's realm, this vale he might 

have seen 
With transient observation; and thence 

caught 
An image fair, which, brightening in his 

soul 
When joy of war and pride of chivalry 
Languished beneath accumulated years, 
Had power to draw him from the world, 

resolved 
To make that paradise his chosen home 
To which his peaceful fancy oft had 

turned. 940 



Vague thoughts are these; but, if belief 

may rest 
Upon unwritten story fondly traced 
From sire to son, in this obscure retreat 
The Knight arrived, with spear and shield, 

and borne 
Upon a Charger gorgeously bedecked 
With broidered housings. And the lofty 

Steed — 
His sole companion, and his faithful friend, 
Whom he, in gratitude, let loose to xange 
In fertile pastures — was beheld with eyes 
Of admiration and delightful awe, 950 

By those untravelled Dalesmen. With less 

pride, 
Yet free from touch of envious discontent, 
They saw a mansion at his bidding rise, 
Like a bright star, amid the lowly band 
Of their rude homesteads. Here the 

Warrior dwelt; 
And, in that mansion, children of his own, 
Or kindred, gathered round him. As a 

tree 
That falls and disappears, the house is 

gone; 
And, through improvidence or want of love 
For ancient worth and honourable things, 960 
The spear and shield are vanished, which 

the Knight 
Hung in his rustic hall. One ivied arch 
Myself have seen, a gateway, last remains 
Of that foundation in domestic care 
Raised by his hands. And now no trace is 

left 
Of the mild-hearted Champion, save this 

stone, 
Faithless memorial ! and his family name 
Borne by yon clustering cottages, that 

sprang 
Frotn out the ruins of his stately lodge: 
These, and the name and title at full 

length, — 970 

&it ?UfreD bribing, with appropriate words 
Accompanied, still extant, in a wreath 
Or posy, girding round the several fronts 
Of three clear-sounding and harmonious 

bells, 
That in the steeple hang, his pious gift." 

" So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and 
dies," 

The grey-haired Wanderer pensively ex- 
claimed, 

" All that this world is proud of. From 
their spheres 



V 



5° 6 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VII 



The stars of human glory are cast down; 
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings, 
Princes, and emperors, and the crowns and 

palms 981 

Of all the mighty, withered and consumed ! 
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence 
Long to protect her own. The man him- 
self 
Departs; and soon is spent the line of 

those 
Who, in the bodily image, in the mind, 
In heart or soul, in station or pursuit, 
Did most resemble him. Degrees and 

ranks, • 

Fraternities and orders — heaping high 
New wealth upon the burthen of the old, 990 
And placing trvist in privilege confirmed 
And re-confirmed — are scoffed at with a 

smile 
Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand 
Of Desolation, aimed: to slow decline 
These yield, and these to sudden over 

throw: 

Their virtue, service, happiness, and state 
Expire; and nature's pleasant robe of 

green, 
Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps 
Their monuments and their memory. The 

vast Frame 
Of social nature changes evermore icoo 

Her organs and her members, with decay 
Restless, and restless generation, powers 
And fimctions dying and produced at 

need, — 
And by this law the mighty whole subsists: 
With an ascent and progress in the main; 
Yet, oh ! how disproportioned to the hopes 
And expectations of self-flattering minds ! 

The courteous Knight, whose bones are 

here interred, 
Lived in an age conspicuous as our own 
For strife and ferment in the minds of 

men; 1010 

Whence alteration in the forms of things, 
Various and vast. A memorable age ! 
Which did to him assign a pensive lot — 
To linger 'mid the last of those bright 

clouds 
That, on the steady breeze of honour, 

sailed 
In long procession calm and beautiful. 
He who had seen his own bright order 

fade, 
And its devotion gradually decline, 



\ 



(While war, relinquishing the lance and 

shield, 
Her temper changed, and bowed to other 

laws) 1020 

Had also witnessed, in his morn of life, 
That violent commotion, which o'erthrew, 
In town and city and sequestered glen, 
Altar, and cross, and church of solemn 

roof, 
And old religious house — pile after pile ; 
And shook their tenants out into the fields, 
Like wild beasts without home ! Their hour 



was come: 



But why no softening thought of grati- 
tude, 
No just remembrance, scruple, or wise 
/ - doubt ? 
v Benevolence is mild ; nor borrows help, 1030 
^Save at worst need, from bold impetuous 

force, 
__Fitliest allied to anger and revenge. 
But Human-kind rejoices in the might 
Of mutability; and airy hopes, 
Dancing around her, hinder and disturb 
Those meditations of the soul that feed 
The retrospective virtues. Festive songs 
Break from the maddened nations at the 

sight 
Of sudden overthrow; and cold neglect 
Is the sure consequence of slow decay. 1040 



Ev< 



that 



said the Wanderer, " as 
courteous Knight, 
Bound by his vow to labour for redress 
Of all who suffer wrong, and to enact 
By sword and lance the law of gentleness, 
(If I may venture of myself to speak, 
Trusting that not incongruously I blend 
Low things with lofty) I too shall be 

doomed 
To outlive the kindly use and fair esteem 
Of the poor calling which my youth em- 
braced 
With no unworthy prospect. But enough; 
— Thoughts crowd upon me — and 't were 
seemlier now 105 1 

To stop, and yield our gracious Teacher 

thanks 
For the pathetic records which his voice 
Hath here delivered; words of heartfelt 

^_truthf~~ 
Tending to patience when affliction strikes; 
To hope and love; to confident repose 
In God; and reverence for the dust of 
Man." 



V 



BOOK VIII 



THE EXCURSION 



5°7 



BOOK EIGHTH 

THE PARSONAGE 

ARGUMENT 

Pastor's apology and apprehensions that he 
might have detained his Auditors too long, with 
' the Pastor's invitation to his house — Solitary 
disinclined to comply — Rallies the Wanderer — 
And playfully draws a comparison between his 
itinerant profession and that of the Knight- 
errant — Which leads to Wanderer's giving an 
account of changes in the Country from the 
manufacturing spirit — Favourable effects — 
■ The other side of the picture, and chiefly as it 
has affected the humbler classes — Wanderer 
asserts the hollowness of all national grandeur if 
unsupported by moral worth — Physical science 
I unable to support itself — Lamentations over 
i an excess of manufacturing industry among the 
I humbler Classes of Society — Picture of a 
Child employed in a Cotton-mill — Ignorance 
and degradation of Children among the agri- 
cultural Population reviewed — Conversation 
broken off by a renewed Invitation from the 
Pastor — Path leading to his House — Its ap- 
i pearance described — His Daughter — His 
' Wife — His Son (a Boy) enters with his Com- 
1 panion — Their happy appearance — The Wan- 
I derer how affected by the sight of them. 

: The pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale 

j To those acknowledgments subscribed his 

own, 
! With a sedate compliance, which the Priest 
Failed not to notice, inly pleased, and 

said : — 
" If ye, by whom invited I began 
i These narratives of calm and humble life, 
I Be satisfied, 't is well, — the end is gained ; 
And, in return for sympathy bestowed 
And patient listening, thanks accept from 
^ me. 

— Life, death, eternity! momentous themes 
Are they — and might demand a seraph's 

tongue, sfcu 

Were they not equal to their own support;/ 
And therefore no incompetence of mine "*» 
Could do them wrong. The universal 

forms 
Of human nature, in a spot like this, 
Present themselves at once to all men's 

view: 
Ye wished for act and circumstance, that 

make 
The individual known and understood; 
And such as my best judgment could se- 
lect 



From what the place afforded, have been 

given ; 20 

Though apprehensions crossed me that my 

zeal 
To his might well be likened, who unlocks 
A cabinet stored with gems and pictures — 

draws 
His treasures forth, soliciting regard 
To this, and this, as worthier than the last, 
Till the spectator, who awhile was pleased 
More than the exhibitor himself, becomes 
Weary and faint, and longs to be released. 

— But let us hence ! my dwelling is in 

sight, 
And there — " 

At this the Solitary shrunk 
With backward will; but, wanting not ad- 
dress 3 1 
That inward motion to disguise, he said 
To his Compatriot, smiling as he spake; 
— " The peaceable remains of this good 

Knight 
Would be disturbed, I fear, with wrathful 

scorn, 
If consciousness could reach him where he 

lies 
That one, albeit of these degenerate times, 
Deploring changes past, or dreading change 
Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in 

thought, 
The fine vocation of the sword and lance 40 
With the gross aims and body-bending toil 
Of a poor brotherhood who walk the earth 
Pitied, and, where they are not known, 

despised. ,__ 

Yet, by the good Knight's leave, the two 

estates 
Are graced with some resemblance. Errant 

those, 
Exiles and wanderers — and the like are 

these ; 
Who, with their burthen, traverse hill and 

dale, 
Carrying relief for nature's simple wants. 

— What though no higher recompense be 

sought 
Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil 50 
Full oft procured, yet may they claim re- . 

spect, 
Among the intelligent, for what this course 
Enables them to be and to perform. 
Their tardy steps give leisure to observe, 
While solitude permits the mind to feel; 
Instructs, and prompts her to supply defects 



5 o8 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VIII 



By the division of her inward self 

For grateful converse: and to these poor 

men 
Nature (I but repeat your favourite boast) 
Is bountiful — go wheresoe'er they may ; 60 
Kind nature's various wealth is all their own. 
Versed hi the characters of men ; and bound, 
By ties of daily interest, to maintain 
Conciliatory manners and smooth speech; 
Such have been, and still are in their degree, 
Examples efficacious to refine 
Rude intercourse ; apt agents to expel, 
By importation of unlooked-for arts, 
Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice; 
Raising, through just gradation, savage life 
To rustic, and the rustic to urbane. 71 

— Within their moving magazines is lodged 
Power that comes forth to quicken and ex- 
alt 
Affections seated in the mother's breast, 
And hi the lover's fancy; and to feed 

DThe sober sympathies of long-tried friends. 
— By these Itinerants, as experienced men, 
Counsel is given; contention they appease 
With gentle language; in remotest wilds, 
Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings 
bring ; Se 

Could the proud quest of chivalry do more? " 

" Happy," rejoined the Wanderer, " they 
who gain 
A panegyric from your generous tongue ! 
But, if to these Wayfarers once pertained 
Aught of romantic interest, it is gone. 
Their purer service, in this realm at least, 
Is past for ever. -pAn inventive Age 
Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, 

yet . -I 

To most strange issues. I I have lived to 
mark *** 

A new and unforeseen creation rise 90 

From out the labours of a peaceful Land 
Wielding her potent enginery to frame 
And to produce, with appetite as keen 
As that of war, which rests not night or day, 
Industrious to destroy ! With fruitless 

pains 
Might one like me now visit many a tract 
Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod again, 
A lone pedestrian with a scanty freight, 
Wished-for, or welcome, wheresoe'er he 

came — 
Among the tenantry of thorpe and vill; 100 
Or straggling burgh, of ancient charter 

proud, 



And dignified by battlements and towers 
Of some stern castle, mouldering on the 

brow 
Of a green hill or bank of rugged stream. 
The foot-path faintly marked, the horse- 
track wild, 
And formidable length of plashy lane, 
(Prized avenues ere others had been shaped 
Or easier links connecting place with place) 
Have vanished — swallowed up by stately 

roads 
Easy and bold, that penetrate the gloom no 
Of Britain's farthest glens. The Earth has 

lent 
Her waters, Air her breezes; and the sail 
Of traffic glides with ceaseless intercourse, 
Glistening along the low and woody dale; 
Or, in its progress, on the lofty side, 
Of some bare hill, with wonder kenned from 
far. 

Meanwhile, at social Industry's com- 
mand, 
How quick, how vast an increase ! From 

the germ 
Of some poor hamlet, rapidly produced 
Here a huge town, continuous and compact, 
Hiding the face of earth for leagues — and 

there, 121 

Where not a habitation stood before, 
Abodes of men irregularly massed 
Like trees in forests, — spread through 

spacious tracts, 
O'er which the smoke of unremitting fires 
Hangs permanent, and plentiful as wreaths 
Of vapour glittering in the morning sim. 
And, wheresoe'er the traveller turns his 

steps, 
He sees the barren wilderness erased, 
Or disappearing ; triumph that proclaims 130 
How much the mild Directress of the plough 
Owes to alliance with these new-born arts ! 
— Hence is the wide sea peopled, — hence 

the shores 
Of Britain are resorted to by ships 
Freighted from every climate of the world 
With the world's choicest produce. Hence 

that sum 
Of keels that rest within her crowded ports, 
Or ride at anchor in her sounds and bays; 
That animating spectacle of sails 
That, through her inland regions, to and 

fro 140 

Pass with the respirations of the tide, 
Perpetual, multitudinous ! Finally, 



BOOK VIII 



THE EXCURSION 



5°9 



Hence a dread arm of floating power, a voice 
Of thunder daunting those who would ap- 
proach 
With hostile purposes the blessed Isle, 
^Truth's consecrated residence, the scat 
Impregnable of Liberty and Peace. " * 

And yet, O happy Pastor of a flock 
Faithfully watched, and, by that loving care 
And Heaven's good providence, preserved 
from taint ! 150 

With you I grieve, when on the darker side 
Of this great change I look; and there be- 
hold 
Such outrage done to nature as compels 
The indignant power to justify herself; 
Yea, to avenge her violated rights, 
For England's bane. — When soothing dark- 
ness spreads 
)'er hill and vale," the Wanderer thus ex- 
pressed 
His recollections, " and the punctual stars, 
While all things else are gathering to their 

homes, 
Advance, and in the firmament of heaven 160 
Glitter — but undisturbing, undisturbed; 
As if their silent company were charged 
With peaceful admonitions for the heart 
Of all-beholding Man, earth's thoughtful 

lord; 
Then, in full many a region, once like this 
The assured domain of calm simplicity 
And pensive quiet, an unnatural light 
Prepared for never-resting Labour's eyes 
Breaks from a many-windowed fabric huge ; 
And at the appointed hour a bell is heard — 
Of harsher import than the curfew-knoll 171 
That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern 

behest — 
A local summons to unceasing toil ! 
Disgorged are now the ministers of day; 
And, as they issue from the illumined pile, 
A fresh band meets them, at the crowded 

door — 
And in the courts — and where the rumbling 
stream, 
: That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels, 
Glares, like a troubled spirit, in its bed 
Among the rocks below. Men, maidens, 
! youths, 1 So 

Mother and little children, boys and girls, 
Enter, and each the wonted task resumes 
Within this temple, where is offered up 
To Gain, the master idol of the realm, 
Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus of old 



Our ancestors, within the still domain 
Of vast cathedral or conventual church, 
Their vigils kept; where tapers day and 

nighf 
On the dim altar burned continually, 
In token that the House was evermore 190 
Watching to God. Religious men were 

they; 
Nor would their reason, tutored to aspire 
Above this transitory world, allow 
That there should pass a moment of the 

year, 
When in their land the Almighty's service 

ceased. 

Triumph who will in these profaner rites 
Which we, a generation self-extolled, 
As zealously perform ! I cannot share 
His proud complacency: — yet do I exult, 
Casting reserve away, exult to see 200 

An intellectual mastery exercised 
O'er the blind elements; a purpose given, 
A perseverance fed; almost a soul 
Imparted — to brute matter. I rejoice, 
Measuring the force of those gigantic 

powers 
That, by the thinking mind, have been com- 
pelled 
To serve the will of feeble-bodied Man. 
For with the sense of admiration blends 
The animating hope that time may come 
When, strengthened, yet not dazzled, by 
the might 210 

Of this dominion over nature gained, 
Men of all lands shall exercise the same 
In due proportion to their country's need; 
Learning, though late, that all true glory 



All praise, all safety, and all happiness, 
Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes, 
Tyre, by the margin of the sounding waves, 
Palmyra, central in the desert, fell; 
And the Arts died by which they had been 

raised. 
— Call Archimedes from his buried tomb 
Upon the grave of vanished Syracuse, 221 
And feelingly the Sage shall make report 
How insecure, how baseless in itself, 
Is the Philosophy whose sway depends 
On mere material instruments; — how weak 
Those arts, and high inventions, if un«> 

propped 
By virtue. — He, sighing with pensive 

grief, 
Amid his calm abstractions, would admit 



5 10 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VIII 






That not the slender privilege is theirs 
To save themselves from blank f orgetful- 
ness ! " . .** 230 

When from the Wanderer's lips these 
words had fallen, 
I said, " And, did in truth those vaunted 

Arts 
Possess such privilege, how could we escape 
Sadness and keen regret, we who revere, 
And would preserve as things above all 

price, 
The old domestic morals of the land, 
Her simple manners, and the stable worth 
That dignified and cheered a low estate ? 
Oh ! where is now the character of peace, 
Sobriety, and order, and chaste love, 240 
And honest dealing, and untainted speech, 
And pure good-will, and hospitable cheer; 
That made the very thought of country- 
life 
A thought of refuge, for a mind detained 
Reluctantly amid the bustling crowd ? ^s 
Where now the beauty of the sabbath kept 
With conscientious reverence, as a day 
By the almighty Lawgiver pronounced 
Holy and blest ? and where the winning 

grace 
Of all the lighter ornaments attached 250 
To time and season, as the year rolled 
round ? " 



" Fled ! " was the Wanderer's passionate 

response, 
" Fled utterly ! or only to be traced 
In a few fortunate retreats like this; 
Which I behold with trembling, when I 

think 
What lamentable change, a year — a 

month" " -"-" 

May bring; that brook converting as it 

runs 
Into an instrument of deadly bane 
For those, who, yet untempted to forsake 
The simple occupations of their sires, 260 
Drink the pure water of its innocent stream 
With lip almost as pure. — Domestic bliss 
(Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,) 
How art thou blighted for the poor Man's 

heart ! 
Lo ! in such neighbourhood, from morn to 

eve, 
The habitations empty ! or perchance 
The Mother left alone, — no helping hand 
To rock the cradle of her peevish babe; 



No daughters round her, busy at the 

wheel, 
Or in dispatch of each day's little growth 
Of household occupation; no nice arts 271 
Of needle-work; no bustle at the fire, 
Where once the dinner was prepared with 

pride ; 
Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the 

mind; 
Nothing to praise, to teach, or to com- 
mand ! 

The Father, if perchance he still retain 
His old employments, goes to field or 

wood, 
No longer led or followed by the Sons; 
Idlers perchance they were, — but in his 

sight; 
Breathing fresh air, and treading the green 

earth: 280 

'Till their short holiday of childhood 

ceased, 
Ne'er to return ! That birthright now is 

lost. 
E conomlsts~will tell you that the State 
Thrives by the forfeiture — unfeeling 

thought, 
And false as monstrous ! Can the mother 

thrive 
By the destruction of her innocent sons 
In whom a premature necessity 
Blocks out the forms of nature, precon- 

sumes 
The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up 
The infant Being in itself, and makes 290 
Its very spring a season of decay ! 
The lot is wretched, the condition sad, 
Whether a pining discontent survive, 
And thirst for change; or habit hath sub- 
dued 
The soid deprest, dejected — even to love 
Of her close tasks, and long captivity. 

Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns 
A native Briton to these inward chains, 
Fixed in his soul, so early and so deep; 
Without his own consent, or knowledge, 

fixed ! 300 

He is a slave to whom release comes not, 
And cannot come. The boy, where'er he 

turns, 
Is still a prisoner; when the wind is up 
Among the clouds, and roars through the 

ancient woods; 
Or when the sun is shining in the east, 



BOOK VIII 



THE EXCURSION 



5" 



Quiet and calm. Behold him — in the 

school 
Of his attainments ? no; but with the air 
Fanning his temples under heaven's blue 

arch. 
His raiment, whitened o'er with cotton- 
flakes 
Or locks of wool, announces whence he 

comes. 3 10 

Creeping his gait and cowering, his lip 

pale, 
His respiration quick and audible; 
And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam 
Coidd break from out those languid eyes, 

or a blush 
Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form, 
Is that the countenance, and such the port, 
Of no mean Being ? One who should be 

clothed 
With dignity befitting his proud hope; 
Who, in his very childhood, should appear 
Sublime from present purity and joy ! 320 
The limbs increase ; but liberty of mind 
Is gone for ever; and this organic frame, 
So joyful in its motions, is become 
Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead; 
And even the touch, so exquisitely poured 
Through the whole body, with a languid 

will 
Performs its functions; rarely competent 
To impress a vivid feeling on the mind 
Of what there is delightful in the breeze, 
The gentle visitations of the sun, 330 

Or lapse of liquid element — by hand, 
Or foot, or lip, in summer's warmth — per- 

r- ceived. 
— r Can hope look forward to a manhood 

h ' raised 
On such foundations ? "-•'■ 

" Hope is none for him ! " 
The pale Recluse indignantly exclaimed, 
" And tens of thousands suffer wrong as 

deep. 
Yet be it asked, in justice to our age, 
If there were not, before those arts ap- 
peared, 
These structures rose, commingling old and 

young, 
And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint; 
If there were not, then, in our far-famed 

Isle, 341 

Multitudes, who from infancy had breathed 
Air unimprisoned, and had lived at large; 
Yet walked beneath the sun, in human 

shape, 



As abject, as degraded ? At this day, 
Who shall enumerate the crazy huts 
And tottering hovels, whence do issue forth 
A ragged Offspring, with their upright hair 
Crowned like the image of fantastic Fear; 
Or wearing, (shall we say ?) in that white 

growth 350 

An ill-adjusted turban, for defence 
Or fierceness, wreathed around their sun- 
burnt brows, 
By savage Nature ? Shrivelled are their 

lips, 
Naked, and coloured like the soil, the feet 
On which they stand; as if thereby they 

drew 
Some nourishment, as trees do by their 

roots, 
From earth, the common mother of us all. 
Figure and mien, complexion and attire, 
Are leagued to strike dismay; but out- 
stretched hand 
And whining voice denote them supplicants 
For the least boon that pity can bestow. 361 
Such on the breast of darksome heaths 

are found; 
And with their parents occupy the skirts 
Of furze-clad commons; such are born and 

reared 
At the mine's mouth under impending 

rocks ; 
Or dwell in chambers of some natural cave ; 
Or where their ancestors erected huts, 
For the convenience of unlawful gain, 
In forest purlieus; and the like are bred, 
All England through, where nooks and 

slips of ground 370 

Purloined, in times less jealous than our 

own, 
From the green margin of the public way, 
A residence afford them, 'mid the bloom 
And gaiety of cultivated fields. 
Such (we will hope the lowest hi the scale) 
Do I remember oft-times to have seen 
'Mid Buxton's dreary heights. In earnest 

watch, 
Till the swift vehicle approach, they stand ; 
Then, following closely with the cloud of 

dust, 
An uncouth feat exhibit, and are gone 380 
Heels over head, like tumblers on a stage. 
— Up from the ground they snatch the 

copper coin, 
And, on the freight of merry passengers 
Fixing a steady eye, maintain their speed; 
And spin — and pant — and overhead again, 



5" 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK VIII 



Wild pursuivants ! until their breath is lost, 
Or bounty tires — and every face, that 

smiled 
Encouragement, hath ceased to look that 

way. 

— But, like the vagrants of the gipsy tribe, 
These, bred to little pleasure in them- 
selves, 390 

Are profitless to others. 

Turn we then 
To Britons born and bred within the pale 
Of civil polity, and early trained 
To earn, by wholesome labour in the field, 
The bread they eat. A sample should I 

give 
Of what this stock hath long produced to 

enrich 
The tender age of life, ye would exclaim, 
' Is this the whistling plough-boy whose 

shrill notes 
Impart new gladness to the morning air ! ' 
Forgive me if I venture to suspect 400 

That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse, 
Are of no finer frame. Stiff are his joints; 
Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees 
Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear, 
Fellows to those that lustily upheld 
The wooden stools for everlasting use, 
Whereon our fathers sate. And mark his 

brow 
Under whose shaggy canopy are set 
Two eyes — not dim, but of a healthy 

stare — 
Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and 

strange — 410 

Proclaiming boldly that they never drew 
A look or motion of intelligence 
From infant-conning of the Christ-cross- 
row, 
Or puzzling through a primer, line by line, 
Till perfect mastery crown the pains at 

last. 

— What kindly warmth from touch of 

fostering hand, 
What penetrating power of sim or breeze, 
Shall e'er dissolve the crust wherein his 

soul 
Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheathed in ice ? 
This torpor is no pitiable work 420 

Of modern ingenuity; no town 
Nor crowded city can be taxed with aught 
Of sottish vice or desperate breach of 

law, 
To which (and who can tell where or how 

soon ?) 



He may be roused. /This Boy the fields 

produce : ^^ 

His spade and hoe, mattock and glittering 

scythe, 
The carter's whip that on his shoulder rests 
In air high-towering with a boorish pomp, 
The sceptre of his sway; his country's 

name, 
Her equal rights, her churches and her 

schools — v . 430 

What have they done for him ?jAnd, let 

me ask, _ 

For tens of thousands uninformed as he ? 
In brief, what liberty of mind is here ? " 

This ardent sally pleased the mild good 

Man, 
To whom the appeal couched in its closing 

words 
Was pointedly addressed; and to the 

thoughts 
That, in assent or opposition, rose 
Within his mmd, he seemed prepared to 

give 
Prompt utterance; but the Vicar interposed 
With invitation urgently renewed. 440 

— We followed, taking as he led, a path 
Along a hedge of hollies dark and tall, 
Whose flexile boughs low bending with a 

weight 
Of leafy spray, concealed the stems and 

roots 
That gave them nourishment. When frosty 

winds 
Howl from the north, what kindly warmth, 

methought, 
Is here — how grateful this impervious 

screen ! 

— Not shaped by simple wearing of the 

foot 
On rural business passing to and fro 
Was the commodious walk: a careful 
hand 450 

Had marked the line, and strewn its sur- 
face o'er 
With pure cerulean gravel, from the heights 
Fetched by a neighbouring brook. — Across 
• — - the vale 

I The stately fence accompanied our steps ; 
And thus the pathway, by perennial green 
Guarded and graced, seemed fashioned to 

unite, 
As by a beautiful yet solemn chain, 
The Pastor's mansion with the house of 
prayer. 



-J 






OOK VIII 



THE EXCURSION 



5i3 



Like image of solemnity, conjoined 
With feminine allurement soft and fair, 460 
The mansion's self displayed ; — a reverend 

pile -**- — 
With bold projections and recesses deep; 
Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood 
Fronting the noontide sun. We paused to 

admire 
The pillared portfn, elaborately embossed; 
The low wide windows with their mullions 

old; 
The cornice, richly fretted, of grey stone; 
And that smooth slope from which the 

dwelling rose, 
By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers 
And flowering shrubs, protected and 

adorned: 470 

Profusion bright ! and every flower assum- 
ing 
A more than natural vividness of hue, 
From unaffected contrast with the gloom 
Of sober cypress, and the darker foil 
Of yew, in which survived some traces, 

here 
Not unbecoming, of grotesque device 
And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof 
Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore, 
Blending their diverse foliage with the 

green 
Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasped 
The huge round chimneys, harbour of 

delight 4S1 

For wren and redbreast, — where they sit 

and sing 
Their slender ditties when the trees are bare. 
Nor must I leave untouched (the picture 

else 
Were incomplete) a relique of old times 
Happily spared, a little Gothic niche 
Of nicest workmanship; that once had held 
The sculptured image of some patron-saint, 
Or of the blessed Virgin, looking down 
On all who entered those religious doors. 490 

But lo ! where from the roCk-y garden- 
mount 

Crowned by its antique summer-house — 
descends, 

Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl; 

For she hath recognised her honoured 
friend, 

The Wanderer ever welcome ! A prompt 
kiss 

The gladsome Child bestows at his request; 

And, up the flowery lawn as we advance, 



Hangs on the old Man with a happy look, 
And with a pretty restless hand of love. 
— We enter — by the Lady of the place 500 
Cordially greeted. Graceful was her port: 
A lofty stature undepressed by time, 
Whose visitation bad not wholly spared 
The finer lineaments of form and face; 
To that complexion brought which prudence 

trusts in 
And wisdom loves. — But when a stately 

ship 
Sails in smooth weather by the placid coast 
On homeward voyage, what — if wind and 

wave, 
And hardship undergone in various climes, 
Have caused her to abate the virgin pride, 
And that full trim of inexperienced hope 511 
With which she left her haven — not for 

this, 
Should the sun strike her, and the impartial 

breeze 
Play on her streamers, fails she to assume 
Brightness and touching beauty of her own, 
That charm all eyes. So bright, so fair, 

appeared 
This goodly Matron, shining in the beams 
Of unexpected pleasure. — Soon the board 
Was spread, and we partook a plain repast. 

Here, restmg in cool shelter, we be- 
guiled 520 
The mid-day hours with desultory talk; 
From trivial themes to general argument 
Passing, as accident or fancy led, 
Or courtesy prescribed. , While question 

rose 
And answer flowed, the fetters of reserve 
Dropping from every mind, the Solitary 
Resumed the manners of his happier days; 
And in the various conversation bore 
A willing, nay, at times, a forward part; 
Yet with the grace of one who in the 
world 530 

Had learned the art of pleasing, and had 

now 
Occasion given him to display his skill, 
Upon the stedfast 'vantage-ground of truth. 
He gazed, with admiration unsuppressed, 
Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale, 
Seen, from the shady room in which we 

sate, 
In softened perspective; and more than 

once 
Praised the consummate harmony serene 
Of gravity and elegance, diffused 



5H 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK IX 



Around the mansion and its whole do- 
main ; 54° 
Not, doubtless, without help of female taste 
And female care.— " A blessed lot is yours ! " 
The words escapea-«his lip7i™6=*anSnder 

sigh 
Breathed over themibut suddenly the door 
Flew open, and a pair of lusty Boys 
Appeared, confusion checking their delight. 
— Not brothers they in feature or attire, 
But fond companions, so I guessed, hi field, 
And by the river's margin — whence they 

come, 
Keen anglers with unusual spoil elated. 550 
One bears a willow-pannier on his back, 
The boy of plainer garb, whose blush sur- 
vives 
More deeply tinged. Twin might the other 

be 
To that fair girl who from the garden-mount 
Bounded: — triumphant entry this for him ! 
Between his hands he holds a smooth blue 

stone, 
On whose capacious surface see outspread 
Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted 

fronts ; 
Banged side by side, and lessening by 

degrees 
Up to the dwarf that tops the pinnacle. 560 
Upon the board he lays the sky-blue stone 
With its rich freight; their number he pro- 
claims ; 
Tells from what pool the noblest had been 

dragged; 
And where the very monarch of the brook, 
After long struggle, had escaped at last — 
Stealing alternately at them and us 
(As doth his comrade too) a look of pride : 
And, verily, the silent creatures made 
A splendid sight, together thus exposed; 
Dead — but not sullied or deformed by 
death, 57° 

That seemed to pity what he could not spare. 

But oh, the animation in the mien 
Of those two boys ! yea in the very words 
With which the young narrator was in- 
spired, 
When, as our questions led, he told at large 
Of that day's prowess ! Him might I com- 
pare, 
His looks, tones, gestures, eager eloquence, 
To a bold brook that splits for better speed, 
And at the self-same moment, works its way 
Through many channels, ever and anon 580 



f^tJi^-^f' 



Parted and re-united: his compeer 
To the still lake, whose stillness is to sight 
As beautiful — as grateful to the mind. 
— But to what object shall the lovely Girl 
Be likened ? She whose countenance and 

air 
Unite the graceful qualities of both, 
Even as she shares the pride and joy of 

both. 

My grey-haired Friend was moved; his 

vivid eye 
Glistened with tenderness; his mind, I 

knew, 
Was full; and had, I doubted not, re- 
turned, 590 
Upon this impulse, to the theme — erewhile 
Abruptly broken off. The ruddy boys 
Withdrew, on summons to their well-earned 

meal ; 
And He — to whom all tongues resigned 

their rights 
With willingness, to whom the general ear 
Listened with readier patience than to 

strain 
Of music, lute or harp, a long delight 
That ceased not when his voice had ceased 

— as One 
Who from truth's central point serenely 

views 
The compass of his argument — began 600 
Mddly, and with a clear and steady tone. 



BOOK NINTH 

DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, AND 
AN EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE 

ARGUMENT 

Wanderer asserts that an active principle 
pervades the Universe, its noblest seat the 
human soul — How lively this principle is in 
Childhood — Hence the delight in old Ag-e of 
looking back upon Childhood — The dignity, 
powers, and privileges of Age asserted — These 
not to be looked for generally but under a just 
government — Right, of a human Creature to 
be exempt from being considered as a mere 
Instrument — The condition of multitudes de- 
plored — Former conversation recurred to, and 
the Wanderer's opinions set in a clearer light 

— Truth placed within reach of the humblest 

— Equality — Happy state of the two Boys 
again adverted to — Earnest wish expressed for 
a System of National Education established 




Oj" 



BOOK IX 



THE EXCURSION 



5i5 



universally by Government — Glorious effects 
of this foretold — Walk to the Lake — Grand 
spectacle from the side of a hill — Address of 
Priest to the Supreme Being — In the course 
of which he contrasts with ancient Barbarism 
the present appearance of the scene before him 
— The change ascribed to Christianity — 
Apostrophe to his flock, living and dead — 
Gratitude to the Almighty — Return over the 
Lake — Parting with the Solitary — Under 
what circumstances. 

" To every Form of being is assigned," 
Thus calmly spake the venerable Sage, 
" An active Principle: — howe'er removed 
From sense and observation, it subsists 
In all things, in all natures; in the stars 
Of azure heaven, the unenduring clouds, 
In flower and tree, in every pebbly stone 
That paves the brooks, the stationary rocks, 
The moving waters, and the invisible air. 
Whate'er exists hath properties that spread 
Beyond itself, communicating good, n 

A simple blessing, or with evil mixed; 
Spirit that knows no insulated spot, 
No chasm, no solitude; from link to link 
It circulates, the Soul of all the worlds. 
This is the freedom of the universe; 
Unfolded still the more, more visible, 
The more we know; and yet is reverenced 

least, 
And least respected in the4mman Mind, 
Its most apparent home^The food of hope 
Is meditated action; robbed of this 21 

Her sole support, she languishes and dies. 
We perish also; for we live by hope 
And by desire; we see by the glad light 
And breathe the sweet air of futurity; 
And so we live, or else we have no life. 
To-morrow — nay perchance this very hour 
(For every moment hath its own to-mor- 
row !) 
Those blooming Boys, whose hearts are 

almost sick 
With present triumph, will be sure to find 30 
A field before them freshened with the dew 
Of other expectations; — in which course 
Their happy year spins round. The youth 

obeys 
A like glad impulse ; and so moves the man 
'Mid all his apprehensions, cares, and 

fears, — 
Or so he ought to move. Ah ! why in age 
Do we revert so fondly to the walks 
Of childhood — but that there the Soul dis- 



The dear memorial footsteps unimpaired 
Of her own native vigour; thence can hear 
Reverberations; and a choral song, 41 

Commingling with the incense that ascends, 
Undaunted, toward the imperishable 

heavens, 
From her own lonely altar ? 

Do not think 
That good and wise ever will be allowed, 
Though strength decay, to breathe in such 

estate 
As shall divide them wholly from the stir 
Of hopeful nature. Rightly is it said 
That Man descends into the Vale of years; 
Yet have I thought that we might also 

speak, 50 

And not presumptuously, I trust, of Age, 
As of a final Eminence; though bare 
In aspect and forbidding, yet a point 
On which 't is not impossible to sit 
In awful sovereignty; a place of power, 
A throne, that may be likened unto his, 
Who, in some placid day of summer, looks 
Down from a mountain-top, — say one of 

those 
High peaks, that bound the vale where 

now we are. 
Faint, and diminished to the gazing eye, 60 
Forest and field, and hill and dale appear, 
With all the shapes over their surface 

spread: 
But, while the gross and visible frame of 

things 
Relinquishes its hold upon the sense, 
Yea almost on the Mind herself, and seems 
All unsubstantialized, — how loud the 

voice 
Of waters, with invigorated peal 
From the full river in the vale below, 
Ascending ! For on that superior height 
Who sits, is disencumbered from the press 
Of near obstructions, and is privileged 71 
To breathe in solitude, above the host 
Of ever-humming insects, 'mid thin air 
That suits not them. The murmur of the 

leaves 
Many and idle, visits not his ear: 
This he is freed from, and from thousand 

notes 
(Not less unceasing, not less vain than 

these,) 
By which the finer passages of sense 
Are occupied; and the Soul, that would in- 
cline 
To listen, is prevented or deterred. 80 



5*6 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK IX 



And may it not be hoped, that, placed by 

age 
In like removal, tranqiul though severe, 
We are not so removed for utter loss; 
But for some favour, suited to our need ? 
What more than that the severing should 

confer 
Fresh power to commune with the invisible 

world, 
And hear the mighty stream of tendency 
Uttering, for elevation of our thought, 
A clear sonorous voice, inaudible 
To the vast multitude ; whose doom it is 90 
To run the giddy romid of vain delight, 
Or fret and labour 011 the Plain below. 

But, if to such sublime ascent the hopes 
Of Man may rise, as to a welcome close 
And termination of his mortal course; 
Them only can such hope inspire whose 

minds 
Have not been starved by absolute neglect; 
Nor bodies crushed by unremitting toil; 
To whom kind Nature, therefore, may af- 
ford 
Proof of the sacred love she bears for all; 
Whose birthright Reason, therefore, may 
ensure. 10 1 

For me, consulting what I feel within 
In times when most existence with herself 
Is satisfied, I cannot but believe, 
That, far as kindly Nature hath free 

scope 
And Reason's sway predominates; even so 

far, 
Country, society, and time itself, 
That saps the individual's bodily frame, 
And lays the generations low in dust, 
Do, by the almighty Ruler's grace, par- 
take 1 10 
Of one maternal spirit, bringing forth 
And cherishing with ever-constant love, 
That tires not, nor betrays. Our life is 

turned _ ,— ^* 

Out of her course, wherever man is made 
An Offering, or a sacrifice, a tool 
Or implement, a passive thing employed 
As a brute" mean, without acknowledgment 
Of common right or interest in the end ; 
Used or abused, as selfishness may prompt, 
Say, what can follow for a rational soul 1 20 
Perverted thus, but weakness in all good, 
And strength in evil ? Hence an after-call 
For chastisement, and custody, and bonds, 
And oft-times Death, avenger of the past, 



And the sole guardian in whose hands we 

dare 
Entrust the future. — Not for these sad is- 
sues 
Was Man created; but to obey the law 
Of life, and hope, and action. And 't is 

known 
That when we stand upon our native soil, 
Unelbowed by such objects as oppress 130 
Our active powers, those powers themselves 

become 
Strong to subvert our noxious qualities: 
They sweep distemper from the busy day, 
And make the chalice of the big round 

year 
Run o'er with gladness; whence the Being 

moves 
In beauty through the world; and all who 

see 
Bless him, rejoicing in his neighbourhood." 

" Then," said the Solitary, " by what 

force 
Of language shall a feeling heart express 
Her sorrow for that multitude in whom 1 4 o 
We look for health from seeds that have 

been sown 
In sickness, and for increase in a power 
That works but by extinction ? On them- 
selves 
They cannot lean, nor turn to their own 

hearts 
To know what they must do; their wisdom 

is 
To look into the eyes of others, thence 
To be instructed what they must avoid: 
Or rather, let us say, how least observed, 
How with most quiet and most silent 

death, 
With the least taint and injury to the air 150 
The oppressor breathes, their human form 

divine, ■ 

And their immortal soul, may waste away." 

The Sage rejoined, " I thank you — you 

have spared 
My voice the utterance of a keen regret, 
A wide compassion which with you I share. 
When, heretofore, I placed before your 

sight 
A Little-one, subjected to the arts 
Of modern ingenuity, and made 
The senseless member of a vast machine, 
Serving as doth a spindle or a wheel; 1^0 
Think not, that, pitying him, I could forget 



BOOK IX 



THE EXCURSION 



5*7 



The rustic Boy, who walks the fields, un- 
taught ; 
The slave of ignorance, and oft of want, 
And miserable hunger. Much, too much, 
Of this unhappy lot, in early youth 
We both have witnessed, lot' which I my- 
self 
Shared, though in mild and merciful de- 
gree: 
Yet was the mind to hindrances exposed, 
Through which I struggled, not without 

distress 
And sometimes injury, like a lamb en- 
thralled 170 
'Mid thorns and brambles; or a bird that 

breaks 
Through a strong net, and mounts upon the 

wind, 
Though with her plumes impaired. If 

they, whose souls 
Should open while they range the richer 

fields 
Of merry England, are obstructed less 
By indigence, their ignorance is not less, 
Nor less to be deplored. For who can 

doubt 
That tens of thousands at this day exist 
Such as the boy you painted, lineal heirs 
Of those who once were vassals of her soil, 
Following its fortunes like the beasts or 
trees 181 

Which it sustained. But no one takes de- 
light 
In this oppression; none are proud of it; 
It bears no sounding name, nor ever bore; 
A standing grievance, an indigenous vice 
Of every country under heaven. My 

thoughts 
Were turned to evils that are new and 

chosen, 
A bondage lurking under shape of good, — 
Arts, in themselves beneficent and kind, 
But all too fondly followed and too far ; — 
To victims, which the merciful can see 191 
Nor think that they are victims — turned 

to wrongs, 
By women, who have children of their 

own, 
Beheld without compassion, yea with 

praise ! 
I spake of mischief by the wise diffused 
With gladness, thinking that the more it 

spreads 
The healthier, the securer, we become; 
Delusion which a moment may destroy ! 



\ Lastly, I mourned for those whom I had 
1 seen 

"^Gorrupted and cast down^on favoured 
ground, 00 

Where circumstance and nature had com- 
bined 
To shelter innocence, and cherish love; 
Who, but for this intrusion, would have 

lived, 
Possessed of health, and strength, and 

peace of mind; 
Thus would have lived, or never have been 
born. 



Alas ! what differs more than man from 

man P — ~^___ 

And whence that difference ? whence but 

from himself ? 
For see the universal Race endowed 
With the same upright form ! — The sun is 

fixed, 
And the infinite magnificence of heaven 2 10 
Fixed, within reach of every human eye; 
The sleepless ocean murmurs for all ears; 
The vernal field infuses fresh delight 
Into all hearts. Throughout the world of 

sense, 
Even as an object is sublime or fair, 
That object is laid open to the view 
Without reserve or veil; and as a power 
Is salutary, or an influence sweet, 
Are each and all enabled to perceive 
That power, that influence, by impartial 

law. 220 

Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all; 
Reason, and, with that reason, smiles and 

tears ; 
Imagination, freedom in the will; 
Conscience to guide and check; and deatb 

to be 
Foretasted, immortality conceived 
By all, — a blissful immortality, 
To them whose holiness on earth shall make 
The Spirit capable of heaven, assured. 
Strange, then, nor less than monstrous, 

might be deemed 
The failure, if the Almighty, to this point 230 
Liberal and undistinguishing, should hide 
The excellence of moral qualities 
From common understanding; leaving 

truth 
And virtue, difficult, abstruse, and dark; 
Hard to be won, and only by a few; 
Strange, should He deal herein with nice 

respects, 



5*8 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK IX 



And frustrate all the rest ! Believe it not: 
The primal duties shine aloft — like stars ; 
The charities that soothe, and heal, and 

bless, 
Are scattered at the feet of Man — like 

flowers. 240 

The generous inclination, the just rule, 
Kind wishes, and good actions, and pure 

thoughts — 
No mystery is here ! Here is no boon 
For high — yet not for low ; for proudly 

graced — 
Yet not for meek of heart. The smoke. 

ascends 
To heaven as lightly from the cottage hearth 
As from the haughtiest palace. He, whose 

soul 
Ponders this true equality, may walk 
The fields of earth with gratitude and hope ; 
Yet, in that meditation, will he find 250 

Motive to sadder grief, as we have found ; 
Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown, 
Aiid-foiL the injustice grieving, that ljath 

made 

So wide a difference between man and man. 

Then let us rather fix our gladdened 

thoughts 
Upon the brighter scene. How blest that 

pair 
Of blooming Boys (whom we beheld even 

now) 
Blest in their several and their common 

lot! 
A few short hours of each returning day 
The thriving prisoners of their village 

school: 260 

And thence let loose, to seek their pleasant 

homes 
Or range the grassy lawn in vacancy: 
To breathe and to be happy, run and shout, 
Idle, — but no delay, no harm, no loss ; 
For every genial power of heaven and 

earth, 
Through all the seasons of the changeful 

year, 
Obsequiously doth take upon herself 
To labour for them ; bringing each hi turn 
The tribute of enjoyment, knowledge, 

health, 
Beauty, or strength ! Such privilege is 

theirs, 270 

Granted alike in the outset of their course 
To both; and, if that partnership must 



I grieve not," to the Pastor here he turned, 
" Much as I glory in that child of yours, 
Repine not for lhs cottage-comrade, whom 
Belike no higher destiny awaits 
Than the old hereditary wish fulfilled; 
The wish for liberty to live — content 
With what Heaven grants, and die — in 

peace of mind, 
3J ithin the bosom of his native vale. 280 
, At least, whatever fate the noon of life 
Reserves for either, sure it is that both 
Have been permitted to enjoy the dawn; 
Whether regarded as a jocund time, 
That in itself may terminate, or lead 
In course of nature to a sober eve. 
Both have been fairly dealt with; looking 

back 
They will allow that justice has in them 
Been shown, alike to body and to mind." 

He paused, as if revolving in his stml 290 
Some weighty matter; then, with fervent 

voice 
And an impassioned majesty, exclaimed — 

" O for the coming of that glorious time 
When, prizing knowledge as her noblest 

wealth 
And best protection, this imperial Realm, 
While she exacts allegiance, shall admit 
An obligation, on her part, to teach 
Them who are born to serve her and obey; 
Binding herself by statute to secure 
For all the children whom her soil maintains 
The rudiments of letters, and inform 301 
The mind with moral and religious Jruth, 
Both understood and practised, — ,so that 

none, 
However destitute, be left to droop 
By timely culture unsustained; or run 
Into a wild disorder; or be forced 
To drudge through a weary life without the 

help 
Of intellectual implements and tools; 
A savage horde among the civilised, "~ 
A servile band among the lordly free ! 310 
This sacred right, the lisping babe pro- 
claims 
To be inherent in him, by Heaven's will, 
For the protection of his innocence ; 
And the rude boy — who, having overpast 
The sinless age, by conscience is enrolled, 
Yet mutinously knits his angry brow, 
And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent, 
Or turns the godlike faculty of speech 



BOOK IX 



THE EXCURSION 



5i9 



To impious use — by process indirect 
Declares his due, while he makes known 
his need. 320 

— This sacred right is fruitlessly an- 

nounced, 
This universal plea in vain addressed, 
To eyes and ears of parents who themselves 
Did, in the time of their necessity, 
Urge it in vain; and, therefore, like a 

prayer 
That from the humblest floor ascends to 

heaven, 
It mounts to meet the State's parental ear; 
Who, if indeed she own a mother's heart, 
And be not most unfeelingly devoid 
Of gratitude to Providence, will grant 330 
The unquestionable good — which, England, 

safe 
From interference of external force, 
May grant at leisure; without risk incurred 
That what in wisdom for herself she doth, 
Others shall e'er be able to undo. 

Look ! and behold, from Calpe's sun- 
burnt cliffs 
To the flat margin of the Baltic sea, 
Long-reverenced titles cast away as weeds; 
Laws overturned; and territory split, 
Like fields of ice rent by the polar wind, 340 
And forced to join in less obnoxious shapes 
Which, ere they gain consistence, by a gust 
Of the same breath are shattered and de- 
stroyed. 
Meantime the sovereignty of these fair 

Isles 
Remains entire and indivisible: 
And, if that ignorance were removed, which 

breeds 
Within the compass of their several shores 
Dark discontent, or loud commotion, each 
Might still preserve the beautiful repose 
Of heavenly bodies shining in their spheres. 

— The discipline of slavery is unknown 351 
Among us, — hence the more do we require 
The discipline of virtue; order else 
Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace. 
Thus, duties rising out of good possest, 
And prudent caution needful to avert 
impending evil, equally require 

That the whole people should be taught and 

trained^ 
So shall licentiousness and black resolve 
Be rooted out, and virtuous habits take 360 
Their placej_yand genuine piety descend, 
Like an inheritance, from age to age. 



With such foundations laid, avaunt the 
fear 
Of numbers crowded on their native soil, 
To the prevention of all healthful growth 
Through mutual injury ! Rather hi the law 
Of increase and the mandate from above 
Rejoice ! — and ye have special cause for 

j°y- 

— For, as the element of air affords 

An easy passage to the industrious bees 370 
Fraught with their burthens; and a way as 

smooth 
For those ordained to take their sounding 

flight 
From the thronged hive, and settle where 

they list 
In fresh abodes — their labour to renew ; 
So the wide waters, open to the power, 
The will, the instincts, and appointed needs 
Of Britain, do invite her to cast off 
Her. swarms, and hi succession send them 

forth; 
iB_gund to establish new communities 
On every shore whose aspect favours hope 
Or bold adventurej_J)romising to skill 38 r 
And perseverance their deserved reward. 

Yes," he continued, kindling as he 
spake, 
" Change wide, and deep, and silently per- 
formed, 
""This Land shall witness; and as days roll 
on, 
Earth's universal frame shall feel the effect ; 
Even till the smallest habitable rock, 
Beaten by lonely billows, hear the songs 
Of humanised society ;, and bloom 
With civil arts, that shall breathe forth 
their fragrance, 390 

A grateful tribute to all-ruling Heaven. 
From culture, unexclusively bestowed 
On Albion's noble Race in freedom born, 
Expect these mighty issues : from the pains 
And faithful care of unambitious schools 
Instructing simple childhood's ready ear: 
Thence look for these magnificent results ! 

— Vast the circumference of hope — and 

ye 

Are at its centre, British Lawgivers; 
Ah ! sleep not there in shame ! Shall 
Wisdom's voice 400 

From out the bosom of these troubled times 
Repeat the dictates of her calmer mind, 
And shall the venerable halls ye fill 
Refuse to echo the sublime decree ? 



520 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK IX 



Trust not to partial care a general good; 

Transfer not to futurity a work 

Of urgent need. — Your Country must com- 
plete 

Her glorious destiny. Begin even now, 

Now, when oppression, like the Egyptian 
plague 

Of darkness, stretched o'er guilty Europe, 
makes 410 

The brightness more conspicuous that in- 
vests 

The happy Island where ye think and act; 

Now, when destruction is a prime pursuit, 

Show to the wretched nations for what 
end 

The powers of civil polity were given." 

Abruptly here, but with a graceful air, 
The Sage broke off. No sooner had he 

ceased 
Than, looking forth, the gentle Lady said, 
" Behold the shades of afternoon have fallen 
Upon this flowery slope ;t and see — be- 
yond — 420 
The silvery lake is streaked with placid 

blue ; . — . 

As if preparing for the peace of evening, i 
How temptingly the landscape shinies ! 

The air 
Breathes invitation; easy is the walk 
To the lake's margin, where a boat lies 

moored 
Under a sheltering tree." — Upon this hint 
We rose together; all were pleased; but 

most 
The beauteous girl, whose cheek was flushed 

with joy. 
Light as a sunbeam glides along the hills 
She vanished — eager to impart the scheme 
To her loved brother and his shy compeer. 
— Now was there bustle hi the Vicar's 
house 432 

And earnest preparation. — Forth we went, 
And down the vale along the streamlet's 

edge 
Pursued our way, a broken company, 
Mute or conversing, single or in pairs. 
Thus having reached a bridge, that over- 
arched 
The hasty rivulet where it lay becalmed 
In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw 
A twofold image; on a grassy bank 440 

A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood 
Another and the same ! Most beautiful, 
On the green turf, with his imperial front 



Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns su- 
perb, 
The breathing creature stood; as beautiful, 
Beneath him, showed his shadowy counter- 
part. 
Each had his glowing mountains, each his 

sky, 
And each seemed centre of his own fair 

world: 
Antipodes unconscious of each other, 44 g 
Yet, in partition, with their several spheres, 
Blended hi perfect stillness, to our sight ! 

" Ah ! what a pity were it to disperse, 
Or to disturb, so fair a spectacle, 
And yet a breath can do it ! " 

These few words 
The Lady whispered, while we stood and 

gazed 
Gathered together, all in still delight, 
Not without awe. Thence passing on, she 

said 
—In like low voice to my particular ear, 
I " I love to hear that eloquent old Man 
Pour forth his meditations, and descant 460 
On human life from infancy to age/7 
How pure his spirit ! hi what vividnues 
His mind gives back the various forms of 

things, 
Caught in their fairest, happiest, attitude ! 
While he is speaking, I have power to see 
. Even as he sees; but when his voice hath 

ceased,""^ 
Then, with a sigh, sometimesl feel, as now, 
That combinations so serene and bright 
Caimot be lasting hi a world like ours, 
Whose highest beauty, beautiful as it isf 470 
Like that reflected in yon quiet pool, 
Seems but a fleeting sunbeam's gift, whose 

peace, 
The sufferance only of a breath of air ! " 

. . H 

More had she said — but sportive shouts 

were heard 
Sent from the jocund hearts of those two 

Boys, 
Who, bearing each a basket on his arm, 
Down the green field came tripping after 

us. 
With caution we embarked; and now the 

pair 
For prouder servioe were addrest ; but each, 
Wishful to leave an opening for my choice, 
Dropped the light oar his eager hand had 

seized. 481 



BOOK IX 



THE EXCURSION 



S2i 



Thanks given for that becoming courtesy, 
Their place I took — and for a grateful 

office 
Pregnant with recollections of the time 
When, on thy bosom, spacious Winder- 
mere ! 
A Youth, I practised this delightful art; 
Tossed on the waves alone, or 'mid a crew 
Of joyous comrades. Soon as the reedy 

marge 
Was cleared, I dipped, with arms accord- 
ant, oars 
Free from obstruction; and the boat ad- 
vanced 490 
Through crystal water, smoothly as a hawk, 
That, disentangled from the shady boughs 
Of some thick wood, her place of covert, 

cleaves 
With correspondent wings the abyss of air. 
— " Observe," the Vicar said, " yon rocky 

isle 
With birch-trees fringed; my hand shall 

guide the helm, 
While thitherward we shape our course ; or 

while 
We seek that other, on the western shore; 
Where the bare columns of those lofty firs, 
Supporting gracefully a massy dome 500 
Of sombre foliage, seem to imitate 
A Grecian temple rising from the Deep." 

" Turn where we may," said I, " we can- 
not err 
In this delicious region." — Cultured slopes, 
Wild tracts of forest-ground, and scattered 

groves, 
And mountains bare, or clothed with an- 
cient woods, 
Surrounded us; and, as we held our way 
Along the level of the glassy flood, 
They ceased not to surround us; change of 

place 
From kindred features diversely combined, 
Producing change of beauty ever new. 511 
— ^Ah ! that such beauty, varying in the 

L— light 
Of living nature, camiot be portrayed =_ 
By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill ;\ 
But is the property of him alone 
Who hath beheld it, noted it with care, 
And in his mind recorded it with love ! 
Suffice it, therefore, if the rural Muse 
Vouchsafe sweet influence, while her Poet 

speaks 
Of trivial occupations well devised, 520 



— 



And unsought pleasures springing up by 

chance ; 
As if some friendly Genius had ordained 
That, as the day thus far had been enriched 
By acquisition of sincere delight, 
The same should be continued to its close. 

One spirit animating old and young, 
A gipsy-fire we kindled on the shore 
Of the fair Isle with birch-trees fringed — 

and there, 
Merrily seated in a ring, partook 
A choice repast — served by- our young 

companions 530 

With rival earnestness and kindred glee. 
Launched from our hands the smooth stone 

skimmed the lake; 
With shouts we raised the echoes : — stiller 

sounds 
The lovely Girl supplied — a simple song, 
Whose low tones reached not to the distant 

rocks 
To be repeated thence, but gently sank 
Into our hearts; and charmed the peaceful 

flood. 
Rapaciously we gathered flowery spoils 
From land and water; lilies of each hue — 
Golden and white, that float upon the 

waves, 540 

And court the wind ; and leaves of that shy 

plant, 
(Her flowers were shed) the lily of the 

vale, 
That loves the ground, and from the sun 

withholds 
Her pensive beauty; from the breeze her 

sweets. 

Such product, and such pastime, did the 
place 
And season yield; but, as we re-embarked, 
Leaving, in quest of other scenes, the shore 
Of that wild spot, the Solitary said 
In a low voice, yet careless who might hear, 
" The fire, that burned so brightly to our 
wish, 550 

Where is it now ? — Deserted on the 

beach — 
Dying, or dead ! Nor shall the fanning 

breeze 
Revive its ashes. What care we for this, 
Whose ends are gained ? Behold an em- 
blem here 
Of one day's pleasure, and all mortal joys f 
And, in this unpremeditated slight 




4-vaA, 



522 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK IX 



Of that which is no longer needed, see 
The common course of human gratitude ! " 

This plaintive note disturbed not the re- 
pose 

Of the still evening. Right across the 
lake 560 

Our pinnace moves; then, coasting creek 
and bay, 

Glades we behold, and into thickets peep, 

Where couch the spotted deer; or raised 
our eyes 

To shaggy steeps on which the careless 
goat 

Browsed by the side of dashing waterfalls; 

And thus the bark, meandering with the 
shore, 

Pursued her voyage, till a natural pier 

Of jutting rock invited us to land. 

Alert to follow as the Pastor led, 
We clomb a green hill's side; and, as we 
clomb, 570 

The Valley, opening out her bosom, gave 
Fair prospect, intercepted less and less, 
O'er the flat meadows and indented coast 
Of the smooth lake, in compass seen: — 

far off, 
And yet conspicuous, stood the old Church- 
tower, 
In majesty presiding over fields 
And habitations seemingly preserved 
From all intrusion of the restless world 
By rocks impassable and mountains huge. 

Saf t heath this elevated spot supplied, 580 
Ana choice of moss-clad stones, whereon 

we couched 
Or sate reclined; admiring quietly 
The general aspect of the scene; but each 
Not seldom over anxious to make known 
His own discoveries; or to favourite points 
Directing notice, merely from a wish 
To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared. 
That rapturous moment never shall I forgeT 
When these particular interests were ef- 
faced 
From every mind ! — Already had the sun, 
Sinking with less than ordinary state,' 591 
Attained his western bound; but rays of 

light — 
Now suddenly diverging from the orb 
Retired behind the mountain tops or veiled 
By the dense air — shot upwards to the 
crown 



Of the blue firmament — aloft, and wide: 
And multitudes of little floating_clouds, 
Through their ethereal texture pierced — 

ere we, 
Who saw, of change were conscious — had 

become 
Vivid as fire; clouds separately poised, — 
Innumerable multitude of forms 601 

Scattered through half the circle of the 

sky; 
And giving back, and shedding each on 

each, 
With prodigal communion, the bright hues 
Which from the unaj)parent fount of glory 
They had imbibed, and ceased not to re- 
ceive. 
That which the heavens displayed, the 

liquid deep 
Repeated; but with unity sublime ! 

While from the grassy mountain's open 
side 
We gazed, in silence hushed, with e}-es in- 
tent 610 
On the refulgent spectacle, diffused 
Through earth, sky, water, and all visible 

space, 
The Priest hi holy transport thus ex- 
claimed: 
" Eternal Spirit ! universal God4 \. 
Power inaccessible to human thought, 
Save by degrees and steps which thou hast 

deigned 
To furnish ; for this effluence of thyself, 
To the infirmity of mortal sense 
Vouchsafed; this local transitory type 
Of thy paternal splendours, and the pomp 
Of those who fill thy courts in highest 

heaven, 621 

The radiant Cherubim ; — accept the thanks 
Which we, thy humble Creatures, here con- 
vened, 
Presume to offer; we, who — from the 

breast 
Of the frail earth, permitted to behold 
The faint reflections only of thy face — 
Are yet exalted, and in soul adore ! 
Such as they are who in thy presence stand 
Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink 
Imperishable majesty streamed forth 630 
From thy empyreal throne, the elect of 

earth 
Shall be — divested at the appointed hour 
Of all dishonour, cleansed from mortal 
stain. 



BOOK IX 



THE EXCURSION 



S23 



— Accomplish, then, their number; and 

conclude 
Time's weary course ! Or if, by thy decree, 
The consummation that will come by 

stealth 
Be yet far distant, let thy Word prevail, 
Oh ! let thy Word prevail, to take away 
The sting of human nature. Spread the law, 
As it is written in thy holy book, 640 

Throughout all lands; let every nation hear 
The high behest, and every heart obey; 
Both for the love of purity, and hope 
Which it affords, to such as do thy will 
And persevere in good, that they shall rise, 
To have a nearer view of thee, hi heaven. 

— Father of good ! this prayer in bounty 

grant, 
In mercy grant it, to thy wretched sons. 
Then, not till then, shall persecution cease, 
And cruel wars expire. The way is 
marked, 650 

The guide appointed, and the ransom paid. 
Alas ! the nations, who of yore received 
These tidings, and in Christian temples 

meet 
The sacred truth to knowledge, linger still; 
Preferring bonds and darkness to a state 
Of holy freedom, by redeeming love 
Proffered to all, while yet on earth de- 
tained. 

So fare the many; and the thoughtful few, 
Who in the anguish of their souls bewail 
This dire perverseness, cannot choose but 

ask, 660 

Shall it endure ? — Shall enmity and strife, 
Falsehood and guile, be left to sow their 

seed ; 
And the kind never perish?_ Is the hope 
Fallacious, or shall righteousness obtain 
A peaceable dominion, wide as earth, 
And ne'er to fail ? Shall that blest day 

arrive 
When they, whose choice or lot it is to dwell 
In crowded cities, without fear shall live 
Studious of mutual benefit; and he, 
Whom Morn awakens, among dews and 

flowers 670 

Of every clime, to till the lonely field, 
Be happy in himself ? — The law of faith 
Working through love, such conquest shall 

it gain, 
Such triumph over sin and guilt achieve ? 
Almighty Lord, thy further grace impart ! 
And with that help the wonder shall be seen 



Fulfilled, the hope accomplished; and thy 

praise 
Be sung with transport and unceasing joy. 

Once," and with mild demeanour, as he 

spake, 
On us the venerable Pastor turned 680 

His beaming eye that had been raised to 

Heaven, 
" Once, while the Name, Jehovah, was a 

soimd 
Within the circuit of this sea-girt isle 
Unheard, (the savage nations bowed the 

heaoV 
To Gods delighting in remorseless deeds; 
Gods which themselves had fashioned, to 

promote 
111 purposes, and flatter foul desires. I 
Then, in the bosom of yon mountain^cove, 
To those inventions of corrupted man 
Mysterious rites were solemnised; and 

there — 690 

Amid impending rocks and gloomy woods — 
Of those terrific Idols some received 
Such dismal service, that the loudest voice 
Of the swohi cataracts (which now are 

heard 
Soft murmuring) was too weak to over- 
come, 
Though aided by wild winds, the groans 

and shrieks 
Of human victims, offered up to appease 
Or to propitiate. And, if living eyes 
Had visionary faculties to see 
The thing that hath been as the thing that 

is, -~ 7°o 

Aghast we might behold this crystal Mere 
Bedimmed with smoke, in wreaths volumi- 
nous, 
Flung from the body of devouring fires, 
To Taranis erected on the heights 
By priestly hands, for sacrifice performed 
Exidtingly, in view of open day 
And full assemblage of a barbarous host; 
Or to Andates, female Power ! who gave 
(For so they fancied) glorious victory. 
— A few rude monuments of mountain- 
stone 7:0 

Survive ; all else is swept away. — How 

bright 
The appearances of things 1 From such, 

/~1iow changed 
The Existing worship;] and with those com* 

pared, **-J 

The worshippers how innocent and blest ! 



5 2 4 






THE 



EXCURSION 



BOOK IX 



So wide the difference, a willing mind 
Might almost think, at this affecting hour, 
1 '--That paradise, the lost abode of man, 
MVas raised again]} and to a happy few, 
In its original beauty, here restored. 

Whence but from thee, the true and only 

God, 720 

And from the faith derived through Him 

who bled 
Upon the cross, this marvellous advance 
Of good from evil; as if one extreme 
Were left, the other gained. — O ye, who 

come 
To kneel devoutly in yon reverend Pile, 
Called to such office by the peaceful sound 
Of sabbath bells; and ye, who sleep in 

earth, 
All cares forgotten, round its hallowed 

walls ! 
For you, in presence of this little band 
Gathered together on the green hill-side, 73 o 
Your Pastor is emboldened to prefer 
Vocal thanksgivings to the eternal Kino-; 
Whose love, whose counsel, whose com- 
mands, have made 
Your very poorest rich in peace of thought 
And in good works; and him, who is en- 
dowed 
With scantiest knowledge, master of all 

truth 
Which the salvation of his soul requires. 
Conscious of that abundant favour showered 
On you, the children of my humble care, 
And this dear land, our country, while on 
earth 740 

We sojourn, have I lifted up my soul, 
Joy giving voice to fervejrt_g^ititnde. 
These barren rocks, your stern inherTEance; 
These fertile fields, that recompense your 

pains; 
The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain-top; 
Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads, 
Or hushed; the roaring waters and the 

still — 
They see che offering of my lifted hands, 
They hear my lips present their sacrifice, 
They know if I be silent, morn or even: 75 o 
For, though in whispers speaking, the full 

heart 
Will find a vent; and thought is praise to 

him, 
Audible praise, to thee, omniscient Mind, 
From whom all gifts descend, all blessings 
flow » " 



This vesper-service closed, without delay, 
From that exalted station to the plain 
Descending, we pursued our homeward 

course, 
In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake, 
Under a faded sky. No trace remained 
Of those celestial splendours; grey the 
vault — 6o 

Pure, cloudless, ether; and the star of eve 
Was wanting; but inferior lights appeared 
Faintly, too faint almost for sight; and 

some 
Above the darkened hills stood boldly forth 
In twinkling lustre, ere the boat attained 
Her mooring-place; where, to the shelter- 
ing tree, 
Our youthful Voyagers bound fast her prow, 
With prompt yet careful hands. This 

done, we paced 
The dewy fields; but ere the Vicar's door 
Was reached, the Solitary checked his 

? te P s; 770 

Then, intermingling thanks, on each be- 
stowed 
A farewell salutation; and, the like 
Receiving, took the slender path that leads 
To the one cottage in the lonely delirj 
But turned not without welcome promise 

made 
That he would share the pleasures and 

pursuits 
Of yet another summer's day, not loth 
To wander with us through the fertile vales, 
And o'er the mountain- wastes. "Another 

sun," 
Said he, " shall shine upon us, ere we part; 
Another sun, and perad venture more; 781 
If time, with free consent, be yours to give, 
And season favours." 

To enfeebled Power, 
,-From this communion with uninjured Minds, 
JWhat renovation had been brought; and 
^^ what 

Degree of healing to a wounded spirit^, 
Dejected, and habitually disposed -^ 
To seek, in degradation of the Kind, 
Excuse and solace for her own defects; 
How far those erring notions were re- 
formed; 790 
And whether aught, of tendency as good 
And pure, from further intercourse ensued; 
This — if delightful hopes, as heretofore, 
Inspire the serious song, and gentle Hearts 
Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the past — 
My future labours may not leave untold. 






LAODAMIA 



S25 



LAODAMIA 

1814. 1815 

Written at Eydal Mount. The incident of 
the trees growing and withering 1 put the subject 
into my thoughts, and I wrote with the hope of 
giving it a loftier tone than, so far as I know, 
has been given to it by any of the Ancients 
who have treated of it. It cost roe more 
trouble than almost anything of equal length I 
have ever written. 

" With sacrifice before the rising morn 
Vows have I made by fruitless hope in- 
spired; 
And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades 

forlorn 
Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I re- 
quired : 
Celestial pity I again implore; — 
Restore him to my sight — great Jove, re- 
store ! " 

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 
With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts 

her hands; 
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, 
Her countenance brightens — and her eye 

expands; 10 

Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature 

grows; 
And she expects the issue in repose. 

O terror ! what hath she perceived ? — O 

j°y ! 

What doth she look on ? — whom doth she 

behold ? 
Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 
His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ? 
It is — if sense deceive her not — 't is He ! 
And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! 

Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with 

his wand 
That calms all fear; "Such grace hath 

crowned thy prayer, 20 

Laodamfa ! that at Jove's command 
Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air : 
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' 

space ; 
Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! " 

Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her 

Lord to clasp; 
Again that consummation she essayed; 



But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 
As often as that eager grasp was made. 
The Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite, 
And re-assume his place before her sight. 30 

" Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice. 
This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne; 
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will 

rejoice. 
Not to appal me have the gods bestowed 
This precious boon; and blest a sad abode." 

" Great Jove, Laodamfa ! doth not leave 
His gifts imperfect: — Spectre though I be, 
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive; 
But in reward of thy fidelity. 4 o 

And something also did my worth obtain; 
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 

" Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold 

That the first Greek who touched the Tro- 
jan strand 

Should die; but me the threat could not 
withhold: 

A generous cause a victim did demand; 

And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain; 

A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain." 

" Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, 

best! 
Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 50 
Which then, when tens of thousands were 

deprest 
By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore: 
Thou f ound'st — and I forgive thee — here 

thou art — 
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

" But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 
And he, whose power restores thee, hath 

decreed 
Thou shoidd'st elude the malice of the 

grave : 
Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
As when their breath enriched Thessalian 



" No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow 

this; 
Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side! 
Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial 

kiss 
To me, this day, a second time thy bride ! " 



526 



LAODAMIA 



Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious 

Parcfe threw 
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 

" This visage tells thee that my doom is past : 
Nor should the change be mourned, even if 

the joys 
Of sense were able to return as fast 
And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 
Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains: 71 
Calni pleasures there abide — majestic 

pains. 

" Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control 
Rebellious passion: for the Gods approve 
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul; 
A fervent, not imgovernable, love. 
Thy transports moderate; and meekly 

mourn 
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 

" Ah, wherefore ? — Did not Hercules by 

force 
Wrest from the guardian Monster of the 

tomb So 

Alcestis, a reanimated corse, 
Given back to dwell on earth hi vernal bloom? 
Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 
And iEson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 

" The Gods to us are merciful — and they 
Yet further may relent: for mightier far 
Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the 

sway 
Of magic potent over sun and star, 
Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 
And though his favourite seat be feeble 

woman's breast. 90 

" But if thou goest, I follow — " " Peace ! " 

he said, — 
She looked vipon him and was calmed and 

cheered ; 
The ghastly colour from his lips had fled; 
In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared 
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, 
Brought from a pensive though a happy 

place. 

He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel 
In worlds whose course is equable and pure; 
No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 
The past unsigned for, and the future sure ; 
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 101 
Revived, with finer harmony pursued; 



Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there 
In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, 
An ampler ether, a diviner air, 
And fields invested with purpureal gleains; 
Climes which the sun, who sheds the 

brightest day 
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath 
earned , g 

That privilege by virtue. — " 111," said he, 
" The end of man's existence I discerned, 
Who from ignoble games and revelry 
Could draw, when we had parted, vain 

delight, 
While tears were thy best pastime, day and 
night; 

" And while my youthful peers before my 

eyes 
(Each hero following his pecidiar bent) 
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent, 
Chieftains and kings in council were de- 
tained ; 1 19 
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 

" The wished-for wind was given: — I then 

revolved 
The oracle, upon the silent sea; 
And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
The foremost prow in pressing to the 

strand, — 
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan 

sand. 

" Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 
When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife ! 
On thee too fondly did my memory hang, 
And on the joys we shared hi mortal life, — 
The paths which we had trod — these foun- 
tains, flowers, 131 
My new-planned cities, and unfinished 
towers. 

"But should suspense permit the Foe to 

cry, 
1 Behold they tremble ! — haughty their 

array, 
Yet of their number no one dares to die ? ' 
In soul I swept the indignity away: 
Old frailties then recurred: — but lofty 

thought, 
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 



DION 



5 2 7 



" Aud Thou, though strong in love, art all 

too weak 
In reason, in self-government too slow; 140 
I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
Our blest re-union hi the shades below. 
The invisible world with thee hath sym- 
pathised ; 
Be thy affections raised and solemnised. 

" Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend — 
Seeking a higher object. Love was given, 
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end; 
For this the passion to excess was driven — 
That self might be annulled: her bondage 

prove 
The fetters of a dream, opposed to 

love." 150 

Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes re-ap- 
pears ! 

Hound the dear Shade she would have clung 
— 't is vain: 

The hours are past — too brief had they 
been years ; 

And him no mortal effort can detain: 

Swift, toward the realms that know not 
earthly day, 

He through the portal takes his silent way, 

And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse She 
lay. 

Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved, 
She perished; and, as for a wilful crime, 
By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved, 
Was doomed to wear out her appointed 
time, 161 

Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather flowers 
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 

— Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, 
As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
From out the tomb of him for whom she 

died; 170 

And ever, when such stature they had 

gained 
That Ilium's walls were subject to their 

view, 
The trees' tall summits withered at the 

sight; _ 
A constant interchange of growth and 

bliffht ! 



DION 

(SEE PLUTARCH) 

1814. l820 

This poem was first introduced by a stanza 
that I have since transferred to the Notes, for 
reasons there given, and. 1 cannot comply with 
the request expressed by some of my friends 
that the rejected stanza should be restored. I 
hope they will be content if it be, hereafter, im- 
mediately attached to the poem, instead of its 
being degraded to a place in the Notes. 



Serene, and fitted to embrace, 
Where'er he turned, a swan-like grace 
Of haughtiness without pretence, 
And to unfold a still magnificence, 
Was princely Dion, hi the power 
And beauty of his happier hour. 
And what pure homage then did wait 
On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam 
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere, 
Fell round him in the grove of Academe, io 
Softening their inbred dignity austere — 

That he, not too elate 

With self-sufficing solitude, 
But with majestic lowliness endued, 

Might in the universal bosom reign, 
And from affectionate observance gain 
Help, under every change of adverse fate. 



Five thousand warriors — O the rapturous 

day! 
Each crowned with flowers, and armed 

with spear and shield, 
Or ruder weapon which their course might 

yield, 20 

To Syracuse advance in bright array. 
Who leads them on ? — The anxious people 

see 
Long-exiled Dion marching at their head, 
He also crowned with flowers of Sicily, 
And in a white, far-beaming, corselet clad ! 
Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or fear 
The gazers feel; and, rushing to the plain, 
Salute those strangers as a holy train 
Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear) 
That brought their precious liberty again. 
Lo ! when the gates are entered, on each 

hand, 3 ' 

Down the long street, rich goblets filled 

with wine 



-528 



DION 



In seemly order stand, 
On tables set, as if for rites divine ; — 
And, as the great Deliverer marches by, 
He looks on festal ground with fruits 
bestrown; 
And flowers are on his person thrown 

In boundless prodigality; 
Nor doth the general voice abstain from 

prayer, 
Invoking Dion's tutelary care, 40 

As if a very Deity he were ! 



Mourn, hills and groves of Attica ! and 

mourn 
Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn ! 
Mourn, and lament for h im whose spirit 

dreads 
Your once sweet memory, studious walks 

and shades ! 
For him who to divinity aspired, 
Not on the breath of popular applause, 
But through dependence on the sacred laws 
Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt 

retired, 
Intent to trace the ideal path of right 50 
(More fair than heaven's broad causeway 

paved with stars) 
Which Dion learned to measure with sub- 
lime delight; — 
But He hath overleaped the eternal bars; 
And, following guides whose craft holds no 

consent 
With aught that breathes the ethereal ele- 
ment, 
Hath stained the robes of civil power with 

blood, 
Unjustly shed, though for the public good. 
Whence doubts that came too late, and 

wishes vain, 
Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain; 
And oft his cogitations sink as low ( 60 
As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, 
The heaviest plummet of despair can go — 
But whence that sudden check ? that fear- 
ful start ! 
He hears an uncouth sound — 
Anon his lifted eyes 
Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, 
A Shape of more than mortal size 
And hideous aspect, stalking round and 
round ! 
A woman's garb the Phantom wore, 
And fiercely swept the marble floor, — 
Like Auster whirling to and fro, 71 



His force on Caspian foam to try; 
Or Boreas when he scours the snow 
That skins the plains of Thessaly, 
Or when aloft on Msenalus he stops 
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops ! 



So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, 
The sullen Spectre to her purpose bowed, 
Sweeping — vehemently sweeping — 
No pause admitted, no design avowed ! ?o 
" Avaunt, inexplicable Guest ! — avaunt," 
Exclaimed the Chieftain — " let me rather 

see 
The coronal that coiling vipers make; 
The torch that flames with many a lurid 

flake, 
And the long train of doleful pageantry 
Which they behold, whom vengeful Furies 

haunt ; 
Who, while they struggle from the scourge 

to flee, 
Move where the blasted soil is not unworn, 
And, in their anguish, bear what other 

minds have borne ! " 



But Shapes that come not at an earthly call, 
Will not depart when mortal voices bid; 91 
Lords of the visionary eye whose lid, 
Once raised, remains aghast, and will not 

fall! 
Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Implement 
Obeys a mystical intent ! 
Your Minister would brush away 
The spots that to my soul adhere; 
But should she labour night and day, 
They will not, cannot disappear; 
Whence angry perturbations, — and that look 
Which no Philosophy can brook ! 101 



Ill-fated Chief ! there are whose hopes are 

built 
Upon the ruins of thy glorious name; 
Who, through the portal of one moment's 

guilt, 
Pursue thee with their deadly aim ! 
O matchless perfidy ! portentous lust 
Of monstrous crime ! — that horror-striking 

blade, 
Drawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid 
The noble Syracusan low in dust ! 
Shuddered the walls — the marble city 

wept — 1 10 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



5 2 9 



And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh; 
But in calm peace the appointed Victim 

slept, 
As he had fallen in magnanimity ; 
Of spirit too capacious to require 
That Destiny her course should change; 

too just 
To his own native greatness to desire 
That wretched hoon, days lengthened by 

mistrust. 



So were the hopeless troubles, that involved 

The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 

Released from life and cares of princely 
state, 1 20 

He left this moral grafted on his Fate; 

" Him only pleasure leads, and peace at- 
tends, 

Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, 

Whose means are fair and spotless as his 
ends." 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 

1814 

In this tour, my wife and her sister Sara were ray companions. The account of the " Brownie's 
Cell " and the Brownies was given me by a man we met with on the hanks of Loch Lomond, a 
little above Tarbert, and in front of a huge mass of rock, by the side of which, we were told, 
preachings were often held in the open air. The place is quite a solitude, and the surrounding 
scenery very striking. How much is it to be regretted that, instead of writing such Poems as 
the ' - Holy Fair " and others, in which the religious observances of his country are treated with so 
much levity and too often with indecency, Burns had not employed his genius in describing reli- 
gion under the serious and affecting aspects it must so frequently take. 

Within this little lonely isle 

There stood a consecrated Pile; 

Where tapers burned, and mass was sung, 

For them whose timid Spirits clung 

To mortal succour, though the tomb 

Had fixed, for ever fixed, their doom ! 20 



I 

SUGGESTED BY A BEAUTIFUL RUIN UPON 
ONE OF THE ISLANDS OF LOCH LOMOND, 
A PLACE CHOSEN FOR THE RETREAT 
OF A SOLITARY INDIVIDUAL, FROM 
WHOM THIS HABITATION ACQUIRED 
THE NAME OF 

THE BROWNIE'S CELL 

1814. 1820 

1 

To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking 

fen, 
Or depth of labyrinthine glen; 
Or into trackless forest set 
With trees, whose lofty umbrage met, 
World-wearied Men withdrew of yore; 
(Penance their trust, and prayer their 

store; ) 
And in the wilderness were bound 
To such apartments as they found, 
Or with a new ambition raised; 
That God might suitably be praised. 10 



High lodged the Warrior, like a bird of prey ; 
Or where broad waters round him lay: 
But this wild Ruin is no ghost 
Of his devices — buried, lost ! 



Upon those servants of another world 
When madding Power her bolts had hurled, 
Their habitation shook — it fell, 
And perished, save one narrow cell; 
Whither, at length, a Wretch retired 
Who neither grovelled nor aspired; 
He, struggling in the net of pride, 
The future scorned, the past defied; 
Still tempering, from the unguilty forge 
Of vain conceit, an iron scourge ! 30 



Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race, 
Who stood and flourished face to face 
With their perennial hills; — but Crime, 
Hastening the stern decrees of Time, 
Brought low a Power, which from its home 
Burst, when repose grew wearisome; 
And, taking impulse from the sword, 
And, mocking its own plighted word, 
Had found, in ravage widely dealt, 
Its warfare's bourn, its travel's belt ! 40 



53° 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



All, all were dispossessed, save him whose 

smile 
Shot lightning through this lonely Isle ! 
No right had he but what he made 
To this small spot, his leafy shade; 
But the ground lay within that ring 
To which he only dared to cling; 
Renouncing here, as worse than dead, 
The craven few who bowed the head 
Beneath the change; who heard a claim 
How loud ! yet lived in peace with shame. 50 



From year to year this shaggy Mortal 

went 
(So seemed it) down a strange descent: 
Till they, who saw his outward frame, 
Fixed on him an unhallowed name; 
Hun, free from all malicious taint, 
And guiding, like the Patmos Saint, 
A pen unwearied — to indite, 
In his lone Isle, the dreams of night; 
Impassioned dreams, that strove to span 
The faded glories of his Clan ! 60 



Suns that through blood their western har- 
bour sought, 
And stars that hi their courses fought; 
Towers rent, winds combating with woods, 
Lands deluged by unbridled floods; 
And beast and bird that from the spell 
Of sleep took import terrible ; — 
These types mysterious (if the show 
Of battle and the routed foe 
Had failed) would furnish an array 
Of matter for the dawning day ! 70 



How disappeared He ? — ask the newt and 

toad, 
Inheritors of his abode ; 
The otter crouching undisturbed, 
In her dank cleft ; — but be thou curbed, 
O froward Fancy ! 'mid a scene 
Of aspect winning and serene; 
For those offensive creatures shun 
The inquisition of the sun ! 
And in this region flowers delight, 
And all is lovely to the sight. 80 



Spring finds not here a melancholy breast, 
When she applies her annual test 



To dead and living; when her breath 
Quickens, as now, the withered heath; — 
Nor flaunting Summer — when he throws 
His soul into the briar-rose; 
Or calls the lily from her sleep 
Prolonged beneath the bordering deep ; 
Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren 
Is warbling near the Brownie's Den. 9 



Wild Relique ! beauteous as the chosen 

spot 
In Nysa's isle, the embellished grot; 
Whither, by care of Libyan Jove, 
(High Servant of paternal Love) 
Young Bacchus was conveyed — to lie 
Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye; 
Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, 

glowed, 
Close-crowding round the infant-god; 
All colours, — and the liveliest streak 
A foil to his celestial cheek ! 100 



II 
COMPOSED AT CORA LINN, 

IN SIGHT OF WALLACE'S TOWER 

1814. 1820 

I had seen this celebrated Waterfall twice 
before ; but the feelings, to which it had given 
birth, were not expressed till they recurred in 
presence of the object on this occasion. 

" — How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name 

Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, 

All over his dear Country ; left the deeds 

Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts, 

To people the steep rocks and river banks, 

Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul 

Of independence and stern liberty." — See p. 127. 

Lord of the vale ! astounding Flood; 
The dullest leaf in this thick wood 
Quakes — conscious of thy power; 
The caves reply with hollow moan; 
And vibrates, to its central stone, 
Yon time-cemented Tower ! 

And yet how fair the rural scene ! 
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been 
Beneficent as strong; 

Pleased in refreshing dews to steep ta 
The little trembling flowers that peep 
Thy shelving rocks among. 

Hence all who love their country, love 
To look on thee — delight to rove 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



53i 



Where they thy voice can hear; 
And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade, 
Lord of the vale ! to Heroes laid 
In dust, that voice is dear ! 

Along thy hanks, at dead of night 
Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight; 20 
Or stands, in warlike vest, 
Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam, 
A Champion worthy of the stream, 
Yon grey tower's living crest ! 

But clouds and envious darkness hide 

A Form not doubtfully descried : — 

Their transient mission o'er, 

O say to what blind region flee 

These Shapes of awful phantasy ? 

To what untrodden shore ? 30 

Less than divine command they spurn ; 
But this we from the mountains learn, 
And this the valleys show; 
That never will they deign to hold 
Communion where the heart is cold 
To human weal and woe. 

The man of abject soul in vain 

Shall walk the Marathonian plain; 

Or thrid the shadowy gloom, 

That still invests the guardian Pass, 40 

Where stood, sublime, Leonidas 

Devoted to the tomb. 

And let no Slave his head incline, 

Or kneel, before the votive shrine 

By Uri's lake, where Tell 

Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to land, 

Heaven's Instrument, for by his hand 

That day the Tyrant fell. 



Ill 
EFFUSION 

IN THE PLEASURE-GROUND ON THE 
BANKS OF THE BRAN, NEAR DUNKELD 

1814. 1827 

I am not aware that this condemnatory effu- 
sion was ever seen by the owner of the place. 
He might be disposed to pay little attention to 
it ; but were it to prove otherwise I should be 
glad, for the whole exhibition is distressingly 
puerile. 



The waterfall, by a loud roaring, warned us 
when we must expect it. We were first, how- 
ever, conducted into a small apartment, where 
the Gardener desired us to look at a picture of 
Ossian, which, while he was telling the history 
of the young Artist who executed the work, 
disappeared, parting in the middle — flying 
asunder as by the touch of magic — and lo ! 
we are at the entrance of a splendid apartment, 
which was almost dizzy and alive with water- 
falls, that tumbled in all directions ; the great 
cascade, opposite the window, which faced us, 
being reflected in innumerable mirrors upon 
the ceiling and against the walls." — Extract 
from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller. 

What He — who, 'mid the kindred throng 
Of Heroes that inspired his song, 
Doth yet frequent the hill of storms, 
The stars dim-twinkling through their 

forms ! 
What ! Ossian here — a painted Thrall, 
Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall; 
To serve — an unsuspected screen 
For show that must not yet be seen; 
And, when the moment comes, to part 
And vanish by mysterious art; ia 

Head, harp, and body, split asunder, 
For ingress to a world of wonder; 
A gay saloon, with waters dancing 
Upon the sight wherever glancing; 
One loud cascade in front, and lo ! 
A thousand like it, white as snow — 
Streams on the walls, and torrent-foam 
As active round the hollow dome, 
Illusive cataracts ! of their terrors 
Not stripped, nor voiceless in the mirrors, 20 
That catch the pageant from the flood 
Thundering adown a rocky wood. 
What pains to dazzle and confound ! 
What strife of colour, shape and sound 
In this quaint medley, that might seem 
Devised out of a sick man's dream ! 
Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy 
As ever made a maniac dizzy, 
When disenchanted from the mood 
That loves on sullen thoughts to brood ! 30 

O Nature — hi thy changeful visions, 
Through all thy most abrupt transitions 
Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime — 
Ever averse to pantomime, 
Thee neither do they know nor us 
Thy servants, who can trifle thus; 
Else verily the sober powers 
Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars, 
Exalted by congenial sway 
Of Spirits, and the undying Lay, 4 o 



532 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



And Names that moulder not away, 
Had wakened some redeeming thought 
More worthy of this favoured Spot; 
Recalled some f eeling — to set free 
The Bard from such indignity ! 

The Effigies of a valiant Wight 
I once beheld, a Templar Knight; 
Not prostrate, not like those that rest 
On tombs, with palms together prest, 
But sculptured out of living stone, 50 

And standing upright and alone, 
Both hands with rival energy 
Employed in setting his sword free 
From its dull sheath — stern sentinel 
Intent to guard St. Robert's cell; 
As if with memory of the affray 
Far distant, when, as legends say, 
The Monks of Fountain's thronged to force 
From its dear home the Hermit's corse, 
That in their keeping it might lie, 60 

To crown their abbey's sanctity. 
So had they rushed into the grot 
Of sense despised, a world forgot, 
And torn him from his loved retreat, 
Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat 
Still hint that quiet best is found, 
Even by the Living, under ground; 
But a bold Knight, the selfish aim 
Defeating, put the monks to shame, 
There where you see his Image stand 70 
Bare to the sky, with threatening brand 
Which lingering Nid is proud to show 
Reflected in the pool below. 

Thus, like the men of earliest days, 
Our sires set forth their grateful praise: 
Uncouth the workmanship, and rude ! 
But, nursed in mountain solitude, 
Might some aspiring artist dare 
To seize whate'er, through misty air, 
A ghost, by glimpses, may present 80 

Of imitable lineament, 
And give the phantom an array 
That less should scorn the abandoned clay; 
Then let him hew with patient stroke 
An Ossian out of mural rock, 
And leave the figurative Man — 
Upon thy margin, roaring Bran ! — 
Fixed, like the Templar of the steep, 
An everlasting watch to keep; 
With local sanctities in trust, 90 

More precious than a hermit's dust; 
And virtues through the mass infused, 
Which old idolatry abused. 

What though the Granite would deny 
All fervour to the sightless eye ; 



And touch from rismg suns in vain 

Solicit a Memnouian strain; 

Yet, in some fit of anger sharp, 

The wind might force the deep-grooved 

harp 
To utter melancholy moans 100 

Not unconnected with the tones 
Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones; 
While grove and river notes would lend, 
Less deeply sad, with these to blend ! 

Vain pleasures of luxurious life, 
For ever with yourselves at strife; 
Through town and country both deranged 
By affectations interchanged, 
And all the perishable gauds 
That heaven-deserted man applauds; no 
When will your hapless patrons learn 
To watch and ponder — to discern 
The freshness, the everlasting youth, 
Of admiration sprung from truth; 
From beauty infinitely growing 
Upon a mind with love o'erflowing — 
To sound the depths of every Art 
That seeks its wisdom through the heart ? 

Thus (where the intrusive File, ill-graced 
With baubles of theatric taste, 120 

O'erlooks the torrent breathing showers 
On motley banks of alien flowers 
In stiff confusion set or sown, 
Till Nature cannot find her own, 
Or keep a remnant of the sod 
Which Caledonian Heroes trod) 
I mused ; and, thirsting for redress, 
Recoiled into the wilderness. 



IV 
YARROW VISITED 

SEPTEMBER 1814 

1814. 1815 

As mentioned in my verses on the death of 
the Ettrick Shepherd, my first visit to Yarrow 
was in his company. We had lodged the night 
before at Traquhair, where Hogg had joined 
us and also Dr. Anderson, the Editor of the 
British Poets, who was on a visit at the Manse. 
Dr. A. walked with us till we came in view of 
the Vale of Yarrow, and, being advanced in 
life, he then turned back. The old Man was 
passionately fond of poetry, though with not 
much of a discriminating judgment, as the 
Volumes he edited sufficiently show. But I 
was much pleased to meet with him, and to 
acknowledge my obligation to his collection, 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 



533 



which had been my brother John's companion 
in more than one voyage to India, and which 
he gave ine before bis departure from Gras- 
niere, never to return. Through these Volumes 
I became first familiar with Chaucer, and so 
little money had I then to spare for books, 
that, in all probability, but for this same work, 
I should have known little of Drayton, Daniel, 
and other distinguished poets of the Eliza- 
bethan age, and their immediate successors, 
till a much later period of my life. I am glad 
to record this, not from any importance of its 
own, but as a tribute of gratitude to this sim- 
ple-hearted old man, whom I never again had 
the pleasure of meeting. I seldom read or think 
of this poem without regretting that my dear 
Sister was not of the party, as she would have 
had so much delight in recalling the time when, 
travelling together in Scotland, we declined 
going in search of this celebrated stream, not 
altogether, I will frankly confess, for the rea- 
sons assigned in the poem on the occasion. 

And is this — Yarrow ? — This the Stream 

Of which my fancy cherished, 

So faithfully, a waking dream ? 

An image that hath perished ! 

O that some Minstrel's harp were near, 

To utter notes of gladness, 

And chase this silence from the air, 

That fills my heart with sadness ! 

Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 
With uncontrolled meanderings; 10 

Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
And, through her depths, Saint Mary's 

Lake 
Is visibly delighted; 
For not a feature of those hills 
Is in the mirror slighted. 

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 

Save where that pearly whiteness 

Is round the rising sun diffused, 

A tender hazy brightness; 20 

Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 

All profitless dejection; 

Though not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 

Where was it that the famous Flower 

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? 

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 

On which the herd is feeding: 

And haply from this crystal pool, 

Now peaceful as the morning, 30 



The Water-wraith ascended thrice — 
And gave his doleful warning. 

Delicious is the Lay that sings 

The haunts of happy Lovers, 

The path that leads them to the grove, 

The leafy grove that covers: 

And Pity sanctifies the Verse 

That paints, by strength of sorrow, 

The unconquerable strength of love; 

Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 40 

But thou, that didst appear so fair 

To fond imagination, 

Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation: 

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 

A softness still and holy; 

The grace of forest charms decayed, 

And pastoral melancholy. 

That region left, the vale unfolds 

Rich groves of lofty stature, 50 

With Yarrow winding through the pomp 

Of cultivated nature ; 

And, rising from those lofty groves, 

Behold a Ruin hoary ! 

The shattered front of Newark's Towers, 

Renowned in Border story. 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 

For sportive youth to stray in; 

For manhood to enjoy his strength; 

And age to wear away in ! 6c 

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 

A covert for protection 

Of tender thoughts, that nestle there — 

The brood of chaste affection. 

How sweet, on this autumnal day, 

The wild-wood fruits to gather, 

And on my True-love's forehead plant 

A crest of blooming heather ! 

And what if I enwreathed my own ! 

'T were no offence to reason ; 70 

The sober Hills thus deck their brows 

To meet the wintry season. 

I see — but not by sight alone, 

Loved Yarrow, have I won thee; 

A ray of fancy still survives — 

Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 

Thy ever-youthful waters keep 

A course of lively pleasure ; 

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 

Accordant to the measure. 80 



534 " FROM THE DARK CHAMBERS OF DEJECTION FREED " 



The vapours linger round the ^Heights, 
They melt, and soon must vanish; 
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — 
Sad thought which I would banish, 



But that I know, where'er I go, 
Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! 
Will dwell with me — to heighten joy, 
And cheer my mind in sorrow. 



"FROM THE DARK CHAMBERS 
OF DEJECTION FREED" 

1814. 1815 

Composed in Edinburgh, during- my Scotch 
tour with Mrs. Wordsworth and my sister 
Miss Hutchinson, in the year 1814. Poor 
Gillies never rose above that course of extrava- 
gance in which he was at that time living, and 
which soon reduced him to poverty and all its 
degrading shifts, mendicity being far from the 
worst. I grieve whenever I think of him, for 
he was far from being without genius, and had 
a generous heart, not always to be found in 
men given up to profusion. He was nephew of 
Lord Gillies the Scotch judge, and also of the 
historian of Greece. He was cousin to Miss 
Margaret Gillies, who painted so many por- 
traits with success in our house. 

From the dark chambers of dejection freed, 
Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care, 
Rise, Gillies, rise; the gales of youth shall 

bear 
Thy genius forward like a winged steed. 
Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed 
In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of 

air, 
Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds that dare, 
If aught be in them of immortal seed, 
And reason govern that audacious flight 
Which heavenward they direct. — Then 

droop not thou, 
Erroneously renewing a sad vow 
In the low dell 'mid Roslin's faded grove : 
A cheerful life is what the Muses love, 
A soaring spirit is their prime delight. 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF IN A COPY 
OF THE AUTHOR'S POEM " THE EXCUR- 
SION," UPON HEARING OF THE DEATH 
OF THE LATE VICAR OF KENDAL 

1814. 1815 

To public notice, with reluctance strong, 
Did I deliver this unfinished Song; 



Yet for one happy issue ; — and I look 
With self-congratulation on the Book 
Which pious, learned, Murfitt saw and 

read ; — 
Upon my thoughts his saintly Spirit fed; 
He conned the new-born Lay with grateful 

heart — 
Foreboding not how soon he must depart; 
Unweeting that to him the joy was given 
Which good men take with them from 

earth to heaven. 



TO B. R. HAYDON 

1815. 1816 

High is our calling, Friend! — Creative 

Art 
(Whether the instrument of words she use, 
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,) 
Demands the service of a mind and heart, 
Though sensitive, yet, hi their weakest part, 
Heroically fashioned — to infuse 
Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, 
Whde the whole world seems adverse to 

desert. 
And, oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she 

may, 
Through long-lived pressure of obscure dis- 
tress, 
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward, 
And in the soul admit of no decay, 
Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness — 
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard ! 



ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE 

1815. 1820 

(SEE THE CHRONICLE OF GEOFFREY OF 
MONMOUTH AND MILTON'S HISTORY 
OF ENGLAND) 

This was written at Rydal Mount, as a to- 
ken of affectionate respect for the memory of 
Milton. " I have determined," says he, in his 
preface to his History of England, "to bestow 
the telling over even of these reputed tales, 



ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE 



535 



be it for nothing else but in favour of our Eng- 
lish Poets and Rhetoricians, who by their wit 
will know how to use them judiciously." , - 

Where be the temples which, in Britain's 

Isle, 
For his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised ? 
Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile 
Of clouds that in cerulean ether blazed ! 
Ere Julius landed on her white-cliff ed shore, 

They sank, delivered o'er 
To fatal dissolution; and, I ween, 
No vestige then was left that such had ever 

been. 

Nathless, a British record (long concealed 
In old Annorica, whose secret springs 10 
No Gothic conqueror ever drank) revealed 
The marvellous current of forgotten things; 
How Brutus came, by oracles impelled, 

And Albion's giants quelled, 
A brood whom no civility could melt, 
" Who never tasted grace, and goodness 
ne'er had felt." 

By brave Corineus aided, he subdued, 
And rooted out the intolerable kind; 
And this too-long-polluted land imbued 
With goodly arts and usages refined; 20 
Whence golden harvests, cities, warlike 

towers, 
And pleasure's sumptuous bowers; 
Whence all the fixed delights of house and 

home, 
Friendships that will not break, and love 

that cannot roam. 

O, happy Britain ! region all too fair 
For self-delighting fancy to endure 
That silence only should inhabit there, 
Wild beasts, or uncouth savages impure ! 
But, intermingled with the generous seed, 

Grew many a poisonous weed; 30 

Thus fares it still with all that takes its 

birth 
From human care, or grows upon the 

breast of earth. 

Hence, and how soon ! that war of ven- 
geance waged 

By Guendolen against her faithless lord; 

Till she, in jealous fury unassuaged 

Had slain his paramour with ruthless 
sword : 

Then, into Severn hideously denied, 
She flung her blameless child, 



Sabrina, — vowing that the stream should 

bear 
That name through every age, her hatred 

to declare. 40 

So speaks the Chronicle, and tells of Lear 
By his ungrateful daughters turned adrift. 
Ye lightnings, hear his voice ! — they can- 
not hear, 
Nor can the winds restore his simple gift. 
But One there is, a Child of nature meek, 

Who comes her Sire to seek; 
And he, recovering sense, upon her breast 
Leans smilingly, and sinks into a perfect rest. 

There too we read of Spenser's fairy 

themes, 
And those that Milton loved in youthfid 

years ; 5° 

The sage enchanter Merlin's subtle schemes; 
The feats of Arthur and his knightly peers; 
Of Arthur, — who, to upper light restored, 

With that terrific sword 
Which yet he brandishes for future war, 
Shall lift his country's fame above the 

polar star ! 

What wonder, then, if in such ample field 
Of old tradition, one particular flower 
Doth seemingly in vain its fragrance yield, 
And bloom unnoticed even to this late 

hour ? 60 

Now, gentle Muses, your assistance grant, 

While I this flower transplant 
Into a garden stored with Poesy ; 
Where flowers and herbs unite, and haply 

some weeds be, 
That, wanting not wild grace, are from all 

mischief free! 

A King more worthy of respect and love 
Than wise Gorbonian ruled not in his day; 
And grateful Britain prospered far above 
All neighbouring countries through his 

righteous sway; 
He poured rewards and honours on the 
good ; 70 

The oppressor he withstood: 
And while he served the Gods with rever- 
ence due 
Fields smiled, and temples rose, and towns 
and cities grew. ./'—n. 

He died, whom Artegal succeeds — his son; 
But how unworthy of that sire was he ! 



536 



ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE 



A hopeful reign, auspiciously begun, 
Was darkened soon by foul iniquity. 
From crime to crime be mounted, till at 

length 
The nobles leagued their strength 
With a vexed people, and the tyrant 

chased ; 80 

And, on the vacant throne, his worthier 

Brother placed. 

From realm to realm the humbled Exile 
went, 

Suppliant for aid his kingdom to regain ; 

In many a court, and many a warrior's tent, 

He urged his persevering suit in vain. 

Him, in whose wretched heart ambition 
failed, 
Dire poverty assailed; 

And, th'ed with slights his pride no more 
could brook, 

He towards his native country cast a long- 
ing look. 

Fair blew the wished-for wind — the voy- 
age sped; 90 
He landed; and, by many dangers scared, 
" Poorly provided, poorly followed," 
To Calaterium's forest he repaired. 
How changed from him who, born to high- 
est place, 
Had swayed the royal mace, 
Flattered and feared, despised yet deified, 
In Troynovant, his seat by silver Thames's 
side ! 

From that wild region where the crownless 

Lay in concealment with his scanty train, 
Supporting life by water from the spring, 
And such chance food as outlaws can ob- 
tain, 10 1 
Unto the few whom he esteems his friends 

A messenger he sends; 
And from their secret loyalty requires 
Shelter and daily bread, — the sum of his 
desires. 

While he the issue waits, at early morn 
Wandering by stealth abroad, he chanced 

to hear 
A startling outcry made by hound and 

horn, 
From which the tusky wild boar flies in fear ; 
And, scouring toward him o'er the grassy 

plain, no 



Behold the hunter train ! 
He bids his little company advance 
With seeming unconcern and steady coun- 
tenance. 

The royal Elidure, who leads the chase, 

Hath checked his foaming courser: — can 
it be ! 

Methinks that I should recognise that face, 

Though much disguised by long adversity ! 

He gazed rejoicing, and again he gazed, 
Confounded and amazed — 

" It is the king, my brother ! " and, In- 
sound 120 

Of his own voice confirmed, he leaps upon 
the ground. 

Long, strict, and tender was the embrace 
he gave, 

Feebly returned by daunted Artegal; 

Whose natural affection doubts enslave, 

And apprehensions dark and criminal. 

Loth to restrain the moving interview, 
The attendant lords withdrew; 

And, while they stood upon the plain apart, 

Thus Elidure, by words, relieved, his strug- 
gling heart. 

" By heavenly Powers conducted, we have 

met; 130 

— O Brother ! to my knowledge lost so 

long, 
But neither lost to love, nor to regret, 
Nor to my wishes lost ; — forgive the wrong, 
(Such it may seem) if I thy crown have 

borne, 
Thy royal mantle worn: 
I was their natural guardian ; and 't is just 
That now I should restore what hath been 

held in trust." 

A while the astonished Artegal stood mute, 

Then thus exclaimed: "To me, of titles 
shorn, 

And stripped of power ! me, feeble, de- 
stitute, 140 

To me a kingdom ! spare the bitter scorn: 

If justice ruled the breast of foreign kings, 
Then, on the wide-spread wings 

Of war, had I returned to claim my right; 

This will I here avow, not dreading thy de- 
spite." 

" I do not blame thee," Elidure replied; 
" But, if my looks did with my words agree, 



ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE 



537 



I should at once be trusted, not defied, 
And tho\i from all disquietude be free. 
May the unsullied Goddess of the chase, 150 

Who to this blessed place 
At this blest moment led me, if I speak 
With insincere intent, on me her vengeance 
wreak ! 

" Were this same spear, which in my hand 
I grasp, 

The British sceptre, here would I to thee 

The symbolyield ; and would undo this clasp, 

If it confined the robe of sovereignty. 

Odious to me the pomp of regal court, 
And joyless sylvan sport, 

While thou art roving, wretched and for- 
lorn, 160 

Thy couch the dewy earth, thy roof the 
forest thorn ! " 

Then Artegal thus spake: " I only sought, 
Within this realm a place of safe retreat; 
Beware of rousing an ambitious thought; 
Beware of kindling hopes, for me unmeet ! 
Thou art reputed wise, but hi my mind 

Art pitiably blind : 
Full soon this generous purpose thou may'st 

rue, 
When that which has been done no wishes 

can undo. 

" Who, when a crown is fixed upon his 

head, 17° 

Would balance claim with claim, and right 

with right ? 
But thou — I know not how inspired, how 

led — 
Wouldst change the course of things in all 

men's sight ! 
And this for one who cannot imitate 

Thy virtue, who may hate: 
For, if, by such strange sacrifice restored, 
He reign, thou still must be his king, and 

sovereign lqrd; 

" Lifted in magnanimity above 

Aught that my feeble nature could per- 
form, 

Or even conceive ; surpassing me in love 180 

Far as in power the eagle doth the worm. 

I, Brother ! only should be king in name, 
And govern to my shame ; 

A shadow in a hated land, while all 

Of glad or willing service to thy share 
would fall." 



" Believe it not," said Elidure ; " respect 
Awaits on virtuous life, and ever most 
Attends on goodness with dominion decked, 
Which stands the universal empire's boast; 
This can thy own experience testify: 190 

Nor shall thy foes deny 
That, in the gracious opening of thy reign, 
Our father's spirit seemed in thee to 
breathe again. 

" And what if o'er thy bright imbosoming 
Clouds of disgrace and envious fortune 

past ! 
Have we not seen the glories of the spring 
By veil of noontide darkness overcast ? 
The frith that glittered like a warrior's 

shield, 
The sky, the gay green field, 
Are vanished; gladness ceases in the 

groves, 200 

And trepidation strikes the blackened 

mountain-coves. 

" But is that gloom dissolved ? how passing 

clear 
Seems the wide world, far brighter than 

before ! 
Even so thy latent worth will re-appear, 
Gladdening the people's heart from shore 

to shore; 
For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone ; 

Re-seated on thy throne, 
Proof shalt thou furnish that misfortune, 

pain, 
And sorrow, have confirmed thy native 

right to reign. 

" But, not to overlook what thou may'st 

know, 210 

Thy enemies are neither weak nor few; 
And circumspect must be our course, and 

slow, 
Or from my purpose rum may ensue. 
Dismiss thy followers; — let them calmly 

wait 
Such change in thy estate 
As I already have in thought devised; 
And which, with caution due, may soon be 

realised." 

The Story tells what courses were pursued, 
Until king Elidure, with full consent 
Of all his peers, before the multitude, 220 
Rose, — and, to consummate this just in- 
tent, 



533 



SEPTEMBER 1815 



Did place upon his brother's head the 

crown, 
Relinquished by his own; 
Then to his people cried, " Receive your 

lord, 
Gorbonian's first-born son, your rightful 

king restored ! " 

The people answered with a loud acclaim: 
Yet more ; — heart-smitten by the heroic 

deed, 
The reinstated Artegal became 
Earth's noblest penitent; from bondage 

freed 
Of vice — thenceforth unable to subvert 230 

Or shake his high desert. 
Long did he reign; and, when he died, the 

tear 
Of universal grief bedewed his honoured 

bier. 

Thus was a Brother by a Brother saved; 
With whom a crown (temptation that hath 

set 
Discord in hearts of men till they have 

braved 
Their nearest kin with deadly purpose met) 
'Gainst duty weighed, and faithful love, 

did seem 
A thing of no esteem; 
And, from this triumph of affection pure, 
He bore the lasting name of "pious Eli- 

dure." 241 



SEPTEMBER 1815 

1815. 1816 

" For me who under kindlier laws." This 
conclusion has more than once, to my great 
regret, excited painfully sad feelings in the 
hearts of young persons fond of poetry and 
poetic composition, by contrast of their feeble 
and declining health with that state of rohust 
constitution which prompted me to rejoice in 
a season of frost and snow as more favourable 
to the Muses than summer itself. 

While not a leaf seems faded; while the 
fields, 

With ripening harvest prodigally fair, 

In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping 
air, 

Sent from some distant clime where Win- 
ter wields 

His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields 



Of bitter change, and bids the flowers be- 
ware; 
And whispers to the silent birds, " Prepare 
Against the threatening foe your trustiest 

shields." 
For me, who under kindlier laws belong 
To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry 
Through leaves yet green, and yon crystal- 
line sky, 
Announce a season potent to renew, 
'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of 

song, 
And nobler cares than listless summer knew. 



NOVEMBER 1 

1815. 1816 

Suggested on the banks of the Brathay by 
the sight of Langdale Pikes. It is delightful 
to remember these moments of far-distant 
days, which probably would have been forgot- 
ten if the impression had not been transferred 
to verse. The same observation applies to the 
next. 

How clear, how keen, how marvellously 

bright 
The effluence from yon distant mountain's 

head, 
Which, strewn with snow smooth as the 

sky can shed, 
Shines like another sun — on mortal sight 
Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night, 
And all her twinkling stars. Who now 

would tread, 
If so he might, yon mountain's glittering 

head — 
Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight 
Of sad mortality's earth-sullying whig, 
Unswept, unstained ? Nor shall the aerial 

Powers 
Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure, 
White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, 
Through all vicissitudes,. till genial Spring 
Has filled the laughing vales with welcome 

flowers. 



"THE FAIREST, BRIGHTEST, 
HUES OF ETHER FADE" 

1810-15. 1815 

Suggested at Hacket, which is on the craggy 
ridge that rises between the two Langdales 
and looks towards Windermere. The Cottage 



"THE SHEPHERD, LOOKING EASTWARD, SOFTLY SAID" 539 



of Hacket was often visited by us, and at the 
time when this Sonnet was written, and long 
after, was occupied by the husband and wife 
described in the " Excursion," where it is men- 
tioned that she was in the habit of walking' in 
the front of the dwelling with a light to guide 
her husband home at night. The same cot- 
tage is alluded to in the " Epistle to Sir George 
Beaumont " as that from which the female 
peasant hailed us on our morning journey. 
The musician mentioned in the Sonnet was the 
Rev. Samuel Tillbrook of Peter-house, Cam- 
bridge, who remodelled the Ivy Cottage at 
Rydal after he had purchased it. 

The fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade; 

The sweetest notes must terminate and die; 

O Friend ! thy flute has breathed a har- 
mony 

Softly resounded through this rocky glade; 

Such strains of rapture as the Genius 
played 

In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit 
high ; 

He who stood visible to Mirza's eye, 

Never before to human sight betrayed. 

Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening 
spread ! 

The visionary Arches are not there, 

Nor the green Islands, nor the shining 
Seas: 

Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, 

Whence I have risen, uplifted, on the 
breeze 

Of harmony, above all earthly care. 



"WEAK IS THE WILL OF MAN, 
HIS JUDGMENT BLIND" 

1810-15. 1815 

" Weak is the will of Man, his judgment 
blind ; 

Remembrance persecutes, and Hope be- 
trays ; 

Heavy is woe; — and joy, for human- 
kind, 

A mournful thing, so transient is the 
blaze ! " 

Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days 

Who wants the glorious faculty assigned 

To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, 

And colour life's dark cloud with orient 
rays. 

Imagination is that sacred power, 

Imagination lofty and refined; 



'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower 
Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples 

bind 
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest 

shower, 
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest 

wind. 



"HAIL, TWILIGHT, SOVEREIGN 
OF ONE PEACEFUL HOUR" 

1810-15. 1815 

Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful 

hour ! 
Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night; 
But studious only to remove from sight 
Day's mutable distinctions. — Ancient 

Power ! 
Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains 

lower, 
To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest 
Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest 
On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower 
Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him 

was seen 
The self-same Vision which we now behold, 
At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power ! 

brought forth 
These mighty barriers, and the gulf be- 
tween; 
The flood, the stars, — a spectacle as old 
As the beginning of the heavens and earth ! 



"THE SHEPHERD, LOOKING 
EASTWARD, SOFTLY SAID " 

1810-15. 1815 

The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly 

said, 
" Bright is thy veil, O Moon, as thou art 

bright ! " 
Forthwith, that little cloud, in ether spread 
And penetrated all with tender light, 
She cast away, and showed her fulgent 

head 
Uncovered ; dazzling the Beholder's sight 
As if to vindicate her beauty's right 
Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged. 
Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown 

aside, 
Went floating from her, darkening as it 

went; 



54o "EVEN AS A DRAGON'S EYE THAT FEELS THE STRESS" 



And a huge mass, to bury or to hide, 
Approached this glory of the firmament; 
Who meekly yields, and is obscured — con- 
tent 
With one calm triumph of a modest pride. 



"EVEN AS A DRAGON'S EYE THAT 
FEELS THE STRESS" 

1810-15. 1815 

Even as a dragon's eye that feels the 

stress 
Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp 
Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp, 
So burns yon Taper 'mid a black recess 
Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless: 
The lake below reflects it not; the sky, 
Muffled in clouds, affords no company 
To mitigate and cheer its loneliness. 
Yet, round the body of that joyless Thing 
Which sends so far its melancholy light, 
Perhaps are seated in domestic ring 
A gay society with faces bright, 
Conversing, reading, laughing; — or they 

sing, 
While hearts and voices in the sons: unite. 



"MARK THE CONCENTRED 
HAZELS THAT ENCLOSE" 

1810-15. 1815 

Suggested in the wild hazel wood at the foot 
of Helm-crag, where the stone still lies, with 
others of like form and character, though much 
of the wood that veiled it from the glare of day 
has been felled. This beautiful ground was 
lately purchased by our friend Mrs. Fletcher, 
the ancient owners, most respected persons, be- 
ing obliged to part with it in consequence of 
the imprudence of a son. It is gratifying to 
mention that, instead of murmuring and repin- 
ing at this change of fortune, they offered their 
services to Mrs. Fletcher, the husband as an out- 
door labourer, and the wife as a domestic ser- 
vant. 1 have witnessed the pride and pleasure 
with which the man worked at improvements 
of the ground round the house. Indeed he ex- 
pressed those feelings to me himself, and the 
countenance and manner of his wife always 
denoted feelings of the same character. I be- 
lieve a similar disposition to contentment under 
change of fortune is common among the class 
to which these good people belong. Yet, in 
proof that to part with their patrimony is most 



painful to them, I may refer to those stanzas 
entitled " Repentance," no inconsiderable part 
of which was taken verbatim from the language 
of the speaker herself. 

Mark the concentred hazels that enclose 
Yon old gray Stone, protected from the 

ray 
Of noontide suns : — and even the beams 

that play 
And glance, while wantonly the rough 

wind blows, 
Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows 
Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom, 
The very image framing of a Tomb, 
In which some ancient Chieftain finds re- 
pose 
Among the lonely mountains. — Live, ye 

trees ! 
And thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness 

keep 
Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep : 
For more than Fancy to the influence bends 
When solitary Nature condescends 
To mimic Tune's forlorn humanities. 



TO THE POET, JOHN DYER 
1810-15. 1815 

Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius 

made 
That work a living landscape fair and 

bright ; 
Nor hallowed less with musical delight 
Than those soft scenes through which thy 

childhood strayed, 
Those southern tracts of Cambria, " deep 

embayed, 
With green hills fenced, with ocean's mur- 
mur lulled; " 
Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet 

culled 
For worthless brows, while in the pensive 

shade 
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head un- 

graced, 
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek 

and still, 
A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay, 
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall 

stray 
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste; 
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar 

Hill! 






ODE 



S4i 



"BROOK! WHOSE SOCIETY THE 
POET SEEKS" 

1810-15. 1815 

Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks, 
Intent his wasted spirits to renew; 
And whom the curious Painter doth pursue 
Through rocky passes, among flowery 

creeks, 
And tracks thee dancing down thy water- 
breaks ; 
If wish were mine some type of thee to 

view, 
Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do 
Like Grecian Artists, give thee human 

cheeks, 
Channels for tears; no Naiad should'st thou 

be,— 
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor 

hairs: 
It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in 

thee 
With purer robes than those of flesh and 

blood, 
And hath bestowed on thee a safer good; 
Unwearied joy, and life without its cares. 



"SURPRISED BY JOY — IMPA- 
TIENT AS THE WIND" 

1810-15. 1815 

This was in fact suggested by my daughter 
Catharine long after her death. 

Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind 
I turned to share the transport — Oh ! with 

whom 
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, 
That spot which no vicissitude can find ? 
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my 

mind — 
But how could I forget thee ? Through 

what power, 
Even for the least division of an hour, 
Have I been so beguded as to be blind 
To my most grievous loss ? — That thought's 

return 
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, 
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, 
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no 

more; 
That neither present time, nor years unborn 
Could to my sight that heavenly face re- 
store. 



ODE 

THE MORNING OF THE DAY APPOINTED 
FOR A GENERAL THANKSGIVING. 
JANUARY 18, l8l6 

I8l6. I8l6 

The first stanza of this Ode was composed 
almost extempore, in front of Rydal Mount, be- 
fore church-time, and on such a morning and 
precisely with such objects before my eyes as 
are here described. The view taken of Napo- 
leon's character and proceedings is little in ac- 
cordance with that taken by some historians 
and critical philosophers. I am glad and proud 
of the difference, and trust that this series of 
poems, infinitely below the subject as they are, 
will survive to counteract, in unsophisticated 
minds, the pernicious and degrading tendency 
of those views and doctrines that lead to the 
idolatry of power, as power, and, in that false 
splendour to lose sight of its real nature and 
constitution as it often acts for the gratification 
of its possessor without reference to a beneficial 
end — an infirmity that has characterised men 
of all ages, classes, and employments, since 
Nimrod became a mighty hunter before the 
Lord. 



Hail, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night ! 
Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude 
On hearts howe'er insensible or rude; 
Whether thy punctual visitations smite 
The haughty towers where monarchs dwell; 
Or thou, impartial Sun, with presence bright 
Cheer'st the low threshold of the peasant's 

cell! 
Not unrejoiced I see thee climb the sky 
In naked splendour, clear from mist or 

haze, 
Or cloud approaching to divert the rays, 10 
Which even in deepest winter testify 

Thy power and majesty, 
Dazzling the vision that presumes to gaze. 
— Well does thine aspect usher in this Day ; 
As aptly suits therewith that modest pace 

Submitted to the chains 
That bind thee to the path which God or- 
dains 
That thou shalt trace, 
Till, with the heavens and earth, thou pass 

away ! 
Nor less, the stillness of these frosty plains, 
Their utter stillness, and the silent grace 21 
Of yon ethereal summits white with snow, 
(Whose tranquil pomp and spotless purity 



542 



ODE 



Report of storms gone by 
To us who tread below) 
Do with the service of this Day accord. 
— Divinest Object which the uplifted eye 
Of mortal man is suffered to behold; 
Thou, who upon those snow-clad Heights 

has poured 
Meek lustre, nor forget'st the humble 

Vale ; 3° 

Thou who dost warm Earth's universal 

mould, 
And for thy bounty wert not unadored 

By pious men of old; 
Once more, heart-cheering Sun, I bid thee 

had! 
Bright be thy course to-day, let not this 

promise fail ! 



'Mid the deep quiet of this morning hour, 
All nature seems to hear me while I speak, 
By feelings urged that do not vainly seek 
Apt language, ready as the tuneful notes 
That stream in blithe succession from the 
throats 4° 

Of birds, in leafy bower, 
Warbling a farewell to a vernal shower. 
— There is a radiant though a short-lived 

flame, 
That burns for Poets in the dawning east; 
And oft my soul hath kindled at the same, 
When the captivity of sleep had ceased; 
But He who fixed immoveably the frame 
Of the round world, and built, by laws as 
strong, 

A solid refuge for distress — 

The towers of righteousness; 50 

He knows that from a holier altar came 
The quickening spark of this day's sacrifice ; 
Knows that the source is nobler whence 
doth rise 

The current of this matin song; 

That deeper far it lies 
Than aught dependent on the fickle skies. 



Have we not conquered ? — by the venge- 
ful sword ? 
Ah no, by dint of Magnanimity; 
That curbed the baser passions, and left free 
A loyal band to follow their liege Lord 60 
Clear-sighted Honour, and his staid Com- 
peers, 
Along a track of most unnatural years; 
In execution of heroic deeds 



Whose memory, spotless as the crystal 

beads 
Of morning dew upon the untrodden meads, 
Shall live enrolled above the starry spheres. 
He, who in concert with an earthly string 
Of Britain's acts woxild sing, 
He with enraptured voice will tell 
Of One whose spirit no reverse coidd 
quell; 70 

Of One that 'mid the failing never failed — 
Who paints how Britain struggled and pre- 
vailed 
Shall represent her labouring with an eye 

Of circumspect humanity; 
Shall show her clothed with strength and 
skill, 
All martial duties to fulfil; 
Firm as a rock in stationary fight; 
In motion rapid as the lightning's gleam ; 
Fierce as a flood-gate bursting at midnight 
To rouse the wicked from their giddy 
dream — 80 

Woe, woe to all that face her hi the field ! 
Appalled she may not be, and cannot yield. 



And thus is missed the sole true glory 
That can belong to human story ! 
At which they only shall arrive 
Who through the abyss of weakness dive. 
The very humblest are too proud of heart; 
And one brief day is rightly set apart 
For Him who lifteth up and layeth low; 
For that Almighty God to whom we owe, 90 
Say not that we have vanquished — but that 
we survive. 



How dreadful the dominion of the im- 
pure ! 

Why should the Song be tardy to proclaim 

That less than power unbounded could not 
tame 

That sold of Evil — which, from hell let 
loose, 

Had filled the astonished world with such 
abuse 

As boundless patience only could endure ? 

— Wide-wasted regions — cities wrapt in 
flame — 

Who sees, may lift a streaming eye 

To Heaven; — who never saw, may heave a 
sigh; 100 

But the foundation of our nature shakes, 

And with an infinite pain the spirit aches, 



ODE 



543 



When desolated countries, towns on fire, 

Are but the avowed attire 
Of warfare waged with desperate mind 
Against the life of virtue hi mankind; 

Assaulting without ruth 

The citadels of truth; 
While the fair gardens of civility, 

By ignorance defaced, no 

By violence laid waste, 
Perish without reprieve for flower or 
tree ! 



A crouching purpose — a distracted will — 
Opposed to hopes that battened upon scorn, 
And to desires whose ever-waxing horn 
Not all the light of earthly power could 

fill; 
Opposed to dark, deep plots of patient 

skill, 
And to celerities of lawless force ; 
Which, spurning God, had flung away re- 
morse — 
What could they gain but shadows of re- 
dress ? I20 

— So bad proceeded propagating worse ; 
And discipline was passion's dire excess. 
Widens the fatal web, its lines extend, 
And deadlier poisons in the chalice blend. 
When will your trials teach you to be 

wise ? 

— O prostrate Lands, consult your agonies t 

VII 

No more — the guilt is banished, 

And, with the guilt, the shame is fled; 

And, with the guilt and shame, the Woe 

hath vanished, 
Shaking the dust and ashes from her 
head ! 130 

— No more — these lingerings of distress 
Sully the limpid stream of thankfulness. 
What robe can Gratitude employ 

So seemly as the radiant vest of Joy ? 

What steps so suitable as those that move 

In prompt obedience to spontaneous mea- 
sures 

Of glory, and felicity, and love, 

Surrendering the whole heart to sacred 
pleasures ? 

VIII 

O Britain ! dearer far than life is dear, 

If one there be 140 

Of all thy progeny 



Who can forget thy prowess, never more 
Be that ungrateful Son allowed to hear 
Thy green leaves rustle or thy torrents 

roar. 
As springs the lion from his den, 
As from a forest-brake 
Upstarts a glistering snake, 
The bold Arch-despot re-appeared ; — again 
Wide Europe heaves, impatient to be cast, 
With all her armed Powers, 150 

On that offensive soil, like waves upon 

a thousand shores. 
The trumpet blew a universal blast ! 
But Thou art foremost in the field: — there 

stand: 
Receive the triumph destined to thy hand ! 
All States have glorified themselves; — their 

claims 
Are weighed by Providence, hi balance 

even; 
And now, in preference to the mightiest 

names, 
To Thee the exterminating sword is given. 
Dread mark of approbation, justly gamed ! 
Exalted office, worthily sustained ! 160 



Preserve, O Lord ! within our hearts 
The memory of thy favour, 
That else insensibly departs, 
And loses its sweet savour ! 
Lodge it within us ! — as the power of 

light 
Lives inexhaustibly in precious gems, 
Fixed on the front of Eastern diadems, 
So shine our thankfulness for ever bright ! 
What offering, what transcendent monu- 
ment 
Shall our sincerity to Thee present ? 170 
— Not work of hands ; but trophies that 

may reach 
To highest Heaven — the labour of the 

Soul; 
That builds, as thy unerring precepts teach, 
Upon the internal conquests made by each, 
Her hope of lasting glory for the whole. 
Yet will not heaven disown nor earth gain- 
say 
The outward service of this day; 
Whether the worshippers entreat 
Forgiveness from God's mercy-seat; 
Or thanks and praises to His throne ascend 
That He has brought our warfare to an 
end, 181 
And that we need no second victory ! 



544 



ODE 



Ha ! what a ghastly sight for man to 
see; 

And to the heavenly saints in peace who 
dwell, 
For a brief moment, terrible; 

But, to thy sovereign penetration, fair, 

Before whom all things are, that were, 

All judgments that have been, or e'er shall 
be; 

Links in the chain of thy tranquillity ! 

Along the bosom of this favoured Na- 
tion, 190 

Breathe Thou, this day, a vital undulation ! 
Let all who do this land inherit 
Be conscious of thy moving spirit ! 

Oh, 't is a goodly Ordinance, — the sight, 

Though sprung from bleeding war, is one 
of pure delight; 

Bless Thou the hour, or ere the hour ar- 
rive, 

When a whole people shall kneel down in 
prayer, 

And, at one moment, in one rapture, strive 

With lip and heart to tell their gratitude 
For thy protecting care, 200 

Their solemn joy — praising the Eternal 
Lord 
For tyranny subdued, 

And for the sway of equity renewed, 

For liberty confirmed, and peace restored ! 



But hark — the summons ! — down the 

placid lake 
Floats the soft cadence of the church-tower 

bells ; 
Bright shines the Sun, as if his beams 

woidd wake 
The tender insects sleeping in their cells; 
Bright shines the Sun — and not a breeze to 

shake 
The drops that tip the melting icicles. 210 

O, enter now his temple gate ! 
Inviting words — perchance already flung 
(As the crowd press devoutly down the 

aisle 
Of some old Minster's venerable pile) 
From voices into zealous passion stung, 
While the tubed engine feels the inspiring 

blast, 
And has begun — its clouds of sound to 

cast 
Forth towards empyreal Heaven, 
As if the fretted roof were riven. 
Us, humbler ceremonies now await; 220 



But in the bosom, with devout respect 
The banner of our joy we will erect, 
And strength of love our souls shall ele- 
vate : 
For to a few collected in his name, 
Their heavenly Father wdl incline an ear 
Gracious to service hallowed by its aim ; — 
Awake ! the majesty of God revere ! 

Go — and with foreheads meekly bowed 
Present your prayers — go — and rejoice 
aloud — 

The Holy One will hear ! 230 

And what, 'mid silence deep, with faith sin- 
cere, 
Ye, in your low and undisturbed estate, 
Shall simply feel and purely meditate — 
Of warnings — from the unprecedented 

might, 
Which, in our time, the impious have dis- 
closed ; 
And of more arduous duties thence imposed 
Upon the future advocates of right; 
Of mysteries revealed, 
And judgments unrepealed, 
Of earthly revolution, 240 

And final retribution, — 
To his omniscience will appear 
An offering not unworthy to find place, 
On this high Day of Thanks, before the 
Throne of Grace ! 



ODE 
i8r6. 1816 



Imagination — ne'er before content, 
But aye ascending, restless in her pride 
From all that martial feats could yield 
To her desires, or to her hopes present — 
Stooped to the Victory, on that Belgic field, 
Achieved, this closing deed magnificent, 
And with the embrace was satisfied. 
— Fly, ministers of Fame, 
With every help that ye from earth and 

heaven may claim ! 
Bear through the world these tidings of de- 
light ! .0 
— Hours, Days, and Months, have borne 

them in the sight 
Of mortals, hurrying like a sudden shower 
That landward stretches from the sea, 
The morning's splendours to devour; 
But this swift travel scorns the company 



ODE 



545 



Of irksome change, or threats from sadden- 
ing power. 
— The shock is given — the Adversaries 

bleed — 
Lo, Justice triumphs! Earth is freed ! 
Joyful annunciation ! — it went forth — 
It pierced the caverns of the sluggish 
North — 20 

It found no barrier on the ridge 
Of Andes — frozen gulphs became its 

bridge — 
The vast Pacific gladdens with the freight — 
Upon the Lakes of Asia 't is bestowed — 
The Arabian desert shapes a willing road 

Across her burning breast, 
For this refreshing incense from the West! — 
— Where snakes and lions breed, 
Where towns and cities thick as stars ap- 
pear, 
Wherever fruits are gathered, and where'er 
The upturned soil receives the hopeful 
seed — 31 

Whde the Sun rules, and cross the shades 

of night — 
The unwearied arrow hath pursued its 

flight! 
The eyes of good men thankfully give 
heed, 
And in its sparkling progress read 
Of virtue crowned with glory's deathless 

meed: 
Tyrants exult to hear of kingdoms won, 
And slaves are pleased to learn that mighty 

feats are done; 
Even the proud Realm, from whose dis- 
tracted borders 
This messenger of good was launched hi air, 
France, humbled France, amid her wild 
disorders, 41 

Feels, and hereafter shall the truth de- 
clare, 
That she too lacks not reason to rejoice, 
And utter England's name with sadly- 
plausive voice. 



O genuine glory, pure renown ! 

And well might it beseem that mighty 

Town 
Into whose bosom earth's best treasures 

flow, 
To whom all persecuted men retreat; 
If a new Temple lift her votive brow 
High on the shore of silver Thames — to 

greet 50 



The peaceful guest advancing from afar. 

Bright be the Fabric, as a star 

Fresh risen, and beautiful within ! — there 

meet 
Dependence infinite, proportion just; 
A File that Grace approves, and Time can 

trust 
With his most sacred wealth, heroic dust. 



But if the valiant of this land 
In reverential modesty demand, 
That all observance, due to them, be 

paid 
Where their serene progenitors are laid; 60 
Kings, warriors, high-souled poets, saint- 
like sages, 
England's illustrious sons of long, long 

ages; 
Be it not unordained that solemn rites, 
Within the circuit of those Gothic walls, 
Shall be performed at pregnant inter- 
vals; 
Commemoration holy that unites 
The living generations with the dead; 
By the deep soul-moving sense 
Of religious eloquence, — 
By visual pomp, and by the tie 70 

Of sweet and threatening harmony; 
Soft notes, awful as the omen 
Of destructive tempests coming, 
And escaping from that sadness 
Into elevated gladness; 
While the white-robed choir attendant, 
Under mouldering banners pendant, 
Provoke all potent symphonies to raise 

Songs of victory and praise, 
For them who bravely stood unhurt, or 
bled 80 

With medicable wounds, or found their 

graves 
Upon the battle field, or under ocean's 

waves; 
Or were conducted home hi single statej 
And long procession — there to lie, 
Where their sons' sons, and all posterity, 
Unheard by them, their deeds shall cele- 
brate ! 

IV 

Nor will the God of peace and love 
Such martial service disapprove. 
He guides the Pestilence — the cloud 
Of locusts travels on his breath ; 90 

The region that in hope was ploughed. 



546 



INVOCATION TO THE EARTH 



His drought consumes, his mildew taints 
with death ; 
He springs the hushed Volcano's mine, 
He puts the Earthquake on her still de- 
sign, 
Darkens the sun, hath bade the forest 

sink, 
And, drinking towns and cities, still can 

drink 
Cities and towns — 't is Thou — the work 

is Thine ! — 
The fierce tornado sleeps within thy 
courts — 

He hears the word — he flies — 
And navies perish in their ports; 100 
For Thou art angry with thine enemies ! 

For these, and mourning for our errors, 
And sins, that point their terrors, 
We bow our heads before Thee, and we 

laud 
And magnify thy name, Almighty God ! 
But Man is thy most awful instru- 
ment, 
In working out a pure intent; 
Thou cloth'st the wicked in their dazzling 

mail, 
And for thy righteous purpose they pre- 
vail ; 
Thine arm from peril guards the coasts 
Of them who in thy laws delight: m 
Thy presence turns the scale of doubtful 

fight, 
Tremendous God of battles, Lord of Hosts ! 



Forbear: — to Thee — 
Father and Judge of all, with fervent 

tongue 

But in a gentler strain 
Of contemplation, by no sense of wrong, 
(Too quick and keen) incited to disdain 
Of pity pleading from the heart in vain — 
To Thee — To Thee — l2 o 

Just God of christianised Humanity, 
Shall praises be poured forth, and thanks 

ascend, 
That thou hast brought our warfare to an 

end, 
And that we need no second victory ! 
Blest, above measure blest, 
If on thy love our Land her hopes shall 

rest, 
And all the Nations labour to fulfil 
Thy law, and live henceforth in peace, hi 

pure good will. 



INVOCATION TO THE EARTH 

FEBRUARY l8l6 

I8l6. I8l6 

Composed immediately after the " Thanks- 
giving- Ode," to which it may be considered as 
a second part. 

I 

" Rest, rest, perturbed Earth ! 
O rest, thou doleful Mother of Man- 
kind ! " 
A Spirit sang in tones more plaintive than 

the wind: 
" From regions where no evil thing has 

birth 
I come — thy stains to wash away, 
Thy cherished fetters to unbind, 
And open thy sad eyes upon a milder day. 
The Heavens are thronged with martyrs 

that have risen 

From out thy noisome prison; 
The penal caverns groan 10 

With tens of thousands rent from off the 

tree 
Of hopeful life, — by battle's whirlwind 

blown 
Into the deserts of Eternity. 
Unpitied havoc ! Victims unlamented ! 
But not on high, where madness is resented, 
And murder causes some sad tears to flow, 
Though, from the widely-sweeping blow, 
The choirs of Angels spread, triumphantly 

augmented. 



" False Parent of Mankind ! 
Obdurate, proud, and blind, 20 
I sprinkle thee with soft celestial dews, 
Thy lost, maternal heart to re-infuse ! 
Scattering this far-fetched moisture from 

my wings, 
Upon the act a blessing I implore, 
Of which the rivers in their secret springs, 
The rivers stained so oft with human gore, 
Are conscious; — may the like return no 

more ! 
May Discord — for a Seraph's care 
Shall be attended with a bolder prayer — 
May she, who once disturbed the seats of 

bliss 30 

These mortal spheres above, 
Be chained for ever to the black abyss. 
And thou, O rescued Earth, by peace and 

love, 



ODE 



547 



And merciful desires, thy sanctity ap- 
prove ! " 
The Spirit ended his mysterious rite, 

And the pure vision closed in darkness in- 
finite. 



ODE 
1816. 1816 

Carmina possumus 

Donare, et pretium dicere munerL 
Non incisa notis mar mora publicis, 
Per quae spiritus et vita redit bonis 
Post mortem ducibus 

clarius indicant 

Laudes, quam Pierides ; neque, 

Si chartae sileant quod bene feceris, 
Mercedeni tuleris. — Hob. Cab. 8, Lib. 4. 



When the soft hand of sleep had closed 

the latch 
On the tired household of corporeal sense, 
And Fancy, keeping unreluctant watch, 
Was free her choicest favours to dispense; 
I saw, in wondrous perspective displayed, 
A landscape more august than happiest skill 
Of pencil ever clothed with light and shade ; 
An intermingled pomp of vale and hill, 
City, and naval stream, suburban grove, 9 
And stately forest where the wild deer rove ; 
Nor wanted lurking hamlet, dusky towns, 
And scattered rural farms of aspect bright; 
And, here and there, between the pastoral 

downs, 
The azure sea upswelled upon the sight. 
Fair prospect, such as Britain only shows ! 
But not a living creature could be seen 
Through its wide circuit, that, in deep repose, 
And, even to sadness, lonely and serene, 
Lay hushed ; till — through a portal in the 
sky _ I9 

Brighter than brightest loop-hole, in a storm, 
Opening before the sun's triumphant eye — 
Issued, to sudden view, a glorious Form ! 
Earthward it glided with a swift descent: 
Saint George himself this Visitant must be; 
And, ere a thought could ask on what intent 
He sought the regions of Humanity, 
A thrilling voice was heard, that vivified 
City and field and flood; — aloud it cried — 
" Though from my celestial home, 
Like a Champion, armed I come; 30 
On my helm the dragon crest, 
And the red cross on my breast; 
I, the Guardian of this Land, 
Speak not now of toilsome duty; 



Well obeyed was that command — 

Whence bright days of festive beauty; 
Haste, Virgins, haste ! — the flowers which 
summer gave 

Have perished in the field; 
But the green thickets plenteously shall yield 

Fit garlands for the brave, 40 

That will be welcome, if by you entwined ; 
Haste, Virgins, haste ; and you, ye Matrons 

grave, 
Go forth with rival youthf ulness of mind, 

And gather what ye find 
Of hardy laurel and wild holly boughs — 
To deck your stern Defenders' modest brows ! 

Such simple gifts prepare, 
Though they have gamed a worthier meed; 

And hi due time shall share 
Those palms and amaranthine wreaths 50 
Unto their martyred Countrymen decreed, 
In realms where everlasting freshness 
breathes ! " 



And lo ! with crimson banners proudly 
streaming, 
And upright weapons innocently gleaming, 
Along the surface of a spacious plain 
Advance in order the redoubted Bands, 
And there receive green chaplets from the 
hands 
Of a fair female train — 
Maids and Matrons, dight 
In robes of dazzling white; 60 

While from the crowd bursts forth a rap- 
turous noise 
By the cloud-capt hills retorted; 
And a throng of rosy boys 
In loose fashion tell their joys; 
And grey-haired sires, on staffs supported, 
Look round, and by their smiling seem to 

say, 
Thus strives a grateful Country to display 
The mighty debt which nothing can repay ! 



Anon before my sight a palace rose 
Built of all precious substances, — so pure 
And exquisite, that sleep alone bestow^ 71 
Ability like splendour to endure: 
Entered, with streaming thousands, through 

the gate, 
I saw the banquet spread beneath a Dome 

of state, 
A lofty Dome, that dared to emulate 
The heaven of sable night 



548 



ODE 



With starry lustre; yet had power to 
throw 

Solemn effulgence, clear as solar light, 

Upon a princely company below, 

While the vault rang with choral harmony, 

Like some Nymph-haunted grot beneath 
the roaring sea. 81 

— No sooner ceased that peal, than on the 
verge 

Of exultation hung a dirge 

Breathed from a soft and lonely instru- 
ment, 
That kindled recollections 
Of agonised affections; 

And, though some tears the strain at- 
tended, 
The mournful passion ended 

In peace of spirit, and sublime content ! 



But garlands wither; festal shows de- 
part, 90 
Like dreams themselves; and sweetest 
sound — 

(Albeit of effect profound) 

It was — and it is gone ! 
Victorious England ! bid the silent Art 
Reflect, hi glowing hues that shall not fade, 
Those high achievements; even as she ar- 
rayed 
With second life the deed of Marathon 

Upon Athenian walls; 
So may she labour for thy civic halls: 

And be the guardian spaces 100 

Of consecrated places, 
As nobly graced by Sculpture's patient toil; 
And let imperishable Columns rise 
Fixed in the depths of this courageous soil; 
Expressive signals of a glorious strife, 
And competent to shed a spark divine 
Into the torpid breast of daily life; — 
Records on which, for pleasure of all eyes, 

The morning sun may shine 
With gratulation thoroughly benign ! no 



And ye, Pierian Sisters, sprung from Jove 
And sage Mnemosyne, — full long de- 
barred 
From your first mansions, exiled all too 

long 
From many a hallowed stream and grove, 
Dear native regions where ye wont to rove, 
Chanting for patriot heroes the reward 
Of never-dying song ! 



Now (for, though Truth descending from 

above 
The Olympian summit hath destroyed for 

aye 
Your kindred Deities, Ye live and move, 120 
Spared for obeisance from perpetual love 
For privilege redeemed of godlike sway) 
Now, on the margin of some spotless foun- 
tain, 
Or top serene of unmolested mountain, 
Strike audibly the noblest of your lyres, 
And for a moment meet the soul's desires ! 
That I, or some more favoured Bard, may 

hear 
What ye, celestial Maids ! have often sung 
Of Britain's acts, — may catch it with rapt 
ear, 129 

And give the treasure to our British tongue! 
So shall the characters of that proud page 
Support their mighty theme from age to 

age; 
And, in the desert places of the earth, 
When they to future empires have given 

birth, 
So shall the people gather and believe 
The bold report, transferred to every 

clime ; 
And the whole world, not envious but ad- 
miring, 
And to the like aspiring, 
Own — that the progeny of this fair Isle 
Had power as lofty actions to achieve 140 
As were performed in man's heroic prime; 
Nor wanted, when their fortitude had held 
Its even tenor, and the foe was quelled, 
A corresponding virtue to beguile 
The hostile purpose of wide-wasting 

Time — 
That not in vain they laboured to secure, 
For their great deeds, perpetual memory, 
And fame as largely spread as land and sea, 
By Works of spirit high and passion pure ! 



ODE 

1816. 1816 

1 

Who rises on the banks of Seine, 
And binds her temples with the civic 

wreath ? 
What joy to read the promise of her mien I 
How sweet to rest her wide-spread wings 

beneath 1 



THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA 



549 



But they are ever playing, 
And twinkling in the light, 
And, if a breeze be straying, 
That breeze she will invite; 
And stands on tiptoe, conscious she is fair, 
And calls a look of love into her face, 10 
And spreads her arms, as if the general air 
Alone could satisfy her wide embrace. 
— Melt, Principalities, before her melt ! 
Her love ye hailed — her wrath have felt ! 
But She through many a change of form 

hath gone, 
And stands amidst you now an armed crea- 
ture, 
Whose panoply is not a thing put on, 
But the live scales of a portentous nature; 
That, having forced its way from birth to 

birth, 
Stalks round — abhorred by Heaven, a ter- 
ror to the Earth! 20 



I marked the breathings of her dragon 

crest; 
My Soul, a sorrowful interpreter, 
In many a midnight vision bowed 
Before the ominous aspect of her spear; 
Whether the mighty beam, in scorn upheld, 
Threatened her foes, — or, pompously at 

rest, 
Seemed to bisect her orbed shield, 
As stretches a blue bar of solid cloud 
Across the setting sun and all the fiery 

west. 

in 

So did she daunt the Earth, and God 
defy! 30 

And, wheresoe'er she spread her sove- 
reignty, 

Pollution tainted all that was most pure. 

— Have we not known — and live we not 
to tell — 

That Justice seemed to hear her final 
knell? 

Faith buried deeper hi her own deep breast 

Her stores, and sighed to find them inse- 
cure ! 

And Hope was maddened by the drops that 
fell 

From shades, her chosen place of short- 
lived rest. 

Shame followed shame, and woe supplanted 
woe — 

Is this the only change that time can show ? 



How long shall vengeance sleep ? Ye pa- 
tient Heavens, how long ? 41 
— Infirm ejaculation ! from the tongue 
Of Nations wanting virtue to be strong 
Up to the measure of accorded might, 
And daring not to feel the majesty of 
right ! 



Weak Spirits are there — who would ask, 
Upon the pressure of a painful thing, 
The lion's smews, or the eagle's wing; 
Or let their wishes loose, in forest-glade, 

Among the lurking powers 50 

Of herbs and lowly flowers, 
Or seek, from saints above, miraculous aid — 
That Man may be accomplished for a task 
Which his own nature hath enjoined; — 

and why ? 
If, when that interference hath relieved 
him, 

He must sink down to languish 
In worse than former helplessness — and lie 
Till the caves roar, — and, imbe- 
cility 
Again engendering anguish, 
The same weak wish returns, that had be- 
fore deceived him. 60 



But Thou, supreme Disposer ! may'st not 

speed 
The course of things, and change the creed 
Which hath been held aloft before men's 

sight 
Since the first framing of societies, 
Whether, as bards have told in ancient song, 
Built up by soft seducing harmonies; 
Or prest together by the appetite, 

And by the power, of wrong. 



THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA 
1812-13 

1816. 1816 

Humanity, delighting to behold 
A fond reflection of her own decay, 
Hath painted Winter like a traveller old, 
Propped on a staff, and, through the sullen 

day, 
In hooded mantle, limping o'er the plain, 
As though his weakness were disturbed by 

pain: 
Or, if a juster fancy should allow 



55° 



ON THE SAME OCCASION 



An undisputed symbol of command, 
The chosen sceptre is a withered bough, 
Infirmly grasped within a palsied hand. 10 
These emblems suit the helpless and for- 
lorn ; 
But mighty Winter the device shall scorn. 

For he it was — dread Winter ! who beset, 
Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net, 
That host, when from the regions of the 

Pole 
They shrunk, insane ambition's barren 

goal — 
That host, as huge and strong as e'er defied 
Their God, and placed their trust hi human 

pride ! 
As fathers persecute rebellious sons, 
He smote the blossoms of their warrior 

youth; 20 

He called on Frost's inexorable tooth 
Life to consume hi Manhood's firmest hold; 
Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly 

runs; 
For why — unless for liberty enrolled 
And sacred home — ah ! why should hoary 

Age be bold ? 

. Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed, 
But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind, 
W^hich from Siberian caves the Monarch 

freed, 
And sent him forth, with squadrons of his 

khid, 
And bade the Snow their ample backs be- 
stride, 30 
And to the battle ride. 
No pitying voice commands a halt, 
No courage can repel the dire assault; 
Distracted, spiritless, benumbed, and blind, 
Whole legions sink, and, in one instant, find 
Burial and death: look for them — and 

descry, 
When morn returns, beneath the clear blue 

sky, 
A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy ! 



ON THE SAME OCCASION 
1816. 1816 

Ye Storms, resound the praises of your 

King! 
And ye mild Seasons — in a sunny clime, 
Midway on some high hill, while father 

Time 



Looks on delighted — meet in festal ring, 
And loud and long of Whiter's triumph sing! 
Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and fruits, 

and flowers, 
Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety 

showers, 
And the dire flapping of his hoary wing ! 
Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green 

grass ; 
With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report 

your gain; 
Whisper it to the billows of the main, 
And to the aerial zephyrs as they pass, 
That old decrepit Whiter — He hath slain 
That Host, which rendered all your boun- 
ties vain ! 



«BY MOSCOW SELF-DEVOTED 
TO A BLAZE" 

1816. 1832 

By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze 
Of dreadful sacrifice ; by Russian blood 
Lavished in fight with desperate hardihood; 
The unfeeling Elements no claim shall raise 
To rob our Human-nature of just praise 
For what she did and suffered. Pledges 

sure 
Of a deliverance absolute and pure 
She gave, if Faith might tread the beaten 

ways 
Of Providence. But now did the Most 

High 
Exalt his still small voice ; — to quell that 

Host 
Gathered his power, a manifest ally; 
He, whose heaped waves confounded the 

proud boast 
Of Pharaoh, said to Famine, Snow, and 

Frost, 
" Finish the strife by deadliest victory ! " 



THE GERMANS ON THE HEIGHTS 
OF HOCHHE1M 

1S16. 1827 

Abruptly paused the strife ; — the field 

throughout 
Resting upon his arms each warrior stood, 
Checked hi the very act and deed of blood, 
With breath suspended, like a listening scout. 
Silence ! thou wert mother of a shout . 



" EMPERORS AND KINGS, HOW OFT HAVE TEMPLES RUNG" 551 



That tlirough the texture of yon azure dome 

Cleaves its glad way, a cry of harvest home 

Uttered to Heaven in ecstasy devout ! 

The barrier Rhine hath flashed, tlirough 
battle-smoke, 

On men who gaze heart-smitten by the 
view, 

As if all Germany had felt the shock ! 

— Fly, wretched Gauls ! ere they the charge 
renew 

Who have seen — themselves now casting 
off the yoke — 

The unconquerable Stream his course pur- 
sue. 



SIEGE OF VIENNA RAISED BY 
JOHN SOBIESKI 

FEBRUARY l8l6 
l8l6. I8l6 

Oh, for a kindling touch from that pure 

flame 
Which ministered, erewhile, to a sacrifice 
Of gratitude, beneath Italian skies, 
In words like these : " Up, Voice of song ! 

proclaim 
Thy saintly rapture with celestial aim: 
For lo ! the Imperial City stands released 
From bondage threatened by the embattled 

East, 
And Christendom respires; from guilt and 

shame 
Redeemed, from miserable fear set free 
By one day's feat, one mighty victory. 
— Chant the Deliverer's praise in every 

tongue ! 
The cross shall spread, the crescent hath 

waxed dim; 
He conquering, as in joyful Heaven is 

sung, 
He conquering through God, and God 

BY HIM." 



OCCASIONED BY THE BATTLE 
OF WATERLOO 

FEBRUARY l8l6 

l8l6. I8l6 

(The last six lines intended for an Inscription.) 

Intrepid sons of Albion ! not by you 
Is life despised; ah no, the spacious earth 



Ne'er saw a race who held, by right of 

birth, 
So many objects to which love is due: 
Ye slight not life — to God and Nature true ; 
But death, becoming death, is dearer far, 
When duty bids you bleed in open war : 
Hence hath your prowess quelled that im- 
pious crew. 
Heroes ! — for instant sacrifice prepared; 
Yet filled with ardour and on triumph bent 
'Mid direst shocks of mortal accident — 
To you who fell, and you whom slaughter 

spared 
To guard the fallen, and consummate the 

event, 
Your Country rears this sacred Monument ! 



OCCASIONED BY THE BATTLE 
OF WATERLOO 

FEBRUARY l8l6 
l8l6. I8l6 

The Bard — whose soul is meek as dawn- 
ing day, 
Yet framed to judgments righteously severe, 
Fervid, yet conversant with holy fear, 
As recognising one Almighty sway: 
He — whose experienced eye can pierce the 

array 
Of past events; to whom, in vision clear, 
The aspiring heads of future things appear, 
Like mountain-tops whose mists have rolled 

away — 
Assoiled from all encumbrance of our time, 
He only, if such breathe, in strains devout 
Shall comprehend this victory sublime ; 
Shall worthily rehearse the hideous rout, 
The triumph hail, which from their peace- 
ful clime 
Angels might welcome with a choral shout ! 



"EMPERORS AND KINGS, HOW 
OFT HAVE TEMPLES RUNG" 

1816. 1827 

Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples 

rung 
With impious thanksgiving, the Almighty's 

scorn ! 
How oft above their altars have been hung 
Trophies that led the good and wise to 

mourn 



55^ 



FEELINGS OF A FRENCH ROYALIST 



Triumphant wrong, battle of battle born, 
And sorrow that to fruitless sorrow clung ! 
Now, from Heaven-sanctioned victory, 

Peace is sprung; 
In this firm hour Salvation lifts her horn. 
Glory to arms ! But, conscious that the 

nerve 
Of popular reason, long mistrusted, freed 
Your thrones, ye Powers, from duty fear 

to swerve ! 
Be just, be grateful; nor, the oppressor's 

creed 
Reviving, heavier chastisement deserve 
Than ever forced unpitied hearts to bleed. 



FEELINGS OF A FRENCH ROY- 
ALIST, ON THE DISINTER- 
MENT OF THE REMAINS OF 
THE DUKE D'ENGHIEN 

1816. 1816 

Dear Reliques ! from a pit of vilest mould 
Uprisen — to lodge among ancestral kings ; 
And to inflict shame's salutary stings 
On the remorseless hearts of men grown old 
In a blind worship; men perversely bold 
Even to this hour, — yet, some shall now 

forsake 
Their monstrous Idol if the dead e'er 

spake, 
To warn the living ; if truth were ever told 
By aught redeemed out of the hollow grave : 
O murdered Prince ! meek, loyal, pious, 

brave ! 
The power of retribution once was given: 
But 't is a rueful thought that willow bands 
So often tie the thunder-wielding hands 
Of Justice sent to earth from highest 

Heaven ! 



TRANSLATION OF PART OF THE 
FIRST BOOK OF THE ^NEID 

1S16. 1832 

TO THE EDITORS OF THE PHILOLOGICAL 

MUSEUM 

Your letter, reminding me of an expectation 
I some time since held out to you of allowing' 
some specimens of my translation from the 
^Eneid to he printed in the Philological Mu- 
seum, was not very acceptable ; for I had aban- 
doned the thought of ever sending into the 
world any part of that experiment — for it 



was nothing more — an experiment begun for 
amusement, and I now think a less fortunate 
one than when I first named it to you. Hav- 
ing been displeased in modern translations 
with the additions of incongruous matter, I be- 
gan to translate with a resolve to keep clear of 
that fault, by adding nothing; but I became 
convinced that a spirited translation can 
scarcely be accomplished in the English lan- 
guage without admitting a principle of com- 
pensation. On this point, however, I do not 
wish to insist, and merely send the following 
passage, taken at random, from a wish to com- 
ply with your request. W. W. 

But Cytherea, studious to invent 
Arts yet untried, upon new counsels bent, 
Resolves that Cupid, changed in form and 

face 
To young Ascanius, should assume his 

place; 
Present the maddening gifts, and kindle 

heat 
Of passion at the bosom's inmost seat. 
She dreads the treacherous house, the 

double tongue; 
She burns, she frets — by Juno's rancour 

stung; 
The calm of night is powerless to remove 
These cares, and thus she speaks to winged 

Love: 10 

" O son, my strength, my power ! who 

dost despise 
(What, save thyself, none dares through 

earth and skies) 
The giant-quelling bolts of Jove, I flee, 
O son, a suppliant to thy deity ! 
What perils meet JEneas in his course, 
How Juno's hate with unrelenting force 
Pursues thy brother — this to thee is 

known; 
And oft-times hast thou made my griefs 

thine own. 
Him now the generous Dido by soft chains 
Of bland entreaty at her court detains; 20 
Junonian hospitalities prepare 
Such apt occasion that I dread a snare. 
Hence, ere some hostile God can intervene, 
Would I, by previous wiles, inflame the 

queen 
With passion for iEneas, such strong love 
That at my beck, mine only, she shall 

move. 
Hear, and assist; — the father's mandate 

calls 



TRANSLATION FROM FIRST BOOK OF THE ^NEID 



553 



His young Ascanius to the Tyrian walls; 
He comes, my dear delight, — and costliest 

things 
Preserved from fire and flood for presents 

brings. 30 

Him will I take, and in close covert keep, 
'Mid groves Idalian, lulled to gentle sleep, 
Or on Cythera's far-sequestered steep, 
That he may neither know what hope is 

mine, 
Nor by his presence traverse the design. 
Do thou, but for a single night's brief space, 
Dissemble; be that boy hi form and face ! 
And when enraptured Dido shall receive 
Thee to her arms, and kisses interweave 
With many a fond embrace, while joy rims 

high, 4 o 

And goblets crown the proud festivity, 
Instil thy subtle poison, and inspire, 
At every touch, an unsuspected fire." 

Love, at the word, before his mother's 
sight 
Puts off his wings, and walks, with proud 

delight, 
Like young lulus; but the gentlest dews 
Of slumber Venus sheds, to circumfuse 
The true Ascanius steeped in placid rest; 
Then wafts him, cherished on her careful 

breast, 
Through upper air to an Idalian glade, 50 
Where he on soft amaracus is laid, 
With breathing flowers embraced, and fra- 
grant shade. 
But Cupid, following cheerily his guide 
Achates, with the gifts to Carthage hied; 
And, as the hall he entered, there, between 
The sharers of her golden couch, was seen 
Reclined in festal pomp the Tyrian queen. 
The Trojans, too (iEneas at their head), 
On couches lie, with purple overspread: 
Meantime in canisters is heaped the bread, 
Pellucid water for the hands is borne, 61 
And napkins of smooth texture, finely 

shorn. 
Within are flfty handmaids, who prepare, 
As they in order stand, the dainty fare ; 
And fume the household deities with store 
Of odorous incense; while a hundred more 
Matched with an equal number of like 

age, 
But each of manly sex, a docile page, 
Marshal the banquet, giving with due grace 
To cup or viand its appointed place. 70 

The Tyrians rushing in, an eager band, 



Their painted couches seek, obedient to 
command, 

They look with wonder on the gifts — they 
gaze 

Upon lulus, dazzled with the rays 

That from his ardent comitenance are 
flung, 

And charmed to hear his simulating 
tongue ; 

Nor pass unpraised the robe and veil 
divine, 

Round which the yellow flowers and wan- 
dering foliage twine. 

But chiefly Dido, to the coming ill 
Devoted, strives in vain her vast desires to 

fill; 80 

She views the gifts; upon the child then 

turns 
Insatiable looks, and gazing burns. 
To ease a father's cheated love he hung 
Upon iEneas, and around him clung; 
Then seeks the queen; with her his arts he 

tries; 
She fastens on the boy enamoured eyes, 
Clasps hi her arms, nor weens (O lot un- 

blest !) 
How great a God, incumbent o'er her 

breast, 
Would fill it with his spirit. He, to 

please 
His Acidalian mother, by degrees 90 

Blots out Sichaeus, studious to remove 
The dead, by influx of a living love, 
By stealthy entrance of a perilous guest. 
Troubling a heart that had been long at 

rest. 

Now when the viands were withdrawn, 
and ceased 
The first division of the splendid feast, 
While round a vacant board the chiefs re- 
cline, 
Huge goblets are brought forth ; they crown 

the wine; 
Voices of gladness roll the walls around; 
Those gladsome voices from the courts re- 
bound ; 100 
From gilded rafters many a blazing light 
Depends, and torches overcome the night. 
The minutes fly — till, at the queen's com- 
mand, 
A bowl of state is offered to her hand: 
Then she, as Belus wont, and all the line 
From Belus, filled it to the brim with wine; 



554 



A FACT AND AN IMAGINATION 



Silence ensued. " O Jupiter, whose care 
Is hospitable dealing, grant my prayer ! 
Productive day be this of lasting joy 
To Tyrians, and these exiles driven from 

Troy; no 

A day to future generations dear ! 
Let Bacchus, donor of soul-quick'ning 

cheer, 
Be present; kindly Juno, be thou near ! 
And, Tyrians, may your choicest favours 

wait 
Upon this hour, the bond to celebrate ! " 
She spake and shed an offering on the 

board ; 
Then sipped the bowl whence she the wine 

had poured 
And gave to Bitias, urging the prompt lord ; 
He raised the bowl, and took a long deep 

draught ; 
Then every chief in turn the beverage 

quaffed. 120 

Graced with redundant hair, Iopas sings 
The lore of Atlas, to resounding strings, 
The labours of the Sun, the lunar wander- 
ings; 
Whence human kind, and brute; what 

natural powers 
Engender lightning, whence are falling 

showers. 
He haunts Arcturus, — that fraternal twain, 
The glittering Bears, — the Pleiads fraught 
with rain; 

— Why suns in winter, shunning heaven's 

steep heights 

Post seaward, — what impedes the tardy 
nights. 

The learned song from Tyrian hearers 
draws 130 

Loud shouts, — the Trojans echo the ap- 
plause. 

— But, lengthening out the night with con- 

verse new, 

Large draughts of love unhappy Dido drew ; 

Of Priam asked, of Hector — o'er and o'er — 

What arms the son of bright Aurora 
wore ; — 

What steeds the car of Diomed could 
boast ; 

Among the leaders of the Grecian host. 

How looked Achilles, their dread para- 
mount — 

" But nay — the fatal wiles, O guest, re- 
count, 

Retrace the Grecian cunning from its source, 



Your own grief and your friends ? — your 
wandering course ; i 4t 

For now, till this seventh summer have ye 
ranged 

The sea, or trod the earth, to peace es- 
tranged." 



A FACT, AND AN IMAGINATION 

OR, CANUTE AND ALFRED, ON THE 
SEASHORE 

l8l6. 1820 

The first and last fourteen lines of this poem 
each make a sonnet, and were composed as such ; 
but I thought that by intermediate lines they 
might be connected so as to make a whole. 
One or two expressions are taken from Milton's 
History of England. 

The Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair, 
Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty, 
To aid a covert purpose, cried — " O ye 
Approaching Waters of the deep, that 

share 
With this green isle my fortunes, come not 

where 
Your Master's throne is set." — Deaf was 

the Sea; 
Her waves rolled on, respecting his decree 
Less than they heed a breath of wanton 

air. 
— Then Canute, rising from the invaded 

throne, 
Said to his servile Courtiers, — " Poor the 

reach, 10 

The undisguised extent, of mortal sway ! 
He only is a King, and he alone 
Deserves the name (this truth the billows 

preach) 
Whose everlasting laws, sea, earth, and 

heaven, obey." 
This just reproof the prosperous Dane 
Drew, from the influx of the main, 
For some whose rugged northern mouths 

wovdd strain 
At oriental flattery; 
And Canute (fact more worthy to be 

known) 
From that time forth did for his brows 

disown 20 

The ostentatious symbol of a crown; 
Esteeming earthly royalty 
Contemptible as vain. 

Now hear what one of elder days, 



TO DORA 



555 



Rich theme of England's fondest praise, 
Her darling Alfred, might have spoken; 
To cheer the remnant of his host 
When he was driven from coast to coast, 
Distressed and harassed, but with mind 

unbroken: 
" My faithful followers, lo ! the tide is 

spent 30 

That rose, and steadily advanced to fill 
The shores and channels, working Nature's 

will 
Among the mazy streams that backward 

went, 
And in the sluggish pools where ships are 

pent : 
And now, his task performed, the flood 

stands still, 
At the green base of many an inland hill, 
In placid beauty and sublime content ! 
Such the repose that sage and hero find; 
Such measured rest the sedulous and good 
Of humbler name; whose souls do, like 

the flood 40 

Of Ocean, press right on; or gently wind, 
Neither to be diverted nor withstood, 
Until they reach the bounds by Heaven 

assigned." 



TO DORA 

1816. 1820 

The complaint in my eyes which gave occa- 
sion to this address to my daughter first 
showed itself as a consequence of inflammation, 
caught at the top of Kirkstone, when I was 
over-heated by having carried up the ascent 
my eldest son, a lusty infant. Frequently has 
the disease recurred since, leaving my eyes in 
a state which has often prevented my reading 
for months, and makes me at this day inca- 
pable of bearing without injury any strong light 
by day or night. My acquaintance with 
books has therefore been far short of my 
wishes ; and on this account, to acknowledge 
the services daily and hourly done me by my 
family and friends, this note is written. 

" A LITTLE onward lend thy guiding hand 
To these dark steps, a little further on ! " 
— Wha* trick of memory to my voice hath 

brought 
This mournful iteration ? For though 

Time, 
The Conqueror, crowns the Conquered, on 

this brow 



Planting his favourite silver diadem, 
Nor he, nor minister of his — intent 
To run before him — hath enrolled me yet, 
Though not unmenaced, among those who 

lean 
Upon a living staff, with borrowed sight. 10 
— O my own Dora, my beloved child ! 
Should that day come — but hark ! the 

birds salute 
The cheerful dawn, brightening for me the 

east; 
For me, thy natural leader, once again 
Impatient to conduct thee, not as erst 
A tottering infant, with compliant stoop 
From flower to flower supported; but to 

curb 
Thy nymph-like step swift-bounding o'er 

the lawn, 
Along the loose rocks, or the slippery verge 
Of foaming torrents. — From thy orisons 20 
Come forth; and, while the morning air is 

yet 
Transparent as the soul of innocent youth, 
Let me, thy happy guide, now point thy 

way, 
And now precede thee, winding to and fro, 
Till we by perseverance gain the top 
Of some smooth ridge, whose brhik pre- 
cipitous 
Kindles intense desire for powers withheld 
From this corporeal frame; whereon who 

stands, 
Is seized with strong incitement to push 

forth 
His arms, as swimmers use, and plunge — 

dread thought, 30 

For pastime plunge — into the " abrupt 

abyss," — 
Where ravens spread their plumy vans, at 

ease ! 
And yet more gladly thee would I con- 
duct 
Through woods and spacious forests, — to 

behold 
There, how the Original of human art, 
Heaven-prompted Nature, measures and 

erects 
Her temples, fearless for the stately work, 
Though waves, to every breeze, its high- 
arched roof, 
And storms the pillars rock. But we such 

schools 
Of reverential awe will chiefly seek 40 

In the still summer noon, while beams of 

light, 



556 



TO 



Reposing here, and in the aisles beyond 
Traceably gliding through the dusk, re- 
call 
To mind the living presences of nuns; 
A gentle, pensive, white-robed sisterhood, 
Whose saintly radiance mitigates the gloom 
Of those terrestrial fabrics, where they 

serve, 
To Christ, the Sun of righteousness, es- 
poused. 
Now also shall the page of classic lore, 
To these glad eyes from bondage freed, 
again 50 

Lie open; and the book of Holy Writ, 
Again unfolded, passage clear shall yield 
To heights more glorious still, and into 

shades 
More awful, where, advancing hand in 

hand, 
We may be taught, O Darling of my care ! 
To calm the affections, elevate the soid, 
And consecrate our lives to truth and love. 



TO 

ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT 
OF HELVELLYN 

l8l6. 1820 

Written at Rydal Mount. The lady was 
Miss Blackett, then residing- with Mr. Montagu 
Burgoyne at Fox-Ghyll. We were tempted to 
remain too long 1 upon the mountain ; and I, im- 
prudently, with the hope of shortening the way, 
led her among the crags and down a steep 
slope which entangled us in difficulties that 
were met by her with much spirit and courage. 

Inmate of a mountain-dwelling, 
Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed 
From the watch-towers of Helvellyn; 
Awed, delighted, and amazed ! 

Potent was the spell that bound thee, 
Not unwilling to obey; 
For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee, 
Stilled the pantings of dismay. 

Lo ! the dwindled woods and meadows; 
What a vast abyss is there ! 10 

Lo ! the clouds, the solemn shadows, 
And the glistenings — heavenly fair ! 

And a record of commotion 
Which a thousand ridges yield; 



Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean 
Gleaming like a silver shield ! 

Maiden ! now take flight ; — inherit 
Alps or Andes — they are thine ! 
With the morning's roseate Spirit, 
Sweep their length of snowy line; 

Or survey their bright dominions 
In the gorgeous colours drest, 
Flung from off the purple pinions, 
Evening spreads tliroughout the west ! 

Thine are all the coral fountains 
Warbling in each sparry vaidt 
Of the untrodden lunar mountains; 
Listen to their songs ! — or halt, 

To Niphates' top invited, 
Whither spiteful Satan steered; 
Or descend where the ark alighted, 
When the green earth re-appeared; 

For the power of hills is on thee, 
As was witnessed through thine eye 
Then, when old Helveltyn won thee 
To confess their majesty ! 



VERNAL ODE 

1817. 1820 

Composed at Rydal Mount, to place in view 
the immortality of succession where immor- 
tality is denied, as far as we know, to the indi- 
vidual creature. 

Rerum Natura tota est nusquam magis quam 
minimis. — Plin. Nat. Hist. 



Beneath the concave of an April sky, 
When all the fields with freshest green 

were dight, 
Appeared, hi presence of the spiritual eye 
That aids or supersedes our grosser sight, 
The form and rich habiliments of One 
Whose countenance bore resemblance to 

the sun, 
When it reveals, in evening majesty, 
Features half lost amid their own pure 

light. 
Poised like a weary cloud, in middle air 
He hung, — then floated with angelic ease 
(Softening that bright effulgence by de- 
grees) 11 



VERNAL ODE 



557 



Till he had reached a summit sharp and 

bare, 
Where oft the venturous heifer drinks the 

noontide breeze. 
Upon the apex of that lofty cone 
Alighted, there the Stranger stood alone; 
Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the east 
Suddenly raised by some enchanter's power, 
Where nothing was; and firm as some old 

Tower 
Of Britain's realm, whose leafy crest 
Waves high, embellished by a gleaming 

shower ! 20 



Beneath the shadow of his purple wings 
Rested a golden harp; — he touched the 

strings ; 
And, after prelude of unearthly sound 
Poured through the echoing hills around, 
He sang — 

" No wintry desolations, 
Scorching blight or noxious dew, 
Affect my native habitations; 
Buried in glory, far beyond the scope 
Of man's inquiring gaze, but to his hope 
Imaged, though faintly, in the hue 30 

Profound of night's ethereal blue; 
And in the aspect of each radiant orb ; — 
Some fixed, some wandering with no timid 

curb: 
But wandering star and fixed, to mortal 

eye, 
Blended in absolute serenity, 
And free from semblance of decline ; — 
Fresh as if Evening brought their natal 

hour, 
Her darkness splendour gave, her silence 

power 
To testify of Love and Grace divine. 

in 

" What if those bright fires 40 

Shine subject to decay, 

Sons hapiy of extinguished sires, 

Themselves to lose their light, or pass away 

Like clouds before the wind, 

Be thanks poured out to Him whose hand 

bestows, 
Nightly, on human kind 
That vision of endurance and repose. 
— And though to every draught of vital 

breath 
Renewed throughout the bounds of earth or 

ocean, 



The melancholy gates of Death 50 

Respond with sympathetic motion; 

Though all that feeds on nether air, 

Howe'er magnificent or fair, 

Grows but to perish, and entrust 

Its ruins to their kindred dust; 

Yet, by the Almighty's ever-durhig care, 

Her procreant vigils Nature keeps 

Amid the unfathomable deeps; 

And saves the peopled fields of earth 

From dread of emptiness or dearth. 60 

Thus, in their stations, lifting tow'rd the 

sky 
The foliaged head in cloud-like majesty, 
The shadow-casting race of trees survive : 
Thus, in the train of Spring, arrive 
Sweet flowers; — what living eye hath 

viewed 
Their myriads ? — endlessly renewed, 
Wherever strikes the sun's glad ray; 
Where'er the subtle waters stray; 
Wherever sportive breezes bend 
Their course, or genial showers descend ! 
Mortals, rejoice ! the very Angels quit 71 
Their mansions unsusceptible of change, 
Amid your pleasant bowers to sit, 
And through your sweet vicissitudes to 

range ! " 



Oh, nursed at happy distance from the cares 
Of a too-anxious world, mild pastoral 

Muse ! 
That, to the sparkling crown Urania wears, 
And to her sister Clio's laurel wreath, 
Prefer'st a garland culled from purple 

heath, 
Or blooming thicket moist with morning 
dews ; 80 

Was such bright Spectacle vouchsafed to 

me? 
And was it granted to the simple ear 
Of thy contented Votary 
Such melody to hear ! 
Him rather suits it, side by side with thee, 
Wrapped in a fit of pleasing indolence, 
While thy tired lute hangs on the hawthorn- 
tree, 
To lie and listen — till o'er-drowsed sense 
Sinks, hardly conscious of the influence — 
To the soft murmur of the vagrant Bee. 90 
— A slender sound ! yet hoary Time 
Doth to the Soul exalt it with the chime 
Of all his years; — a company 
Of ages coming, ages gone; 



553 



ODE TO LYCORIS 



(Nations from before them sweeping, 
Regions in destruction steeping,) 
But every awful note in unison 
With that faint utterance, which tells 
Of treasure sucked from buds and bells, 
For the pure keeping of those waxen 
cells ; ioo 

Where She — a statist prudent to confer 
Upon the common weal ; a warrior bold, 
Radiant all over with unburnished gold, 
And armed with living spear for mortal 
fight; 

A cunning forager 
That spreads no waste; a social builder; 

one 
In whom all busy offices unite 
With all fine functions that afford de- 
light- 
Safe through the winter storm in quiet 
dwells ! 



And is She brought within the power no 
Of vision ? — o'er this tempting flower 
Hovering until the petals stay 
Her flight, and take its voice away ! — 
Observe each wing ! — a tiny van ! 
The structure of her laden thigh, 
How fragile ! yet of ancestry 
Mysteriously remote and high; 
High as the imperial front of man; 
•The roseate bloom on woman's cheek; 
The soaring eagle's curved beak; 120 

The white plumes of the floating swan; 
Old as the tiger's paw, the lion's mane, 
Ere shaken by that mood of stern disdain 
At which the desert trembles. — Humming 

Bee ! 
Thy sting was needless then, perchance un- 
known, 
The seeds of malice were not sown; 
All creatures met in peace, from fierceness 

free, 
And no pride blended with their dignity. 
— Tears had not broken from their source ; 
Nor Anguish strayed from her Tartarean 

den; 130 

The golden years maintained a course 
Not undiversified though smooth and even; 
We were not mocked with glimpse and 

shadow then, 
Bright Seraphs mixed familiarly with 

men; 
And earth and stars composed a universal 

heaven l 



ODE TO LYCORIS. May 1817 

1817. 1820 

The discerning - reader, who is aware that in 
the poem of Ellen Irwin I was desirous of 
throwing- the reader at once out of the old bal- 
lad, so as, if possible, to preclude a comparison 
between that mode of dealing- with the subject 
and the mode I meant to adopt — may here 
perhaps perceive that this poem originated in 
the last four lines of the first stanza. Those 
specks of snow, reflected in the lake and so 
transferred, as it were, to the subaqueous sky, 
reminded me of the swans which the fancy of 
the ancient classic poets yoked to the car of 
Venus. Hence the tenor of the whole first 
stanza, and the name of Lycoris, which — with 
some readers who think my theology and clas- 
sical allusion too far-fetched and therefore 
more or less unnatural and affected — will tend 
to unrealise the sentiment that pervades these 
verses. But surely one who has written so 
much in verse as I have done may be allowed to 
retrace his steps in the regions of fancy which 
delighted him in his boyhood, when he first 
became acquainted with the Greek and Roman 
Poets. Before I read Virgil I was so strongly 
attached to Ovid, whose Metamorphoses I read 
at school, that 1 was quite in a passion when- 
ever I found him, in books of criticism, placed 
below Virgil. As to Homer, I was never 
weary of travelling over the scenes through 
which he led me. Classical literature affected 
me by its own beaut}'. But the truths of scrip- 
ture having been entrusted to the dead lan- 
guages, and these fountains having been re- 
cently laid open at the Reformation, an impor- 
tance and a sanctity were at. that period at- 
tached to classical literature that extended, as 
is obvious in Milton's Lycidas, for example, 
both to its spirit and form in a degree that can 
never be revived. No doubt the -hackneyed 
and lifeless use into which mythology fell to- 
wards the close of the 17th century, and which 
continued through the IStli, disgusted the gen- 
eral reader with all allusion to it in modern 
verse ; and though, in deference to this disgust, 
and also in a measure participating in it, I ab- 
stained in my earlier writings from all intro- 
duction of pagan fable, surely, even in its 
humble form, it may ally itself with real senti- 
ment, as I can truly affirm it did in the present 
case. 



An age hath been when Earth was proud 

Of lustre too intense 

To be sustained; and Mortals bowed 

The front in self-defence. 

Who then, if Dian's crescent gleamed, 



TO THE SAME 



559 



Or Cupid's sparkling arrow streamed, 

While on the wing the Urchin played, 

Could fearlessly approach the shade ? 

— Enough for one soft vernal day, 

If I, a bard of ebbing time, 10 

And nurtured in a fickle clime, 

May haunt this horned bay; 

Whose amorous water multiplies 

The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes; 

And smooths her liquid breast — to show 

These swan-like specks of mountain snow, 

White as the pair that slid along the 

plains 
Of heaven, when Venus held the reins ! 



In youth we love the darksome lawn 

Brushed by the owlet's wing ; 20 

Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn, 

And Autumn to the Spring. . 

Sad fancies do we then affect, 

In luxury of disrespect 

To our own prodigal excess 

Of too familiar happmess. 

Lycoris (if such name befit 

Thee, thee my life's celestial sign !) 

When Nature marks the year's decline, 

Be ours to welcome it; 30 

Pleased with the harvest hope that runs 

Before the path of milder suns; 

Pleased while the sylvan world displays 

Its ripeness to the feeding gaze; 

Pleased when the sullen winds resound the 

knell 
Of the resplendent miracle. 



But something whispers to my heart 

That, as we downward tend, 

Lycoris ! life requires an art 

To which our soids must bend; 40 

A skill — to balance and supply ; 

And, ere the flowing fount be dry, 

As soon it must, a sense to sip, 

Or drink, with no fastidious lip. 

Then welcome, above all, the Guest 

Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea, 

Seem to recall the Deity 

Of youth into the breast: 

May pensive Autumn ne'er present 

A claim to her disparagement ! 50 

While blossoms and the budding spray 

Inspire us in our own decay; 

Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal 

Be hopeful Spring the favourite of the Soul ! 



TO THE SAME 

1S17. 1820 

This as well as the preceding 1 and the two 
that follow were composed in front of Rydal 
Mount and during- my walks in the neighbour- 
hood. Nine-tenths of my verses have been 
murmured out in the open air : and here let 
me repeat what I believe has already appeared 
in print. One day a stranger having walked 
round the garden and grounds of Rydal Mount 
asked one of the female servants, who hap- 
pened to be at the door, permission to see her 
master's study. " This," said she, leading him 
forward, " is my master's library where he 
keeps his books, but his study is out of doors." 
After a long- absence from home it has more 
than once happened that some one of my cot- 
tage neighbours has said — " Well, there he is ; 
we are glad to hear him booing about again." 
Once more, in excuse for so much egotism, let 
me say, these notes are written for my familiar 
friends, and at their earnest request. Another 
time a gentleman whom James had conducted 
through the grounds asked him what kind of 
plants throve best there : after a little consid- 
eration he answered — " Laurels." " That is," 
said the stranger, " as it should be ; don't you 
know that the laurel is the emblem of poetry, 
and that poets used on public occasions to be 
crowned with it ? " James stared when the 
question was first put, but was doubtless much 
pleased with the information. 

Enough of climbing toil ! — Ambition treads 
Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep 

and rough, 
Or slippery even to peril ! and each step, 
As we for most uncertain recompence 
Mount toward the empire of the fickle clouds, 
Each weary step, dwarfing the world below, 
Induces, for its old familiar sights, 
Unacceptable feelings of contempt, 
With wonder mixed — that Man could e'er 

be tied, 
In anxious bondage, to such nice array 10 
And formal fellowship of petty tilings ! 
— Oh ! 't is the heart that magnifies this 

life, 
Making a truth and beauty of her own; 
And moss-grown alleys, circumscribing 

shades, 
And gurgling rills, assist her in the work 
More efficaciously than realms outspread, 
As in a map, before the adventurer's gaze — ■ 
Ocean and Earth contending for regard. 
The umbrageous woods are left — how 

far beneath ! 



S 6 ° 



THE LONGEST DAY 



But lo ! where darkness seems to guard the 

mouth 20 

Of yon wild cave, whose jagged brows are 

fringed 
With flaccid threads of ivy, in the still 
And sultry air, depending motionless. 
Yet cool the space within, and not uncheered 
(As whoso enters shall ere long perceive) 
By stealthy influx of the timid day 
Mingling with night, such twilight to compose 
As Numa loved ; when, hi the Egerian grot, 
From the sage Nymph appearing at his wish, 
He gamed whate'er a regal mind might ask, 
Or need, of counsel breathed through lips 

divine. 3 1 

Long as the heat shall rage, let that dim 

cave 
Protect us, there deciphering as we may 
Diluvian records; or the sighs of Earth 
Interpreting; or counting for old Time 
His minutes, by reiterated drops, 
Audible tears, from some invisible source 
That deepens upon fancy — more and more 
Drawn toward the centre whence those 

sighs creep forth 
To awe the lightness of humanity: 40 

Or, shutting up thyself within thyself, 
There let me see thee sink into a mood 
Of gentler thought, protracted till thine eye 
Be calm as water when the winds are 

gone, 
And no one can tell whither. Dearest 

Friend ! 
We two have known such happy hours 

together 
That, were power granted to replace them 

(fetched 
From out the pensive shadows where they 

lie) 
In the first warmth of their original sun- 
Shine, 
Loth should I be to use it: passing sweet 50 
Are the domains of tender memory ! 



THE LONGEST DAY 

ADDRESSED TO MY DAUGHTER 

1817. 1820 

Suggested by the sight of my daughter 
(Dora) playing in front of Rydal Mount ; and 
composed in a great measure the same after- 
noon. I have often wished to pair this poem 
upon the longest with one upon the shortest, day, 
and regret even now that it has not been done. 



Let us quit the leafy arbour, 
And the torrent murmuring by; 
For the sun is in his harbour, 
Weary of the open sky. 

Evening now unbinds the fetters 
Fashioned by the glowing light; 
All that breathe are thankful debtors 
To the harbinger of night. 

Yet by some grave thoughts attended 
Eve renews her calm career: 10 

For the day that now is ended, 
Is the longest of the year. 

Dora ! sport, as now thou sportest, 
On this platform, light and free ; 
Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest, 
Are indifferent to thee ! 

Who would check the happy feeling 
That inspires the linnet's song ? 
Who would stop the swallow, wheeling 
On her pinions swift and strong ? 20 

Yet at this impressive season, 
Words which tenderness can speak 
From the truths of homely reason, 
Might exalt the loveliest cheek; 

And, while shades to shades succeeding 
Steal the landscape from the sight, 
I would urge this moral pleading, 
Last forerunner of " Good night ! " 

Summer ebbs ; — each day that follows 
Is a reflux from on high, 30 

Tending to the darksome hollows 
Where the frosts of winter lie. 

He who governs the creation, 
In his providence, assigned 
Such a gradual decimation 
To the life of human kind. 

Yet we mark it not; — fruits redden, 
Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have blown, 
And the heart is loth to deaden 
Hopes that she so long hath known. 40 

Be thou wiser, youthful Maiden ! 
And when thy decline shall come, 
Let not flowers, or boughs fruit-laden, 
Hide the knowledge of thy doom. 



THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE 



56i 



Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber, 
Fix thine eyes upon the sea 
That absorbs time, space, and number; 
Look thou to Eternity ! 

Follow thou the flowing river 
On whose breast are thither borne 50 

All deceived, and each deceiver, 
Through the gates of night and morn; 

Through the year's successive portals; 
Through the bounds which many a star 
Marks, not mindless of frail mortals 
When his light returns from far. 

Thus when thou with Time hast travelled 

Toward the mighty gulf of things, 

And the mazy stream unravelled 

With thy best imaginings; 60 

Think, if thou on beauty leanest, 
Think how pitiful that stay, 
Did not virtue give the meanest 
Charms superior to decay. 

Duty, like a strict preceptor, 
Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown; 
Choose her thistle for thy sceptre, 
While youth's roses are thy crown. 

Grasp it, — if thou shrink and tremble, 
Fairest damsel of the green, 70 

Thou wilt lack the only symbol 
That proclaims a genuine queen; 

And ensures those palms of honour 
Which selected spirits wear, 
Bending low before the Donor, 
Lord of heaven's unchanging year ! 



HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS 

FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS 

1817. 1820 

Bunches of fern may often be seen wheeling 1 
about in the wind as here described. The par- 
ticular bunch that suggested these verses was 
noticed in the Pass of Dunmail Raise. The 
verses werj composed in 1817, but the applica- 
tion is for all times and places. 

u Who but hails the sight with pleasure 
When the wings of genius rise, 



Their ability to measure 

With great enterprise; 
But in man was ne'er such daring 
As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing 
His brave spirit with the war in 

The stormy skies ! 

" Mark him, how his power he uses, 
Lays it by, at will resumes ! 
Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses 

Clouds and utter glooms ! 
There, he wheels in downward mazes; 
Sunward now his flight he raises, 
Catches fire, as seems, and blazes 

With uninjured plumes ! " — 



" Stranger, 't is no act of courage 
Which aloft thou dost discern; 
No bold bird gone forth to forage 

'Mid the tempest stern; 20 

But such mockery as the nations 
See, when public perturbations 
Lift men from their native stations • 

Like yon Tuft of fern; 

" Such it is; the aspiring creature 
Soaring on undaunted wing, 
(So you fancied) is by nature 

A dull helpless thing, 
Dry and withered, light and yellow ; — 
That to be the tempest's fellow ! 3c 

Wait — and you shall see how hollow 

Its endeavouring ! " 



THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE 

1817. 1820 

Written at Rydal Mount. Thoughts and 
feelings of many walks in all weathers, by day 
and night, over this Pass, alone and with be- 
loved friends. 



Within the mind strong fancies work. 
A deep delight the bosom thrills 
Oft as I pass along the fork 
Of these fraternal hills: 
Where, save the rugged road, we find 
No appanage of human kind, 
Nor hint of man ; if stone or rock 
Seem not his handywork to mock 
By something cognizably shaped; 
Mockery — or model roughly hewn, 



562 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS 



And left as if by earthquake strewn, 

Or from the Flood escaped: 

Altars for Druid service fit 

(But where no fire was ever lit, 

Unless the glow-worm to the skies 

Thence offer nightly sacrifice) ; 

Wrinkled Egyptian monument ; 

Green moss-grown tower; or hoary tent; 

Tents of a camp that never shall be razed — 

On which four thousand years have gazed! 



Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes! 21 

Ye snow-white lambs that trip 

Imprisoned 'mid the formal props 

Of restless ownership ! 

Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall 

To feed the insatiate Prodigal ! 

Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and fields, 

All that the fertile valley shields; 

Wages of folly — baits of crime, 

Of life's uneasy game the stake, 30 

Playthings that keep the eyes awake 

Of dr6wsy, dotard Time ; — - 

O care ! O guilt ! — O vales and plains, 

Here, 'mid his own unvexed domains, 

A Genius dwells, that can subdue 

At once all memory of You, — ■ 

Most potent when mists veil the sky, 

Mists that distort and magnify ; 

While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping 

breeze, 
Sigh forth their ancient melodies ! 40 



List to those shriller notes ! — that march 

Perchance was on the blast, 

When, through this Height's inverted arch, 

Rome's earliest legion passed ! 

— They saw, adventurously impelled, 

And older eyes than theirs beheld, 

This block — and yon, whose church-like 

frame 
Gives to this savage Pass its name. 
Aspiring Road ! that lov'st to hide 
Thy daring in a vapoury bourn, 50 

Not seldom may the hour return 
When thou shalt be my guide: 
And I (as all men may find cause, 
When life is at a weary pause, 
And they have panted up the hill 
Of duty with reluctant will) 
Be thankful, even though tired and faint, 
-For the rich bounties of constraint; 



Whence oft invigorating transports flow 
That choice lacked courage to bestow ! 60 



My Soul was grateful for delight 

That wore a threatening brow ; 

A veil is lifted — can she slight 

The scene that opens now ? 

Though habitation none appear, 

The greenness tells, man must be there; 

The shelter — that the perspective 

Is of the clime in which we live; 

Where Toil pursues his daily round; 

Where Pity sheds sweet tears — and Love, 

In woodbine bower or birchen grove, 71 

Inflicts his tender wound. 

— Who comes not hither ne'er shall know 

How beautiful the world below; 

Nor can he guess how lightly leaps 

The brook adown the rocky steeps. 

Farewell, thou desolate Domain ! 

Hope, pointing to the cultured plain, 

Carols like a shepherd-boy ; 

And who is she ? — Can that be Joy ! 80 

Who, with a sunbeam for her guide, 

Smoothly skims the meadows wide; 

While Faith, from yonder opening cloud, 

To hill and vale proclaims aloud, 

" Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicked 

dare, 
Thy lot, O Man, is good, thy portion, fair ! " 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF 
SCOTS 

ON THE EVE OF A NEW YEAR 

l8l 7. 1820 

This arose out of a flash of moonlight that 
struck the ground when I was approaching 
the steps that lead from the garden at Rydal 
Mount to the front of the house. " From her 
sunk eye a stagnant tear stole forth " is taken, 
with some loss, from a discarded poem, " The 
Convict," in which occurred, when he was dis- 
covered lying in the cell, these lines : — 

" But now he upraises the deep-sunken eye, 
The motion unsettles a tear ; 
The silence of sorrow it seems to supply 
And asks of me — why I am here." 



Smile of the Moon ! — for so I name 
That silent greeting from above ; 
A gentle flash of light that came 
From her whom drooping captives love; 



SEQUEL TO THE "BEGGARS," 1802 



563 



Or art thou of still higher birth ? 

Thou that didst part the clouds of earth, 

My torpor to reprove ! 



Bright boon of pitying Heaven ! — alas, 
I may not trust thy placid cheer ! 
Pondering that Time to-night will pass 
The threshold of another year; . 
For years to me are sad and dull; 
My very moments are too full 
Of hooelessness and fear. 



And yet, the soul-awakening gleam, 
That struck perchance the farthest cone 
Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem 
To visit me, and me alone ; 
Me, unapproached by any friend, 
Save those who to my sorrows lend 
Tears due unto their own. 



To-night the church-tower bells will ring 
Through these wild realms a festive peal; 
To the new year a welcoming; 
A tuneful offering for the weal 
Of happy millions lulled in sleep; 
While I am forced to watch and weep, 
By wounds that may not heal. 



Born all too high, by wedlock raised 
Still higher — to be cast thus low ! 30 

Would that mine eyes had never gazed 
On aught of more ambitious show 
Than the sweet flowerets of the fields 
— It is my royal state that yields 
This bitterness of woe. 



Yet how ? — for I, if there be truth 
In the world's voice, was passing fair; 
And beauty, for confiding youth, 
Those shocks of passion can prepare 
That kill the bloom before its time ; 40 

And blanch, without the owner's crime, 
The most resplendent hair. 



Unblest distinction ! showered on me 
To bind a lingering life in chains: 
All that coidd quit my grasp, or flee, 
Is gone ; — but not the subtle stains 
Fixed in the spirit; for even here 



Can I be proud that jealous fear 
Of what I was remains. 



A Woman rules my prison's key; 
A sister Queen, against the bent 
Of law and holiest sympathy, 
Detains me, doubtful of the event; 
Great God, who feel'st for my distress, 
My thoughts are all that I possess, 
O keep them innocent ! 



Farewell desire of human aid, 

Which abject mortals vainly court ! 

By friends deceived, by foes betrayed, 

Of fears the prey, of hopes the sport; 60 

Nought but the world-redeeming Cross 

Is able to supply my loss, 

My burthen to support. 



Hark ! the death-note of the year 
Sounded by the castle-clock ! 
From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear 
Stole forth, unsettled by the shock; 
But oft the woods renewed their green, 
Ere the tired head of Scotland's Queen 
Reposed upon the block ! 



SEQUEL TO THE " BEGGARS," 1802 

COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER 
1817. 1827 

Where are they now, those wanton Boys ? 
For whose free range the daedal earth 
Was filled with animated toys, 
And implements of frolic mirth; 
With tools for ready wit to guide; 
And ornaments of seemlier pride, 
More fresh, more bright, than princes wear; 
For what one moment flung aside, 
Another could repair; 

What good or evil have they seen 10 

Since I their pastime witnessed here, 
Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer ? 
I ask — but all is dark between ! 
They met me in a genial hour, 
When universal nature breathed 
As with the breath of one sweet flower, — 
A time to override the power 
Of discontent, and check the birth 
Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife, 



5 6 4 



THE PILGRIM'S DREAM 



The most familiar bane of life 20 

Since parting Innocence bequeathed 
Mortality to Earth ! 
Soft clouds, the whitest of the year, 
. Sailed through the sky — the brooks ran clear ; 
The lambs from rock to rock were bounding; 
With songs the budded groves resounding; 
And to my heart are still endeared 
The tho\ights with which it then was cheered ; 
The faith which saw that gladsome pair 
Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. 
Or, if such faith must needs deceive — 3 1 
Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace, 
Associates hi that eager chase; 
Ye, who within the blameless mind 
Your favourite seat of empire find — 
Kind Spirits ! may we not believe 
That they, so happy and so fair 
Through your sweet influence, and the care 
Of pitying Heaven, at least were free 
From, touch of deadly injury ? 40 

Destined whate'er their earthly doom, 
For mercy and immortal bloom ! 



THE PILGRIM'S DREAM 

OR,* THE STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM 

1818. 1820 

I distinctly recollect the evening 1 when these 
verses were suggested in 1818. It was on the 
road between Rydal and Grasmere, where Glow- 
worms abound. A Star was shining above the 
ridge of Loughrigg Fell, just opposite. I re- 
member a critic, in some review or other, crying- 
out against this piece. " What so monstrous," 
said he, " as to make a star talk to a glow- 
worm ! " Poor fellow ! we know from this 
sage observation what the " j:>rimrose on the 
river's brim was to him." 

A Pilgrim, when the summer day 

Had closed upon his weary way, 

A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof; 

But him the haughty Warder spurned; 

And from the gate the Pilgrim turned, 

To seek such covert as the field 

Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield, 

Or lofty wood, shower-proof. 

He paced along; and, pensively, 

Halting beneath a shady tree, 10 

Whose moss-grown root might serve for 

couch or seat, 
Fixed on a Star his upward eye; 
Then, from the tenant of the sky 



He turned, and watched with kindred look, 
A Glow-worm, in a dusky nook, 
Apparent at his feet. 

The murmur of a neighbouring stream 

Induced a soft and slumbrous dream, 

A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy 

bounds 
He recognised the earth-born Star, 20 

And That which glittered from afar; 
And (strange to witness !) from the frame 
Of the ethereal Orb, there came 
Intelligible sounds. 

Much did it taunt the humble Light 
That now, when day was fled, and night 
Hushed the dark earth, fast closing weary 

eyes, 
A very reptile could presume 
To show her taper in the gloom, 
As if in rivalship with One 30 

Who sate a ruler on his throne 
Erected in the skies. 

" Exalted Star ! " the Worm replied, 
" Abate this unbecoming pride, 
Or with a less uneasy lustre shine; 
Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays 
Are mastered by the breathing haze; 
While neither mist, nor thickest cloud 
That shapes in heaven its murky shroud, 
Hath power to injure miae. 40 

But not for this do I aspire 

To match the spark of local fire, 

That at my will burns on the dewy lawn, 

With thy acknowledged glories ; — No ! 

Yet, thus upbraided, I may show 

What favours do attend me here, 

Till, like thyself, I disappear 

Before the purple dawn." 

When this in modest guise was said, 
Across the welkin seemed to spread 50 

A bodhig sound — for aught but sleep unfit ! 
Hills quaked, the rivers backward ran; 
That Star, so proud of late, looked wan; 
And reeled with visionary stir 
In the blue depth, like Lucifer 
Cast headlong to the pit ! 

Fire raged: and, when the spangled floor 
Of ancient ether was no more, 
New heavens succeeded, by the dream 
brought forth: 



INSCRIPTIONS 



565 



And all the happy Souls that rode 60 

Transfigured through that fresh abode, 
Had heretofore, in humble trust, 
Shone meekly 'mid their native dust, 
The Glow-worms of the earth ! 

This knowledge, from an Angel's voice 
Proceeding, made the heart rejoice 
Of Him who slept upon the open lea: 
Waking at morn he murmured not; 
And, till life's journey closed, the spot 
Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared, 70 

Where by that dream he had been cheered 
Beneath the shady tree. 



INSCRIPTIONS 

SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR A 

hermit's CELL 

1818. I820 



Hopes, what are they ? — Beads of morning 

Strung on slender blades of grass; 

Or a spider's web adorning 

In a strait and treacherous pass. 

What are fears but voices airy ? 
Whispering harm where harm is not; 
And deluding the unwary 
Till the fatal bolt is shot ! 

What is glory ? — in the socket 
See how dying tapers fare ! 10 

What is pride ? — a whizzing rocket 
That would emulate a star. 

What is friendship ? — do not trust her, 
Nor the vows which she has made; 
Diamonds dart their brightest lustre 
From a palsy-shaken head. 

What is truth ? — a staff rejected ; 

Duty ? — an unwelcome clog; 

Joy ? — a moon by fits reflected 

In a swamp or watery bog; 20 

Bright, as if through ether steering, 
To the Traveller's eye it shone : 
He hath hailed it re-appearing — 
And as quickly it is gone; 

Such is Joy — as quickly hidden, 
Or mis-shapen to the sight, 



And by sullen weeds forbidden 
To resume its native light. 

What is youth ? — a dancing billow, 
(Winds behind, and rocks before !) 
Age ? — a drooping, tottering willow 
On a flat and lazy shore. 

What is peace ? — when pain is over, 
And love ceases to rebel, 
Let the last faint sigh discover 
That precedes the passing knell ! 



INSCRIBED UPON A ROCK 

The monument of ice here spoken of I ob- 
served while ascending 1 the middle road of the 
three ways that lead from Rydal to Grasmere. 
It was on my right hand, and my eyes were 
upon it when it fell, as told in these lines. 

Pause, Traveller '. whosoe'er thou be 
Whom chance may lead to this retreat, 
Where silence yields reluctantly 
Even to the fleecy straggler's bleat; 

Give voice to what my hand shall trace, 
And fear not lest an idle sound 
Of words unsuited to the place 
Disturb its solitude profound. 

I saw this Rock, while vernal air 
Blew softly o'er the russet heath, 
Uphold a Monument as fair 
As church or abbey furnisheth. 

Unsullied did it meet the day, 
Like marble, white, like ether, pure; 
As if, beneath, some hero lay, 
Honoured with costliest sepulture. 

My fancy kindled as I gazed; 
And, ever as the sun shone forth, 
The flattered structure glistened, blazed, 
And seemed the proudest thing on earth 

But frost had reared the gorgeous Pile 
Unsoimd as those which Fortune builds 1* 
To undermine with secret guile, 
Sapped by the very beam that gilds. 

And, while I gazed, with sudden shock 
Fell the whole Fabric to the ground; 
And naked left this dripping Rock, 
With shapeless ruin spread around ! 



566 UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDINARY SPLENDOUR 



Where the second quarry now is, as yon pass 
from Kydal to Grasmere, there was formerly 
a length of smooth rock that sloped towards 
the road, on the right hand. I used to call it 
Tadpole Slope, from having' frequently ob- 
served there the water-bubbles gliding under 
the ice, exactly in the shape of that creature. 

Hast thou seen, with flash incessant, 
Bubbles gliding under ice, 
Bodied forth and evanescent, 
No one knows by what device ? 

Such are thoughts ! — A wind-swept mea- 
dow 
Mimicking a troubled sea, 
Such is life; and death a shadow 
From the rock eternity ! 



NEAR THE SPRING OF THE HERMITAGE 

Troubled long with warring notions, 
Long impatient of thy rod, 
I resign my soul's emotions 
Unto Thee, mysterious God ! 

What avails the kindly shelter 
Yielded by this craggy rent, 
If my spirit toss and welter 
On the waves of discontent ? 

Parching Summer hath no warrant 
To consume this crystal Well; 
Rains, that make each rill a torrent, 
Neither sully it nor swell. 

Thus, dishonouring not her station, 
Would my Life present to Thee, 
Gracious God, the pure oblation 
Of divine tranquillity ! 



Not seldom, clad in radiant vest, 
Deceitfully goes forth the Morn; 
Not seldom Evening in the west 
Sinks smilingly forsworn. 

The smoothest seas will sometimes prove, 
To the confiding Bark, untrue; 
And, if she trust the stars above, 
They can be treacherous too. 

The umbrageous Oak, in pomp outspread 
Full oft, when storms the welkin rend, 



Draws lightning down upon the head 
It promised to defend. 

But Thou art true, incarnate Lord, 
Who didst vouchsafe for man to die; 
Thy smile is sure, thy plighted word 
No change can falsify ! 

I bent before thy gracious throne, 
And asked for peace on suppliant knee; 
And peace was given, — nor peace alone, 
But faith sublimed to ecstasy ! 



COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING 
OF EXTRAORDINARY SPLEN- 
DOUR AND BEAUTY 

1818. 1820 

Felt, and in a great measure composed upon 
the little mount in front of our abode at Rydal. 
In concluding my notices of this class of poems 
it may be as well to observe that among the 
" Miscellaneous Sonnets " are a few alluding 
to morning impressions which might be read 
with mutual benefit in connection with these 
" Evening Voluntaries." See, for example, 
that one on Westminster Bridge, that composed 
on a May morning, the one on the song of the 
Thrush, and that beginning — " While beams 
of orient light shoot wide and high." 



Had this effulgence disappeared 

With flying haste, I might have sent, 

Among the speechless clouds, a look 

Of blank astonishment; 

But 't is endued with power to stay, 

And sanctify one closing day, 

That frail Mortality may see — 

What is ? — ah no, but what can be ! 

Time was when field and watery cove 

With modulated echoes rang, 10 

While choirs of fervent Angels sang 

Their vespers in the grove ; 

Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign 

height, 
Warbled, for heaven above and earth be- 
low, 
Strains suitable to both. — Such holy rite, 
Methinks, if audibly repeated now 
From hill or valley, could not move 
Sublimer transport, purer love, 
Than doth this silent spectacle — the 

gleam — 
The shadow — and the peace supreme ! 20 



SUGGESTED BY MR. W. WESTALL'S VIEWS 



567 



No sound is uttered, — but a deep 

And solemn harmony pervades 

The hollow vale from steep to steep, 

And penetrates the glades. 

Far-distant images draw nigh, 

Called forth by wondrous potency 

Of beamy radiance, that imbues, 

Whate'§r it strikes, with gem-like hues ! 

In vision exquisitely clear, 

Herds range along the mountain side; 30 

And glistening antlers are descried; 

And gilded flocks appear. 

Thine is the tranquil hour, purpurea! Eve ! 

But long as god-like wish, or hope divine, 

Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe 

That this magnificence is wholly thine ! 

— From worlds not quickened by the sun 

A portion of the gift is won; 

An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is 

spread 
On ground which British shepherds tread ! 



And, if there be whom broken ties 41 

Afflict, or injuries assail, 

Yon hazy ridges to their eyes 

Present a glorious scale, 

Climbing suffused with sunny air, 

To stop — no record hath told where ! 

And tempting Fancy to ascend, 

And with immortal Spirits blend ! 

— Wings at my shoulders seem to play; 

But, rooted here, I stand and gaze 50 

On those bright steps that heavenward raise 

Their practicable way. 

Come forth, ye drooping old men, look 

abroad, 
And see to what fair countries ye are bound ! 
And if some traveller, weary of his road, 
Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy 

ground, 
Ye Genii ! to his covert speed; 
And wake him with such gentle heed 
As may attune his soul to meet the dower 
Bestowed on this transcendent hour ! 60 



Such hues from their celestial Urn 
Were wont to stream before mine eye, 
Where'er it wandered hi the morn 
Of blissful infancy. 
This glimpse of glory, why renewed ? 
Nay, rather speak with gratitude; 



For, if a vestige of those gleams 
Survived, 't was only in my dreams. 
Dread Power ! whom peace and calmness 

serve 
No less than Nature's threatening voice, 70 
If aught unworthy be my choice, 
From Thee if I would swerve; 
Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light 
Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored; 
Which, at this moment, on my waking sight 
Appears to shine, by miracle restored; 
My soul, though yet confined to earth, 
Rejoices in a second birth ! 
— 'T is past, the visionary splendour fades; 
And night approaches with her shades. So 



COMPOSED DURING A STORM 

1S19. 1S19 

Written in Rydal Woods, by the side of a 
torrent. 

One who was suffering tumult in his soul, 
Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, 
Went forth — his course surrendering to the 

care 
Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings 

prowl 
Insidiously, untimely thunders growl; 
While trees, dim-seen, hi frenzied numbers, 

tear 
The lingering remnant of their yellow hair, 
And shivering wolves, surprised with dark- 
ness, howl 
As if the sun were not. He raised his eye 
Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did appear 
Large space ('mid dreadful clouds) of pur- 
est sky, 
An azure disc — shield of Tranquillity; 
Invisible, unlooked-for, minister 
Of providential goodness ever nigh ! 



THIS, AND THE TWO FOLLOW- 
ING, WERE SUGGESTED BY MR. 
W. WESTALL'S VIEWS OF THE 
CAVES, ETC., IN YORKSHIRE 

1819. 1819 

Pure element of waters ! wheresoe'er 
Thou dost forsake thy subterranean haunts t 
Green herbs, bright flowers, and berry- 
bearing plants, 



5 68 



"AERIAL ROCK — WHOSE SOLITARY BROW" 



Rise into life and in thy train appear: 
And, through the sunny portion of the year, 
Swift insects shine, thy hovering pursui- 
vants : 
And, if thy bounty fail, the forest pants ; 
And hart and hind and hunter with his 

spear, 
Languish and droop together. Nor unfelt 
In man's perturbed soul thy sway benign; 
And, haply, far within the marble belt 
Of central earth, where tortured Spirits 

pine 
For grace and goodness lost, thy murmurs 

melt 
Their anguish, — and they blend sweet 
songs with thine. 

MALHAM COVE 

1819. 1819 

Was the aim frustrated by force or guile, 
When giants scooped from out the rocky 

ground, 
Tier under tier, this semicirque profound ? 
(Giants — the same who built in Erin's isle 
That Causeway with incomparable toil !) — 
Oh, had this vast theatric structure wound 
With finished sweep into a perfect round, 
No mightier work had gained the plausive 

smile 
Of all-beholding Phoebus ! But, alas, 
Vain earth ! false world ! Foundations 

must be laid 
In Heaven; for, 'mid the wreck of is and 

WAS, 

Things incomplete and purposes betrayed 
Make sadder transits o'er thought's optic 

glass 
Than noblest objects utterly decayed. 

GORDALE 

1819. 1819 

At early dawn, or rather when the air 
Glimmers with fading light, and shadowy 

Eve 
Is busiest to confer and to bereave; 
Then, pensive Votary ! let thy feet repair 
To Gordale-chasm, terrific as the lair 
Where the young lions couch; for so, by 

leave 
Of the propitious hour, thou may'st per- 
ceive 
The local Deity, with oozy, hair 
And mineral crown, beside his jagged urn, 



Recumbent: him thou may'st behold, who 

hides 
His lineaments by day, yet there presides, 
Teaching the docile waters how to turn, 
Or (if need be) impediment to spurn, 
And force their passage to the salt-sea 

tides ! 



"AERIAL ROCK — WHOSE 
SOLITARY BROW" 

1819. 1819 

A projecting point of Loughrigg, nearly in 
front of Rydal Mount. Thence looking at it, 
you are struck with the boldness of its aspect ; 
but walking under it, you admire the beauty of 
its details. It is vulgarly called Holme-scar, 
probably from the insulated pasture by the 
waterside below it. 

Aerial Rock — whose solitary brow 
From this low threshold daily meets my 

sight, 
When I step forth to hail the morning light, 
Or quit the stars with a lingering farewell 

— how 
Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vow ? 
How, with the Muse's aid, her love attest ? 
— By planting on thy naked head the crest 
Of an imperial Castle, which the plough 
Of ruin shall not touch. Innocent scheme ! 
That doth presume no more than to supply 
A grace the sinuous vale and roaring stream 
Want, through neglect of hoar Antiquity. 
Rise, then, ye votive Towers ! and catch a 

gleam 
Of golden sunset, ere it fade and die. 



THE WILD DUCK'S NEST 
1819. 1819 

I observed this beautiful nest on the largest 
island of Rydal Water. 

The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king 
Owns not a sylvan bower ; or gorgeous cell 
With emerald floored, and with purpureal 

shell 
Ceilinged and roofed; that is so fair a thing 
As this low structure, for the tasks of 

Spring, 
Prepared by one who loves the buoyant 

swell 
Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to 

dwell; 



ON SEEING A TUFT OF SNOWDROPS IN A STORM 569 



And spreads in steadfast peace her brood- 
ing wing. 

Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew- 
tree bough, 

And dimly-gleaming Nest, — a hollow 
crown 

Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down, 

Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow: 

I gazed — and, self -accused while gazing, 
sighed 

For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous 
pride ! 



WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF 
IN "THE COMPLETE ANGLER" 

1819. 1819 

While flowing rivers yield a blameless 

sport, 
Shall live the name of Walton: Sage be- 
nign ! 
Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line 
Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort 
To reverend watching of each still report 
That Nature utters from her rural shrine. 
Meek, nobly versed hi simple discipline, 
He found the longest summer day too short, 
To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee, 
Or down the tempting maze of Shawford 

brook — - 
Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book, 
The cowslip-bank and shady willow-tree; 
And the fresh meads — where flowed, from 

every nook 
Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety ! 



CAPTIVITY— MARY .QUEEN OF 
SCOTS 

1819. 1819 

" As the cold aspect of a sunless way 
Strikes through the Traveller's frame with 

deadlier chill, 
Oft as appears a grove, or obvious hill, 
Glistening with unparticipated ray, 
Or shining slope where he must never stray ; 
So joys, remembered without wish or will 
Sharpen the keenest edge of present ill, — 
On the crushed heart a heavier burthen lay. 
Just Heaven, contract the compass of my 

mind 



To fit proportion with my altered state ! 
Quench those felicities whose light I find 
Reflected in my bosom all too late ! — 
O be my spirit, like my thraldom, strait; 
And, like mine eyes that stream with sor- 
row, blind ! " 



TO A SNOWDROP 

1819. 1819 

Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and 

white as they 
But hardier far, once more I see thee bend 
Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, 
Like an unbidden guest. Though day by 

day, 
Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, 

m waylay 
The rising sun, and on the plains descend; 
Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend 
Whose zeal outruns his promise ! Blue- 
eyed May 
Shall soon behold this border thickly set 
With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing 
On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers; 
Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, 
Chaste Snowdrop, venturous harbinger of 

Spring, 
And pensive monitor of fleeting years ! 



ON SEEING A TUFT OF SNOW- 
DROPS IN A STORM 

1819. 1820 

When haughty expectations prostrate lie, 

And grandeur crouches like a gtidty thing, 

Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring 

Mature release, in fair society 

Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try; 

Like these frail snowdrops that together 
clingy 

And nod their helmets, smitten by the wing 

Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by. 

Observe the faithful flowers ! if small to 
great 

May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used 
to stand 

The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate; 

And so the bright immortal Theban band, 

Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's com- 
mand, 

Might overwhelm, but could not separate ! 



57° 



TO THE RIVER DERWENT 



TO THE RIVER DERWENT 
1819. 1819 

Among the mountains -were we nursed, 

loved Stream, 
Thou near the eagle's nest — within brief 

sail, 
I, of his bold wing floating on the gale, 
Where thy deep voice could lull me ! Faint 

the beam 
Of human life when first allowed to gleam 
On mortal notice. — Glory of the vale, 
Such thy meek outset, with a crown, though 

frail, 
Kept hi perpetual verdure by the steam 
Of thy soft breath ! — Less vivid wreath 

entwined 
Nemsean victor's brow; less bright was 

worn, 
Meed of some Roman chief — in triumph 

borne 
With captives chained ; and shedding from 

his car 
The sunset splendours of a finished war 
Upon the proud enslavers of mankind ! 



COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE 
VALLEYS OF WESTMORE- 
LAND, ON EASTER SUNDAY 

1819. 1819 

With each recurrence of this glorious 
morn 

That saw the Saviour in his human frame 

Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage- 
dame 

Put on fresh raiment — till that hour un- 
worn: 

Domestic hands the home-bred wool had 
shorn, 

And she who span it culled the daintiest 
fleece, 

In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of 
Peace, 

Whose temples bled beneath the platted 
thorn. 

A blest estate when piety sublime 

These humble props disdained not ! O 
green dales ! 

Sad may i" be who heard your sabbath 
chime 

When Art's abused inventions were un- 
known; 



Kind Nature's various wealth was all your 

own; 
And benefits were weighed in Reason's 

scales ! 



"GRIEF, THOU HAST LOST AN 
EVER-READY FRIEND" 

1819. 1819 

I could write a treatise of lamentation upon 
the changes brought about among- the cottages 
of Westmoreland by the silence of the spinning- 
wheel. During long winter nights and wet 
days, the wheel upon which wool was spun 
gave employment to a great part of a family. 
The old man, however infirm, was able to card 
the wool, as he sate in the corner by the fire- 
side ; and often, when a boy, have I admired 
the cylinders of carded wool which were softly 
laid upon each other by his side. Two wheels 
were often at work on the same floor ; and 
others of the family, chiefly little children, 
were occupied in teasing and cleaning the wool 
to fit it for the hand of the carder. So that all, 
except the smallest infants, were contributing 
to mutual support. Such was the employment 
that prevailed in the pastoral vales. Where 
wool was not at hand, in the small rural towns, 
the wheel for spinning flax was almost in as 
constant use, if knitting was not preferred ; 
which latter occupation has the advantage (in 
some cases disadvantage) that, not being of 
necessity stationary, it allowed of gossiping 
about from house to house, which good house- 
wives reckoned an idle thing. 

Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready friend 
Now that the cottage Spinning-wheel is 

mute; 
And Care — a comforter that best could 

suit 
Her froward mood, and sof tliest reprehend ; 
And Love — a charmer's voice, that used to 

lend, 
More efficaciously than aught that flows 
From harp or lute, kind influence to com- 
pose 
The throbbing pulse — else troubled with- 
out end: 
Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and 

rest 
From her own overflow, what power sedate 
On those revolving motions did await 
Assiduously — to soothe her aching breast; 
And, to a point of just relief, abate 
The mantling triumphs of a day too blest. 



THE HAUNTED TREE 



S7i 



"I WATCH, AND LONG HAVE 
WATCHED, WITH CALM RE- 
GRET" 

1S19. 1819 

Suggested in front of Rydal Mount, the 
rocky parapet being the summit of Loughrigg 
Fell opposite. Not once only, but a hundred 
times, have the feelings of this Sonnet been 
awakened by the same objects seen from the 
same place. 

I watch, and long have watched, with 

calm regret 
'Yon slowly-sinking star — immortal Sire 
(So might he seem) of all the glittering 

quire ! 
Blue ether still surroimds him — yet — and 

yet; 
But now the horizon's rocky parapet 
Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright 

attire, 
He burns — transmuted to a dusky fire — 
Then pays submissively the appointed debt 
To the flying moments, and is seen no 

more. 
Angels and gods ! We struggle with our 

fate, 
While health, power, glory, from their 

height decline, 
Depressed; and then extinguished; and 

our state, 
In this, how different, lost Star, from thine, 
That no to-morrow shall our beams restore ! 



"I HEARD (ALAS j 'TWAS ONLY 
IN A DREAM)" 

1819. 1819 

I heard (alas ! 't was only in a dream) 
Strains — ■ which, as sage Antiquity believed, 
By waking ears have sometimes been re- 
ceived 
Wafted adown the wind from lake or 

stream ; 
A most melodious requiem, a supreme 
And perfect harmony of notes, achieved 
By a fair Swan on drowsy billows heaved, 
O'er which her pinions shed a silver gleam. 
For is she not the votary of Apollo ? 
And knows she not, singing as he inspires, 
That bliss awaits her which the ungenial 

Hollow 
Of the dull earth partakes not, nor desires ? 



Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal 

quires ! 
She soared — and I awoke, struggling in 

vain to follow. 



THE HAUNTED TREE 

TO 

1819. 1S2O 

This tree grew in the park of Rydal, and I 
have often listened to its creaking as described. 

Those silver clouds collected round the sun 
His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming 

less 
To overshade than multiply his beams 
By soft reflection — grateful to the sky, 
To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our hu- 
man sense 
Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy 
More ample than the time-dismantled Oak 
Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, 

attired 
In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords 
Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use 10 
Was fashioned; whether, by the hand of 

Art, 
That eastern Sultan, amid flowers en- 
wrought 
On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs 
In languor; or, by Nature, for repose 
Of panting Wood-nymph, wearied with the 

chase. 
O Lady ! fairer in thy Poet's sight 
Than fairest spiritual creature of the 

groves, 
Approach; — and, thus invited, crown with 

rest 
The noon-tide hour: though truly some 

there are 
Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid 20 
This venerable Tree; for, when the wind 
Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking 

sound 
(Above the general roar of woods and 

crags) 
Distinctly heard from far — a doleful note ! 
As if (so Grecian shepherds would have 

deemed) 
The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed 
Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved, 
By ruder fancy, that a troubled ghost 
Haunts the old trunk; lamenting deeds of 

which 



57 2 



SEPTEMBER 1819 



The flowery ground is conscious. But no 
wind 30 

Sweeps now along this elevated ridge; 
Not even a zephyr stirs ; — the obnoxious 

Tree 
Is mute; and, in his silence, would look 

down, 
O lovely Wanderer of the trackless hills, 
On thy reclining form with more delight 
Than his coevals in the sheltered vale 
Seem to participate, the while they view 
Their own far-stretching arms and leafy 

heads 
Vividly pictured in some glassy pool, 
That, for a brief space, checks the hurry- 
ing stream ! 40 



SEPTEMBER 1819 

1819. 1820 

The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields 
Are hung, as if with golden shields, 
Bright trophies of the sun ! 
Like a fair sister of the sky, 
Unruffled doth the blue lake lie, 
The mountains looking on. 

And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove, 

Albeit uninspired by love, 

By love untaught to ring, 

May well afford to mortal ear 10 

An impulse more profoundly dear 

Than music of the Spring. 

For that from turbulence and heat 
Proceeds, from some uneasy seat 
In nature's struggling frame, 
Some region of impatient life: 
And jealousy, and quivering strife, 
Therein a portion claim. 

This, this is holy; — while I hear 

These vespers of another year, ao 

This hymn of thanks and praise, 

My spirit seems to mount above 

The anxieties of human love, 

And earth's precarious days. 

But list ! — though winter storms be nigh, 

Unchecked is that soft harmony: 

There lives Who can provide 

For all his creatures; and in Him, 

Even like the radiant Seraphim, 

These choristers confide. 30 



UPON THE SAME OCCASION 

1819. 1820 

Departing summer hath assumed 
An aspect tenderly illumed, 
The gentlest look of spring; 
That calls from yonder leafy shade 
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, 
A timely carolling. 

No faint and hesitating trill, 

Such tribute as to winter chill 

The lonely redbreast pays ! 

Clear, loud, and lively is the din, 10 

From social warblers gathering in 

Their harvest of sweet lays. 

Nor doth the example fail to cheer 

Me, conscious that my leaf is sere, 

And yellow on the bough: — 

Fall, rosy garlands, from my head ! 

Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed 

Around a younger brow ! 

Yet will I temperately rejoice; 

Wide is the range, and free the choice 20 

Of undiscordant themes; 

Which, haply, kindred souls may prize 

Not less than vernal ecstasies, 

And passion's feverish dreams. 

For deathless powers to verse belong, 
And they like Demi-gods are strong 
On whom the Muses smile; 
But some their function have disclaimed, 
Best pleased with what is aptliest framed 
To enervate and defile. 30 

Not such the initiatory strains 

Committed to the silent plains 

In Britain's earliest dawn: 

Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, 

While all-too-daringly the veil 

Of nature was withdrawn ! 

Nor such the spirit-stirring note 

When the live chords Alcseus smote, 

Inflamed by sense of wrong; 

Woe ! woe to Tyrants ! from the lyre 40 

Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire 

Of fierce vindictive song. 

And not unhallowed was the page 
By winged Love inscribed, to assuage 
The pangs of vain pursuit; 



ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY (GEORGE THE THIRD) 573 



Love listening while the Lesbian Maid 
With finest touch of passion swayed 
Her own iEolian lute. 

O ye, who patiently explore 
The wreck of Herculanean lore, 
What rapture ! could ye seize 
Some Theban fragment, or unroll 
One precious, tender-hearted, scroll 
Of pure Simonides. 

That were, indeed, a genuine birth 
Of poesy; a bursting forth 
Of genius from the dust: 
What Horace gloried to behold, 
What Maro loved, shall we enfold ? 
Can haughty Time be just ! 



"THERE IS A LITTLE UNPRE- 
TENDING RILL" 

1820. 1820 

This Rill trickles clown the hill-side into 
Windermere, near Lowwood. My sister and 
I, on our first visit together to this part of the 
country, walked from Kendal, and we rested 
to refresh ourselves by the side of the lake 
where the streamlet falls into it. This sonnet 
was written some years after in recollection of 
that happy ramble, that most happy day and 
hour. 

There is a little unpretending Rill 
Of limpid water, humbler far than aught 
That ever among Men or Naiads sought 
Notice or name ! — It quivers down the 

hill, 
Furrowing its shallow way with dubious 

will; 
Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is 

brought 
Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a 

thought 
Of private recollection sweet and still ! 
Months perish with their moons; year 

treads on year ! 
But, faithful Emma ! thou with me canst 

say 
That, while ten thousand pleasures disap- 
pear, 
And flies their memory fast almost as 

.. they; 
The immortal Spirit of one happy day 
Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear. 



COMPOSED ON THE BANKS OF 
A ROCKY STREAM 

1820. 1820 

Dogmatic Teachers, of the snow-white 

fur! 
Ye wrangling Schoolmen, of the scarlet 

hood! 
Who, with a keenness not to be withstood, 
Press the point home, or falter and demur, 
Checked in your course by many a teasing 

burr ; 
These natural council-seats your acrid blood 
Might cool; — and, as the Genius of the 

flood 
Stoops willingly to animate and spur 
Each lighter function slumbering in the 

brain, 
Yon eddying balls of foam, these arrowy 

gleams 
That o'er the pavement of the surging 

streams 
Welter and flash, a synod might detain 
With subtle speculations, haply vain, 
But surely less so than your far-fetched 

themes ! 



ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY 
(GEORGE THE THIRD) 

1820. 1820 

Ward of the Law ! — dread Shadow of a 

King ! 
Whose realm had dwindled to one stately 

room ; 
Whose universe was gloom immersed in 

gloom, 
Darkness as thick as life o'er life could fling, 
Save haply for some feeble glimmering 
Of Faith and Hope — if thou, by nature's 

doom, 
Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb, 
Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow 

cling, 
When thankfulness were best ? — Fresh- 
flowing tears, 
Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding 

sigh, 
Yield to such after-thought the sole reply 
Which justly it can claim. The Nation 

hears 
In this deep knell, silent for threescore 

years, 
An unexampled voice of awful memory ! 



574 "THE STARS ARE MANSIONS BUILT BY NATURE'S HAND" 



"THE STARS ARE MANSIONS 
BUILT BY NATURE'S HAND" 

1820. 1820 

The stars are mansions built by Nature's 

hand, 
And, haply, there the spirits of the blest 
Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal 

vest; 
Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand, 
A habitation marvellously planned, 
For life to occupy in love and rest; 
All that we see — is dome, or vault, or nest, 
Or fortress, reared at Nature's sage com- 
mand. 
Glad thought for every season ! but the 

Spring 
Gave it while cares were weighing on my 

heart, 
'Mid song of birds, and insects murmur- 
ing ; 
And while the youthful year's prolific art — 
Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower — was 

fashioning 
Abodes where self -disturbance hath no part. 



TO THE LADY MARY LOWTHER 

1820. 1820 

With a selection from the Poems of Anne, 
Countess of Winchilsea ; and extracts of similar 
character from other Writers ; transcribed by 
a female friend. 

Lady ! I rifled a Parnassian Cave 

(But seldom trod) of mildly-gleaming ore; 

And culled, from sundry beds, a lucid 

store 
Of genuine crystals, pure as those that pave 
The azure brooks, where Dian joys to lave 
Her spotless limbs ; and ventured to explore 
Dim shades — for reliques, upon Lethe's 

shore, 
Cast up at random by the sullen wave. 
To female hands the treasures were re- 
signed ; 
And lo this Work ! — a grotto bright and 

clear 
From stain or taint; in which thy blameless 

mind 
May feed on thoughts though pensive not 

austere ; 
Or, if thy deeper spirit be inclined 
To holy musing, it may enter here. 



ON THE DETRACTION WHICH 
FOLLOWED THE PUBLICATION 
OF A CERTAIN POEM 

1820. 1820 

See Milton's Sonnet, beginning, " A Book 
was writ of late called ' Tetrachordon.' " 

A Book came forth of late, called Peter 

Bell; 
Not negligent the style ; — the matter ? — 

good 
As aught that song records of Robin Hood; 
Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish 

dell; 
But some (who brook those hackneyed 

themes full well, 
Nor heat, at Tam o' Shanter's name, their 

blood) 
Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy 

brood, 
On Bard and Hero clamorously fell. 
Heed not, wild Rover once through heath 

and glen, 
Who mad'st at length the better life thy 

choice, 
Heed not such onset ! nay, if praise of men 
To thee appear not an unmeaning voice, 
Lift up that grey-haired forehead, and rejoice 
In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen ! 



OXFORD, May 30, 1820 
1820. 1820 

Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth ! 

In whose collegiate shelter England's 
Flowers 

Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours 

The air of liberty, the light of truth; 

Much have ye suffered from Time's gnaw- 
ing tooth: 

Yet, O ye spires of Oxford ! domes and 
towers ! . 

Gardens and groves ! your presence over- 
powers 

The soberness of reason; till, in sooth, 

Transformed, and rushing on a bold ex- 
change, 

I slight my own beloved Cam, to range 

Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet; 

Pace the long avenue, or glide adown 

The stream-like windings of that glorious 
street — 

An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown ! 



MExMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



575 



OXFORD, May 30, 1820 
1820. 1820 

Shame on this faithless heart ! that could 

allow 
Such transport, though but for a moment's 

space ; 
Not while — to aid the spirit of the place — 
The crescent moon clove with its glittering 

prow 
The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady 

bough ; 
But in plain daylight: — She, too, at my 

side, 
Who, with her heart's experience satisfied, 
Maintains inviolate its slightest vow ! 
Sweet Fancy ! other gifts must I receive; 
Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim; 
Take from her brow the withering flowers 

of eve, 
And to that brow life's morning wreath 

restore ; 
Let her be comprehended in the frame 
Of these illusions, or they please no more. 



JUNE 1820 
1820. 1820 

Fame tells of groves — from England far 

away — 
Groves that inspire the Nightingale to trill 
And modulate, with subtle reach of skill 
Elsewhere unmatched, her ever -vary ing 

lay; 
Such bold report I venture to gainsay: 
For I have heard the quire of Richmond 

hill 
Chanting, with indefatigable bill, 
Strains that recalled to mind a distant 

day; 
When, haply under shade of that sama 

wood, 
And scarcely conscious of the dashing oars 
Plied steadily between those willowy shores, 
The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons 

stood — 
Listening, and listening long, hi rapturous 

mood, 
Ye heavenly Birds ! to your Progenitors. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 

1820. 1822 

I set out in company with my Wife and Sister, and Mr. and Mrs. Monkhouse, then just married, 
and Miss Horrocks. These two ladies, sisters, we left at Berne, while Mr. Monkhouse took the 
opportunity of making - an excursion with us among the Alps as far as Milan. Mr. H. C. 
Robinson joined us at Lucerne, and when this ramble was completed we rejoined at Geneva the 
two ladies we had left at Berne and proceeded to Paris, where Mr. Monkhouse and H. C. R. left 
us, and where we spent five weeks, of which there is not a record in these poems. 



DEDICATION 

(SENT WITH THESE POEMS, IN MS., 
TO ) 

1820. 1822 

Dear Fellow-travellers ! think not that the Muse, 

To You presenting these memorial Lays, 

Can hope the general eye thereon would gaze, 

As on a mirror that gives back the hues 

Of living Nature; no — though free to choose 

The greenest bowers, the most inviting ways, 

The fairest landscapes and the brightest days — 

Her skill she tried with less ambitious views. 

For You she wrought : Ye only can supply 

The life, the truih, the beauty : she confides 

In that enjoyment which witli You abides, 

Trusts to your love and vivid memory ; 

Thus far contented, that for You her verse 

Shall lack not power the " meeting soul to pierce ! " 

W. Wordsworth. 
Rtdal Mount, Nov. 1821. 



FISH-WOMEN — ON LANDING 
AT CALAIS 

1820. 1822 

'T IS said, fantastic ocean doth enfold 
The likeness of whate'er on land is seen; 
But, if the Nereid Sisters and their Queen, 
Above whose heads the tide so long hath 

rolled, 
The Dames resemble whom we here behold, 
How fearful were it down through opening 

waves 
To sink, and meet them in their fretted 

caves, 
Withered, grotesque, immeasurably old, 
And shrill and fierce in accent 1 — Fear it not: 



576 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



For they Earth's fairest daughters do excel; 
Pure undeeaying beauty is their lot; 
Their voices into liquid music swell, 
Thrilling each pearly cleft and sparry grot, 
The undisturbed abodes where Sea-nymphs 
dwell ! 



II 
BRUGES 

1820. 1822 

Bruges I saw attired with golden light 
(Streamed from the west) as with a robe of 

power: 
The splendour fled; and now the sunless 

hour, 
That, slowly making way for peaceful night, 
Best suits with fallen grandeur, to my sight 
Offers the beauty, the magnificence, 
And sober graces, left her for defence 
Against the injuries of time, the spite 
Of fortune, and the desolating storms 
Of future war. Advance not — spare to 

hide, 
O gentle Power of darkness ! these mild 

hues; 
Obscure not yet these silent avenues 
Of stateliest architecture, where the Forms 
Of nun-like females, with soft motion, 

glide ! 



Ill 
BRUGES 

1820. 1822 

The Spirit of Antiquity — enshrined 
In stimptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song, 
In picture, speaking with heroic tongue, 
And with devout solemnities entwined — 
Mounts to the seat of grace within the 

mind: 
Hence Forms that glide with swan-like ease 

along, 
Hence motions, even amid the vulgar 

throng, 
To an harmonious decency confined: 
As if the streets were consecrated ground, 
The city one vast temple, dedicate 
To mutual respect in thought and deed; 
To leisure, to forbearances sedate; 
To social cares from jarring passions freed; 
A deeper peace than that in deserts f ound ! 



IV 

AFTER VISITING THE FIELD OF 
WATERLOO 

1820. 1822 

A winged Goddess — clothed in vesture 

wrought 
Of rainbow colours; One whose port was 

bold, 
Whose overburthened hand could scarcely 

hold 
The glittering crowns and garlands which 

it brought — 
Hovered in air above the far-famed Spot. 
She vanished; leaving prospect blank and 

cold 
Of wind-swept corn that Avide around us 

rolled 
In dreary billows; wood, and meagre cot, 
And monuments that soon must disappear: 
Yet a dread local recompence we found; 
While glory seemed betrayed, while patriot- 
zeal 
Sank in our hearts, we felt as men should 

feel 
With such vast hoards of hidden carnage 

near, 
And horror breathing from the silent 

ground ! 

V 

BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE 

1820. 1822 

The scenery on the Meuse pleases me more, 
upon the whole, than that of the Rhine, though 
the river itself is much inferior in grandeur. 
The rocks both in form and colour, especially 
between Namur and Liege, surpass any upon 
the Rhine, though they are in several places 
disfigured by quarries, whence stones were 
taken for the new fortifications. This is much 
to be regretted, for they are useless, and the 
scars will remain perhaps for thousands of 
years. A like injury to a still greater degree 
has been inflicted, in my memory, upon the 
beautiful rocks of Clifton on the banks of the 
Avon. There is probably in existence a very 
long letter of mine to Sir Uvedale Price, in 
which was given a description of the land- 
scapes on the Meuse as compared with those 
on the Rhine. 

Details in the spirit of these sonnets are 
given both in Mrs. Wordsworth's Journals and 
my Sister's, and the re-perusal of them has 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



577 



strengthened a wish long entertained that 
somebody would put together, as in one work, 
the notices contained in them, omitting particu- 
lars that were written down merely to aid our 
memory, and bringing the whole into as small 
a compass as is consistent with the general in- 
terests belonging to the scenes, circumstances, 
and objects touched on by each writer. 

What lovelier home could gentle Fancy 

choose ? 
Is this the stream, whose cities, heights, and 

plains, 
War's favourite playground, are with crim- 
son stains 
Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews ? 
The Morn, that now, along the silver 

Meuse, 
Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the 

swains 
To tend their silent boats and ringing wains, 
Or strip the bough whose mellow fruit be- 
strews 
The ripening corn beneath it. As mine eyes 
Turn from the fortified and threatening hill, 
How sweet the prospect of yon watery glade, 
With its grey rocks clustering in pensive 

shade — 
That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise 
From the smooth ineaclow-grouiid, serene 
and still ! 



VI 
AIX-LA-CHAPELLE 

1820. 1822 

Was it to disenchant, and to undo, 

That we approached the Seat of Charle- 

maine ? 
To sweep from many an old romantic strain 
That faith which no devotion may renew ! 
Why does this puny Church present to view 
Her feeble columns ? and that scanty chair ! 
This sword that one of our weak times 

might wear ! 
Objects of false pretence, or meanly true ! 
If from a traveller's fortune I might claim 
A palpable memorial of that day, 
Then would I seek the Pyrenean Breach 
That Roland clove with huge two-handed 

sway, 
And to the enormous labour left his name, 
Where unremitting frosts the rocky crescent 

bleach. 



VII 

IN THE CATHEDRAL AT 
COLOGNE 

1810. 1822 

O FOR the help of Angels to complete 
This Temple — Angels governed by a plan 
Thus far pursued (how gloriously !) by 

Man, 
Studious that He might not disdain the 

seat 
Who dwells in heaven ! But that aspiring 

heat 
Hath failed ; and now, ye Powers ! whose 

gorgeous wings 
And splendid aspect yon emblazonings 
But faintly picture, 't were an office meet 
For you, on these unfinished shafts to try 
The midnight virtues of your harmony : — 
This vast design might tempt you to re- 
peat 
Strains that call forth upon empyreal 

ground 
Immortal Fabrics, rising to the sound 
Of penetrating harps and voices sweet ! 



VIII 

IN A CARRIAGE, UPON THE 
BANKS OF THE RHINE 

1820. 1822 

Amid this dance of objects sadness steals 
O'er the defrauded heart — while sweeping 

by, 

As in a fit of Thespian jollity, 

Beneath her vine-leaf crown the green 

Earth reels: 
Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels 
The venerable pageantry of Time, 
Each beetling rampart, and each tower 

sublime, 
And what the Dell unwillingly reveals 
Of lurking cloistral arch, through trees es- 
pied 
Near the bright River's edge. Yet why 

repine ? 
To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to gaze — 
Such sweet wayfaring — of life's spring 

the pride, 
Her summer's faithful joy — that still is 

mine, 
And in fit measure cheers autumnal days. 



578 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



IX 

HYMN 

FOR THE BOATMEN, AS THEY APPROACH 
THE RAPIDS UNDER THE CASTLE OF 
HEIDELBERG 

l820. l822 

Jesu ! bless our slender Boat, 
.By the current swept along; 
Loud its threatenings — let them not 

Drown the music of a song 
Breathed thy mercy to implore, 
Where these troubled waters roar ! 

Saviour, for our warning, seen 
Bleeding on that precious Rood; 

If, while through the meadows green 
Gently wound the peaceful flood, 

We forgot Thee, do not Thou 

Disregard thy Suppliants now ! 

Hither, like yon ancient Tower 
Watching o'er the River's bed, 

Fling the shadow of thy power, 
Else we sleep among the dead; 

Thou who trod'st the billowy sea, 

Shield us in our jeopardy ! 

Guide our Bark among the waves; 

Through the rocks our passage smooth; 
Where the whirlpool frets and raves 

Let thy love its anger soothe: 
All our hope is placed in Thee; 
Miserere Domine! 



THE SOURCE OF THE DANUBE 

1820. 1S22 

Not, like his great Compeers, indignantly 
Doth Danube spring to life ! The wan- 
dering Stream 
(Who loves the Cross, yet to the Cresoent's 

gleam 
Unfolds a willing breast) with infant glee 
Slips from his prison walls: and Fancy, 

free 
To follow in his track of silver light, 
Mounts on rapt wing, and with a moment's 

flight 
Hath reached the encincture of that gloomy 
sea 



Whose waves the Orphean lyre forbade to 

meet 
In conflict; whose rough winds forgot their 

jars 
To waft the heroic progeny of Greece ; 
When the first Ship sailed for the Golden 

Fleece — 
Argo — exalted for that daring feat 
To fix in heaven her shape distinct with 

stars. 



XI 

ON APPROACHING THE STAUB- 
BACH, LAUTERBRUNNEN 

1820. 1822 

Uttered by whom, or how inspired — de- 
signed 
For what strange service, does this concert 

reach 
Our ears, and near the dwellings of man- 
kind ! 
'Mid fields familiarized to human speech? — 
No Mermaid's warble — to allay the wind 
Driving some vessel toward a dangerous 

beach — 
More thrilling melodies; Witch answering 

Witch, 
To chant a love-spell, never intertwined 
Notes shrill and wild with art more musi- 
cal: 
Alas ! that from the lips of abject Want 
Or Idleness in tatters mendicant 
The strain should flow — free Fancy to en- 
thral, 
And with regret and useless pity haunt 
This bold, this bright, this sky-born, 
Waterfall ! 



XII 

THE FALL OF THE AAR — 

HANDEC 

1820. 1822 

From the fierce aspect of this River, throw- 
ing 
His giant body o'er the steep rock's brink, 
Baok in astonishment and fear we shrink: 
But, gradually a calmer look bestowing, 
Flowers we espy beside the torrent grow 
ing; 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



579 



Flowers that peep forth from many a cleft 
and chink, 

And, from the whirlwind of his anger, 
drink 

Hues ever fresh, in rocky fortress blow- 
ing: 

They suck — from breath that, threatening 
to destroy, 

Is more benignant than the dewy eve — 

Beauty, and life, and motions as of joy: 

Nor doubt but He to whom yon Pine-trees 
nod 

Their heads in sign of worship, Nature's 
God, 

These humbler adorations will receive. 



XII 

MEMORIAL 

NEAR THE OUTLET OF THE LAKE OF 

THUN 

" DEM 

ANDENKEN 

MEINES FREUNDES 

ALOYS REDING 

MDCCCXVIII." 

1820. 1822 

Aloys Reding 1 , it will foe remembered, was 
Captain-General of the Swiss forces, which, 
with a courage and perseverance worthy of 
the cause, opposed the flagitious and too suc- 
cessful attempt of Buonaparte to subjugate 
their country. 

Around a wild and woody hill 
A gravelled pathway treading, 
We reached a votive Stone that bears 
The name of Aloys Reding. 

Well judged the Friend who placed it 

there 
For silence and protection; 
And haply with a finer care 
Of dutiful affection. 

The Sun regards it from the West; 
And, while in summer glory 
He sets, his sinking yields a type 
Of that pathetic story: 

And oft he tempts the patriot Swiss 
Amid the grove to linger; 
Till all is dim, save this bright Stone 
Touched by his golden finger. 



XIV 

COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE 
CATHOLIC CANTONS 

1820. 1822 

Doomed as we are our native dust 
To wet with many a bitter shower, 
It ill befits us to disdain 
The altar, to deride the fane, 
Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust 
To win a happier hour. 

I love, where spreads the village lawn, 
Upon some knee-worn cell -to gaze: 
Hail to the firm unmoving cross, 
Aloft, where pines their branches toss ! 
And to the chapel far withdrawn, 
That lurks by lonely ways ! 

Where'er we roam — along the brink 
Of Rhine — or by the sweeping Po, 
Through Alpine vale, or champain wide, 
Whate'er we look on, at our side 
Be Charity ! — to bid us think, 
And feel, if we would know. 



XV 

AFTER-THOUGHT 

1820. 1822 

O life ! without thy chequered scene 
Of right and wrong, of weal and woe, 
Success and failure, could a ground 
For magnanimity be found; 
For faith, 'mid ruined hopes, serene ? 
Or whence could virtue flow ? 

Pain entered through a ghastly breach — 
Nor while sin lasts must effort cease; 
Heaven upon earth 's an empty boast; 
But, for the bowers of Eden lost, 
Mercy has placed within our reach 
A portion of God's peace. " 

XVI 

SCENE ON THE LAKE OF 
BRIENTZ 

1S20. 1822 

" What know we of the Blest above 
But that they sing and that they love ? " 



5 8o 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



Yet, if they ever did inspire 

A mortal hymn, or shaped the choir, 

Now, where those harvest Damsels float 

Homeward in their rugged Boat, 

(While all the ruffling winds are fled — 

Each slumbering on some mountain's head) 

Now, surely, hath that gracious aid 

Been felt, that influence is displayed. 

Pupils of Heaven, in order stand 

The rustic Maidens, every hand 

Upon a Sister's shoulder laid, — 

To chant, as glides the boat along, 

A simple, but a touching, song; 

To chant, as Angels do above, 

The melodies of Peace in love ! 



XVII 

ENGELBERG, THE HILL OF 
ANGELS 

1820. 1822 

For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes 
The work of Fancy from her willing hands; 
And such a beautiful creation makes 
As renders needless spells and magic wands, 
And for the boldest tale belief commands. 
Whenfirst mine eyes beheld that famous Hill, 
The sacred Engelberg, celestial Bands, 
With intermingling motions soft and still, 
Hung round its top, on wings that changed 
their hues at will. 

Clouds do not name those Visitants ; they were 
The very Angels whose authentic lays, 
Sung from that heavenly ground in middle 

air, 
Made known the spot where piety should 

raise 
A holy Structure to the Almighty's praise. 
Resplendent Apparition ! if in vain 
My ears did listen, 't was enough to gaze ; 
And watch the slow departure of the tram, 
Whose skirts the glowing Mountain thirsted 

to detain. 

XVIII 

OUR LADY OF THE SNOW 

1820. 1822 

Meek Virgin Mother, more benign 
Than fairest Star, upon the height 
Of thy own mountain, set to keep 
Lone vigils through the hours of sleep, 



What eye can look upon thy shrine 
Untroubled at the sight ? 

These crowded offerings as they hang 

In sign of misery relieved, 

Even these, without intent of theirs, 

Report of comfortless despairs, 10 

Of many a deep and cureless pang 

And confidence deceived. 

To Thee, in this aerial cleft, 
As to a common centre, tend 
All sufferers that no more rely 
On mortal succour — all who sigh 
And pine, of human hope bereft, 
Nor wish for earthly friend. 

And hence, O Virgin Mother mild ! 
Though plenteous flowers around thee blow 
Not only from the dreary strife 21 

Of Whiter, but the storms of life, 
Thee have thy Votaries aptly styled, 
Our Lady of the Snow. 

Even for the Man who stops not here, 

But down the irriguous valley hies, 

Thy very name, O Lady ! flings, 

O'er blooming fields and gushing springs, 

A tender sense of shadowy fear, 

And chastening sympathies ! 30 

Nor falls that intermingling shade 
To summer-gladsomeness unkind: 
It chastens only to requite 
With gleams of fresher, purer, light; 
While, o'er the flower-enamelled glade, 
More sweetly breathes the wind. 

But on ! — a tempting downward way, 
A verdant path before us lies; 
Clear shines the glorious sun above; 
Then give free course to joy and love, 40 
Deeming the evil of the day 
Sufficient for the wise. 



XIX 
EFFUSION 

IN PRESENCE OF THE PAINTED TOWER 
OF TELL, AT ALTORF 

1S20. lS22 

This Tower stands upon the spot where grew 
the Linden Tree against which his Sou is said 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



5Si 



to have been placed, when the Father's archery 
was put to proof under circumstances so famous 
in Swiss Story. 

What though the Italian pencil wrought 

not here, 
Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow 
On Marathonian valour, yet the tear 
Springs forth in presence of this gaudy show, 
While narrow cares their limits overflow. 
Thrice happy, burghers, peasants, warriors 

old, 
Infants in arms, and ye, that as ye go 
Homeward or schoolward, ape what ye 

behold ! 
Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy 

bold ! 

And when that calm Spectatress from on 

high 
Looks down — the bright and solitary Moon, 
Who never gazes but to beautify; 
And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of 

noon 
Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune 
That fosters peace, and gentleness recalls ; 
Then might the passing Monk receive a boon 
Of saintly pleasure from these pictured 

walls, 
While, on the warlike groups, the mellow- 
ing lustre falls. 

How blest the souls who when their trials 

come 
Yield not to terror or despondency, 
But face like that sweet Boy their mortal 

doom, 
Whose head the ruddy apple tops, while he 
Expectant stands beneath the linden tree: 
He quakes not like the timid forest game, 
But smiles — the hesitating shaft to free; 
Assured that Heaven its justice will pro- 
claim, 
And to his Father give its own unerring aim. 



XX 
THE TOWN OF SCHWYTZ 

1820. 1822 

By antique Fancy trimmed — though lowly, 

bred 
To dignity — in thee, O Schwytz ! are seen 
The genuine features of the golden mean; 
Equality by Prudence governed, 



Or jealous Nature ruling in her stead; 

And, therefore, art thou blest with peace, 
serene 

As that of the sweet fields and meadows 
green 

In unambitious compass round thee spread. 

Majestic Berne, high on her guardian 
steep, 

Holding a central station of command, 

Might well be styled this noble body's 
Head; 

Thou, lodged 'mid mountainous entrench- 
ments deep, 

Its Heart; and ever may the heroic Land 

Thy name, O Schwytz, in happy freedom 
keep ! 

XXI 

ON HEARING THE " RANZ DES 
VACHES " ON THE TOP OF THE 
PASS OF ST. GOTHARD 

1820. 1S22 

I listen — but no faculty of mine 
Avails those modulations to detect, 
Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swiss 

affect 
With tenderest passion; leaving him to pine 
(So fame reports) and die, — his sweet- 
breathed kine 
Remembering, and green Alpine pastures 

decked 
With vernal flowers. Yet may we not re- 
ject 
The tale as fabulous. — Here while I re- 
cline, 
Mindful how others by this simple Strain 
Are moved, for me — upon this Mountain 

named 
Of God himself from dread pre-eminence — 
Aspiring thoughts, by memory reclaimed, 
Yield to the Music's touching influence; 
And joys of distant home my heart enchain. 



XXII 
FORT FUENTES 

1820. 1822 

The Ruins of Fort Fuentes form the crest of 
a rocky eminence that rises from the plain at 
the head of the Lake of Como, commanding' 
views up the Valteline, and toward the town of 
Chiavenna. The prospect in the latter direc- 



5 S2 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



tion is characterised by melancholy sublimity. 
We rejoiced at being favoured with a distinct 
view of those Alpine heights ; not, as we had 
expected from the breaking up of the storm, 
steeped in celestial glory, yet in communion 
with clouds floating or stationary — scatterings 
from heaven. The Ruin is interesting both in 
mass and in detail. An Inscription, upon elab- 
orately sculptured marble lying on the ground, 
records that the Fort had been erected by Count 
Fuentes in the year 1600, during the reign of 
Philip the Third ; and the Chapel, about twenty 
years after, by one of his Descendants. Marble 
pillars of gateways are yet standing, and a con- 
siderable part of the Chapel walls : a smooth 
green turf has taken place of the pavement, 
and we could see no trace of altar or image ; 
but everywhere something to remind one of 
former splendour, and of devastation and tu- 
mult. In our ascent we had passed abundance 
of wild vines intermingled with bushes : near 
the ruins were some ill tended, but growing 
willingly ; and rock, turf, and fragments of the 
pile, are alike covered or adorned with a variety 
of flowers, among which the rose-coloured pink 
was growing in great beauty. While descend- 
ing, we discovered on the ground, apart from 
the path, and at a considerable distance from 
the ruined Chapel, a statue of a Child in pure 
white marble, uninjured by the explosion that 
had driven it so far down the hill. ' ' How 
little," we exclaimed, " are these things valued 
here ! Could we but transport this pretty Image 
to our own garden ! " — Yet it seemed it would 
have been a pity any one should remove it from 
its couch in the wilderness, which may be its own 
for hundreds of years. — Extract from Journal. 

Dread hour ! when, upheaved by war's 
sulphurous blast, 
This sweet-visaged Cherub of Parian 
stone 
So far from the holy enclosure was cast, 
To couch in this thicket of brambles 
alone, 

To rest where the lizard may bask in the 
palm 
Of his half -open hand pure from blemish 
or speck; 
And the green, gilded snake, without trou- 
bling the calm 
Of the beautiful countenance, twine 
round his neck; 

Where haply (kind service to Piety due !) 
When winter the grove of its mantle 
bereaves, 



Some bird (like our own honoured red- 
breast) may strew 
The desolate Slumberer with moss and 
with leaves. 

Fuentes once harboured the good and the 
brave, 
Nor to her was the dance of soft pleasure 
unknown ; 
Her banners for festal enjoyment did wave 
While the thrill of her fifes thro' the 
mountains was blown: 

Now gads the wild vine o'er the pathless 
ascent; — 
O silence of Nature, how deep is thy sway, 
When the whirlwind of human destruction 
is spent, 
Our tumults appeased, and our strifes 
passed away ! 



XXIII 
THE CHURCH OF SAN SALVADOR 

SEEN FROM THE LAKE OF LUGANO 

1820. 1822 

This Church was almost destroyed by light- 
ning a few years ago, but the altar and the im- 
age of the Patron Saint were untouched. The 
Mount, upon the summit of which the Church 
is built, stands amid the intricacies of the Lake 
of Lugano ; and is, from a hundred points of 
view, its principal ornament, rising to the height 
of 2000 feet, and on one side nearly perpendic- 
ular. The ascent is toilsome ; but the traveller 
who performs it will be amply rewarded. 
Splendid fertility, rich woods and dazzling 
waters, seclusion and confinement of view con- 
trasted with sealike extent of plain fading into 
the sky ; and this again, in an opposite quarter, 
with an horizon of the loftiest and boldest Alps 
— unite in composing a prospect more diversi- 
fied by magnificence, beauty, and sublimity, 
than perhaps any other point in Europe, of so 
inconsiderable an elevation, commands. 

Thou sacred Pile ! whose turrets rise 
From yon steep mountain's loftiest stage, 
Guarded by lone San Salvador; 
Sink (if thou must) as heretofore, 
To sulphurous bolts a sacrifice, 
But ne'er to human rage ! 

On Horeb's top, on Sinai, deigned 
To rest the universal Lord: 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



583 



Why leap the fountains from their cells 
Where everlasting Bounty dwells ? — 10 
That, while the Creature is sustained, 
His God may be adored. 

Cliffs, fountaius, rivers, seasons, times — 
Let all remind the soul of heaven; 
Our slack devotion needs them all; 
And Faith — so oft of sense the thrall, 
While she, by aid of Nature, cliinbs — 
May hope to be forgiven. 

Glory, and patriotic Love, 

And all the Pomps of this frail " spot 20 

Which men call Earth," have yearned to seek, 

Associate with the simply meek, 

Religion in the sainted grove, 

And in the hallowed grot. 

Thither, in time of adverse shocks, 

Of fainting hopes and backward wills, 

Did mighty Tell repair of old — 

A Hero cast in Nature's mould, 

Deliverer of the stedfast rocks 

And of the ancient hills ! 30 

He, too, of battle-martyrs chief ! 
Who, to recall his daunted peers, 
For victory shaped an open space, 
By gathering with a wide embrace, 
Into his single breast, a sheaf 
Of fatal Austrian spears. 



XXIV 

THE ITALIAN ITINERANT AND 
THE SWISS GOATHERD 

1820. 1S22 

PART I 



Now that the farewell tear is dried, 
Heaven prosper thee, be hope thy guide, 
Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy; 
The wages of thy travel, joy ! 
Whether for London boimd — to trill 
Thy mountain notes with simple skill; 
Or on thy head to poise a show 
Of Images hi seemly row; 
The graceful form of milk-white Steed, 
Or Bird that soared with Ganymede; 
Or through our hamlets thou wilt bear 
The sightless Milton, with his hair 
Around his placid temples curled; 



And Shakspeare at his side — a freight, 
If clay could think and mind were weight, 
For him who bore the world ! 
Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy; 
The wages of thy travel, joy ! 



But thou, perhaps, (alert as free 
Though serving sage philosophy) 20 

Wilt ramble over hill and dale, 
A Vender of the well-wrought Scale, 
Whose sentient tube instructs to time 
A purpose to a fickle clime: 
Whether thou choose this useful part, 
Or minister to finer art, 
Though robbed of many a cherished dream t 
And crossed by many a shattered scheme, 
What stirring wonders wilt thou see 
In the proud Isle of liberty ! 3C 

Yet will the Wanderer sometimes pine 
With thoughts which no delights can chase, 
Recall a Sister's last embrace, 
His Mother's neck entwine ; 
Nor shall forget the Maiden coy 
That would have loved the bright-haired 
Boy! 



My Song, encouraged by the grace 

That beams from his ingenuous face, 

For this Adventurer scruples not 

To prophesy a golden lot; 4Q 

Due recompence, and safe return 

To Como's steeps — his happy bourne ! 

Where he, aloft in garden glade, 

Shall tend, with his own dark- eyed Maid, 

The towering maize, and prop the twig 

That ill supports the luscious fig; 

Or feed his eye in paths sun-proof 

With purple of the trellis-roof, 

That through the jealous leaves escapes 

From Cadenabbia's pendent grapes. S c 

— Oh might he tempt that Goatherd-child 

To share his wanderings ! him whose look 

Even yet my heart can scarcely brook, 

So touchingly he smiled — 

As with a rapture caught from heaven — 

For unasked alms in pity given. 

PART II 

I 

With nodding plumes, and lightly drest 

Like foresters in leaf-green vest, 

The Helvetian Mountaineers, on ground 



5«4 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



For Toll's dread archery renowned, 60 

Before the target stood- to claim 

The guerdon of the steadiest aim. 

Fond was the rifle-gun's report — 

A startling thunder quick and short ! 

Hut, flying through the heights around, 

Echo prolonged a tell-tale sound 

Of hearts and hands alike " prepared 

The treasures they enjoy to guard !" 

And, if there he a favoured hour 

When Heroes are allowed to quit 70 

The tomb, and on the clouds to sit 

With tutelary power, 

(hi their Descendants shedding grace — 

This was the hour, and that the place. 



But Truth inspired the Bards of old 
When of an iron age they told. 
Which to unequal laws gave birth, 

And drove Astra-a from the earth. 
— A gentle Boy (perchance with hlood 
As noble as the best endued, So 

But seemingly a Thing despised; 
Even by the sun and air unprized; 
For not a tinge or flowery streak 
Appeared upon his tender cheek) 
Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes, 
Apart, beside his silent goats. 
Sate watching in a forest shed, 
Pale, ragged, with hare feet and head; 
Mute as the snow upon the hill, 
And, as the saint he prays to, still. 90 

Ah, what avails heroic deed ? 
What liberty ? if no defence 
Be won for feeble Innocence. 
Father of all ! though wilful Manhood read 
His punishment in soul-distress. 
Grant to the morn of life its natural blessed- 
ness ! 



XXV 
THE LAST SUPPER 

BY LEONARDO DA VINCI, IN THE REFEC- 
TORY OF THE CONVENT OF MARIA 
DELLA GRAZIA — MILAN 

1S20. l822 

Tho' searching damps and many an envi- 
ous flaw 

Have marred this Work; the calm ethereal 
grace, 



The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face, 
The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe 
The Elements; as they do melt and thaw 
The heart of the Beholder — and erase 
(At least for one rapt moment) every trace 
Of disobedience to the primal law. 
The annunciation of the dreadful truth 
Made to the Twelve, survives: lip, fore- 
head, cheek, 
And hand reposing on the board in ruth 
Of what it utters, while the unguilty seek 
Unquestionable meanings — still bespeak 
A labour worthy of eternal youth ! 



XXVI 

THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, 1820 

1820. 1822 

High on her speculative tower 
Stood Science waiting for the hour 
When Sol was destined to endure 
That darkening of his radiant face 
Which Superstition strove to chase, 
Fii while, with rites impure. 

Atloat beneath Italian skies. 

Through regions fair as Paradise 

We gaily passed, — till Nature wrought 

A silent and unlooked-for change, 10 

That checked the desultory range 

Of joy and sprightly thought. 

Where'er was dipped the toiling oar, 
The waves danced round us as before, 
As lightly, though of altered hue, 
'Mid recent coolness, such as falls 
At noontide from umbrageous walls 
That screen the mornmg dew. 

No vapour stretched its wings; no cloud 
Cast far or near a murky shroud; 20 

The sky an azure field displayed; 
T was sunlight sheathed and gently 

charmed, 
Of all its sparkling rays disarmed, 
And as in slumber laid, — 

Or something night and day between, 
Like moonshine — but the hue was green; 
Still moonshine, without shadow, spread 
On jutting rock, and curved shore, 
Where gazed the peasant from bis door 
And on the mountain's head. jo 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



585 



It tinged the Julian steeps — it lay, 
Lugano ! on thy ample hay; 
The solemnizing veil was drawn 
O'er sillas, terraces, and towers; 
To Albogasio's olive bowers, 
l J orlezza's verdant lawn. 

But Fancy with the speed of fire 
Hath passed to Milan's loftiest spire, 
And there alights 'mid that aerial host 
Of Figures human and divine, 40 

White as the snows of Apennine 
Indurated by frost. 

Awe-stricken she beholds the array 
That guards the Temple night and day; 
Angels she sees — that might from heaven 

have flown, 
And Virgin-saints, who not in vain 
Have striven by purity to gain 
The beatific crown — 

Sees long-drawn files, concentric rings 
Each narrowing above each ; — the wings, 50 
The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips, 
The starry zone of sovereign height — 
All steeped in this portentous light ! 
All suffering dim eclipse ! 

Thus after Man had fallen (if aught 

These perishable spheres have wrought 

May with that issue be compared) 

Throngs of celestial visages, 

Darkening like water in the breeze, 

A holy sadness shared. 60 

Lo ! while I speak, the labouring Sun 
His glad deliverance has begun: 
The cypress waves her sombre plume 
More cheerily; and town and tower, 
The vineyard and the olive-bower, 
Their lustre re-assume ! 

O Ye, who guard and grace my home 
While in far-distant lands we roam, 
What countenance hath this Day put on for 

you ? 
While we looked round with favoured eyes, 
Did sullen mists hide lake and skies 71 

And mountains from your view ? 

Or was it given you to behold 
Like vision, pensive though not cold, 
From the smooth breast of gay Winander- 
mere ? 



Saw ye the soft yet awful veil 
Spread over Grasmere's lovely dale, 
Helvellyn's brow severe ? 

I ask in vain — and know far less 
If sickness, sorrow, or distress 80 

Have spared my Dwelling to this hour; 
Sad blindness ! but ordained to prove 
Our faith in Heaven's unfailing love 
And all-controlling power. 



XXVII 
THE THREE COTTAGE GIRLS 

1820. 1822 



How blest the Maid whose heart — yet free 

From Love's uneasy sovereignty — 

Beats with a fancy running high, 

Her simple cares to magnify; 

Whom Labour, never urged to toil, 

Hath cherished on a healthful soil; 

Who knows not pomp, who heeds not pelf; 

Whose heaviest sin it is to look 

Askance upon her pretty Self 

Reflected in some crystal brook; 10 

Whom grief hath spared — who sheds no 

tear 
But in sweet pity; and can hear 
Another's praise from envy clear. 



Such (but O lavish Nature ! why 
That dark unfathomable eye, 
Where lurks a Spirit that replies 
To stillest mood of softest skies, 
Yet hints at peace to be o'erthrown, 
Another's first, and then her own ?) 
Such, haply, yon Italian Maid, 20 

Our Lady's laggard Votaress, 
Halting beneath the chestnut shade 
To accomplish there her loveliness: 
Nice aid maternal fingers lend; 
A Sister serves with slacker hand; 
Then, glittering like a star, she joins the 
festal band. 



How blest (if truth may entertain 

Coy fancy with a bolder strain) 

The Helvetian Girl — who daily braves, 

In her light skiff, the tossing waves, 3a 

And quits the bosom of the deep 



586 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



Only to clinib the rugged steep ! 
— Say whence that modulated shout ! 
From Wood-nymph of Diana's throng ? 
Or does the greeting to a rout 
Of giddy Bacchanals belong ? 
Jubilant outcry ! rock and glade 
Resounded — but the voice obeyed 
The breath of an Helvetian Maid. 



Her beaiity dazzles the thick wood; 40 

Her courage animates the flood; 
Her steps the elastic greensward meets 
Returning unreluctant sweets; 
The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice 
Aloud, saluted by her voice ! 
Blithe Paragon of Alpine grace, 
Be as thou art — for through thy veins 
The blood of Heroes runs its race ! 
And nobly wilt thou brook the chains 
That, for the virtuous, Life prepares; 50 
The fetters which the Matron wears; 
The patriot Mother's weight of anxious 
cares ! 



" Sweet Highland Girl ! a very shower 
Of beauty was thy earthly dower," 
When thou didst flit before mine eyes, 
Gay Vision under sullen skies,- 
While Hope and Love around thee played, 
Near the rough falls of Inversneyd ! 
Have they, who nursed the blossom, seen 
No breach of promise in the fruit ? 60 

Was joy, in following joy, as keen 
As grief can be in grief's pursuit ? 
When youth had flown did hope still bless 
Thy goings — or the cheerfulness 
Of innocence survive to mitigate distress ? 



But from our course why turn — to tread 
A way with shadows overspread; 
Where what we gladliest would believe 
Is feared as what may most deceive ? 
Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crowned 
But heath-bells from thy native ground, 71 
Time cannot thin thy flowing hair, 
Nor take one ray of light from Thee; 
For in my Fancy thou dost share 
The gift of immortality ; 
And there shall bloom, with Thee allied, 
The Votaress by Lugano's side; 
And that intrepid Nymph, on Uri's steep 
descried ! 



XXVIII 

THE COLUMN INTENDED BY 
BUONAPARTE FOR A TRI- 
UMPHAL EDIFICE IN MILAN, 
NOW LYING BY THE WAY-SIDE 
IN THE SIMPLON PASS 

1820. 1822 

Ambition — following down this far-famed 
slope 

Her Pioneer, the snow-dissolving Sun, 

While clarions prate of kingdoms to be 
won — 

Perchance, in future ages, here may stop; 

Taught to mistrust her flattering horoscope 

By admonition from this prostrate Stone ! 

Memento uninscribed of Pride o'erthrown; 

Vanity's hieroglyphic; a choice trope 

In Fortune's rhetoric. Daughter of the 
Rock, 

Rest where thy course was stayed by Power 
divine ! 

The Soul transported sees, from hint of 
thine, 

Crimes which the great Avenger's hand pro- 
voke, 

Hears combats whistling o'er the ensan- 
guined heath: 

What groans ! what shrieks ! what quiet- 
ness in death. 



XXIX 
STANZAS 

COMPOSED IN THE SIMPLON PASS 
1820. l822 

Vallombrosa ! I longed in thy shadiest 

wood 
To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered 

floor, 
To listen to Anio's precipitous flood, 
When the stillness of evening hath deep- 
ened its roar; 
To range through the Temples of Pjestum, 

to muse 
In Pompeii preserved by her burial in 

earth; 
On pictures to gaze where they drank in 

their hues; 
And murmur sweet songs on the ground of 

their birth. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



587 



The beauty of Florence, the grandeur of 

Rome, 
Could I leave them unseen, and not yield to 

regret ? IO 

With a hope (and no more) for a season to 

come, 
Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent 

debt? 
Thou fortunate Region ! whose Greatness 

inurned 
Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust ; 
Twice-glorified fields ! if hi sadness I turned 
From your infinite marvels, the sadness 

was just. 

Now, risen ere the light-footed Chamois 

retires 
From dew - sprinkled grass to heights 

guarded with snow, 
Toward the mists that hang over the land 

of my Sires, i 9 

From the climate of myrtles contented I go. 
My thoughts become bright like yon edg- 
ing of Pines 
On the steep's lofty verge : how it blackened 

the air ! 
But, touched from behind by the Sun, it 

now shines 
With threads that seem part of his own 

silver hair. 

Though the toil of the way with dear 

Friends we divide, 
Though by the same zephyr our temples be 

fanned 
As we rest in the cool orange-bower side 

by side, 
A yearning survives which few hearts shall 

withstand : 
Each step hath its value while homeward 

we move ; — 29 

O joy when the girdle of England appears ! 
What moment hi life is so conscious of love, 
Of love in the heart made more happy by 

tears ? 

XXX 

ECHO, UPON THE GEMMI 

1820. 1822 

What beast of chase hath broken from the 

cover ? 
Stern Gemmi listens to as full a cry, 
As multitudinous a harmony 



Of sounds as rang the heights of Latmos 

over, 
When, from the soft couch of her sleeping. 

Lover, 
Up-starting, Cynthia skimmed the moun- 
tain dew 
In keen pursuit — and gave, where'er she 

flew, 
Impetuous motion to the Stars above her. 
A solitary Wolf-dog, ranging on 
Through the bleak concave, wakes this 

wondrous chime 
Of aery voices locked in unison, — 
Faint — far-off — near — deep — solemn 

and sublime ! — 
So, from the body of one guilty deed, 
A thousand ghostly fears, and haunting 

thoughts, proceed ! 



XXXI 
PROCESSIONS 

SUGGESTED ON A SABBATH MORNING IN 
THE VALE OF CHAMOUNY 

l820. 1822 

To appease the Gods; or public thanks to 

yield; 
Or to solicit knowledge of evem, B , 
Which in her breast Futurity concealed; 
And that the past might have its true 

intents 
Feelingly told by living monuments — 
Mankind of yore were prompted to devise 
Rites such as yet Persepolis presents 
Graven on her cankered walls, solemnities 
That moved in long array before admiring 

eyes. 

The Hebrews thus, carrying in joyful state 

Thick boughs of palm, and willows from 
the brook, u 

Marched round the altar — to commemo- 
rate 

How, when their course they through the 
desert took, 

Guided by signs which ne'er the sky for- 
sook, 

They lodged hi leafy tents and cabins low; 

Green boughs were borne, while, for tht? 
blast that shook 

Down to the earth the walls of Jericho, 

Shouts rise, and storms of sound from 
lifted trumpets blow I 



S 8S 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



And thus, in order, 'mid the sacred grove 
Fed hi the Libyan waste by gushing wells, 20 
The priests and damsels of Ammonian Jove 
Provoked responses with shrill canticles; 
While, in a ship begirt with silver bells, 
They round his altar bore the horned God, 
Old Cham, the solar Deity, who dwells 
Aloft, yet in a tilting vessel rode, 
When universal sea the mountains over- 
flowed. 

Why speak of Roman Pomps ? the haughty 

claims 
Of Chiefs triumphant after ruthless wars; 
The feast of Neptune — and the Cereal 

Games, 30 

With images, and crowns, and empty cars; 
The dancing Salii — on the shields of Mars 
Smiting with fury; and a deeper dread 
Scattered on all sides by the hideous jars 
Of Corybantian cymbals, while the head 
Of Cybele was seen, sublimely turreted ! 

At length a Spirit more subdued and soft 
Appeared — to govern Christian pageant- 
ries: 
The Cross, in calm procession, borne aloft 
Moved to the chant of sober litanies. 40 
Even such, this day, came wafted on the 

breeze 
From a long train — in hooded vestments 

fair 
Enwrapt — and winding, between Alpine 

trees 
Spiry and dark, around their House of 

prayer, 
Below the icy bed of bright Argentiere. 

Still in the vivid freshness of a dream, 
The pageant haunts me as it met our 

eyes ! 
Still, with those white-robed Shapes — a 

living Stream, 
The glacier Pillars join in solemn guise 
For the same service, by mysterious ties; 50 
Numbers exceeding credible account 
Of number, pure and silent Votaries 
Issuing or issued from a wintry fount; 
The impenetrable heart of that exalted 

Mount! 

They, too, who send so far a holy gleam 
While they the Church engird with motion 

slow, 
A product of that awful Mountain seem, 



Poured from his vaults of everlasting 

snow; 
Not virgin lilies marshalled in bright row, 
Not swans descending with the stealthy 

tide, 6o 

A livelier sisterly resemblance show 
Than the fair Forms, that hi long order 

glide, 
Bear to the glacier band — those Shapes 

aloft descried. 
Trembling, I look upon the secret springs 
Of that licentious craving in the mind 
To act the God among external things, 
To bind, on apt suggestion, or unbind; 
And marvel not that antique Faith inclined 
To crowd the world with metamorphosis, 
Vouchsafed hi pity or in wrath assigned ; 70 
Such insolent temptations wouldst thou 

miss, 
Avoid these sights; nor brood o'er Fable's 

dark abyss ! 



XXXII 

ELEGIAC STANZAS 

1820. 1822 

The lamented Youth whose untimely death 
gave occasion to these elegiac verses, was Fred- 
erick William Goddard, from Boston in North 
America. He was in his twentieth year, and 
had resided for some time with a clergyman in 
the neig-hbourhood of Geneva for the completion 
of his education. Accompanied by a fellow- 
pupil, a native of Scotland, he had just set out 
on a Swiss tour when it was his misfortune to 
fall in with a Friend of mine who was hasten- 
ing to join our party. The travellers, after 
spending a day together on the road from 
Berne and at Soleure, took leave of each other 
at night, the young men having intended to 
proceed directly to Zurich. But early in the 
morning my friend found his new acquaint- 
ances, who were informed of the object of his 
journey, and the friends he was in pursuit of, 
equipped to accompany him. We met at 
Lucerne the succeeding evening, and Mr. G. 
and his fellow-student became in consequence 
our travelling companions for a couple of days. 
We ascended the Righi together ; and, after 
contemplating the sunrise from that noble 
mountain, we separated at an hour and on a 
spot well suited to the parting of those who 
were to meet no more. Our party descended 
through the valley of our Lady of the Snow, 
and our late companions, to Art. We had 
hoped to meet in a few weeks at Geneva ; but 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



589 



on the third succeeding; day (on the 21st of 
August) Mr. Goddard perished, being overset 
in a boat while crossing the lake of Zurich. 
His companion saved himself by swimming, 
and was hospitably received in the mansion of 
a Swiss gentleman (M. Keller) situated on the 
eastern coast of the lake. The corpse of poor 
Goddard was cast ashore on the estate of the 
same gentleman, who generously performed all 
the rites of hospitality which could be ren- 
dered to the dead as well as to the living. He 
caused a handsome mural monument to be 
erected in the Church of Kusnacht, which 
records the premature fate of the young Amer- 
ican, and on the shores too of the lake the 
traveller may read an inscription pointing out 
the spot where the body was deposited by the 
waves. 

Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, 
Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go, 
From the dread summit of the Queen 
Of mountains, through a deep ravine, 
Where, in her holy chapel, dwells 
" Our Lady of the Snow." 

The sky was blue, the air was mild; 

Free were the streams and green the 

bowers ; 
As if, to rough assaults unknown, 
The genial spot had ever shown 10 

A countenance that as sweetly smiled — 
The face of summer-hours. 

And we were gay, our hearts at ease; 
With pleasure dancing through the frame 
We journeyed; all we knew of care — 
Our path that straggled here and there; 
Of trouble — but the fluttering breeze; 
Of Winter — but a name. 

If foresight could have rent the veil 
Of three short days — but hush — no more ! 
Calm is the grave, and calmer none 21 

Than that to which thy cares are gone, 
Thou Victim of the stormy gale ; 
Asleep on Zurich's shore ! 

O Goddard ! what art thou ? — a name — 
A sunbeam followed by a shade ! 
Nor more, for aught that time supplies, 
The great, the experienced, and the wise : 
Too much from this frail earth we claim, 
And therefore are betrayed. 30 

We met, while festive mirth ran wild, 
Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn, 



Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave, 
A sea-green river, proud to lave, 
With current swift and undented, 
The towers of old Lucerne. 

We parted upon solemn ground 
Far-lifted towards the unfading sky; 
But all our thoughts were then of Earth, 
That gives to common pleasures birth; 40 
And nothing hi our hearts we found 
That prompted even a sigh. 

Fetch, sympathising Powers of air, 
Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands, 
Herbs, moistened by Virginian dew, 
A most untimely grave to strew, 
Whose turf may never know the care 
Of kindred human hands ! 

Beloved by every gentle Muse 

He left his Transatlantic home: 50 

Europe, a realised romance, 

Had opened on his eager glance; 

What present bliss ! — what golden views ! 

What stores for years to come ! 

Though lodged within no vigorous frame, 
His soul her daily tasks renewed, 
Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings 
High poised — or as the wren that sings 
In shady places, to proclaim 
Her modest gratitude. 60 

Not vain in sadly-uttered praise; 
The words of truth's memorial vow 
Are sweet as morning fragrance shed 
From flowers 'mid Goldau's ruins bred; 
As evening's fondly-lingering rays, 
On Right's silent brow. 

Lamented Youth ! to thy cold clay 

Fit obsequies the Stranger paid; 

And piety shall guard the Stone 

Which hath not left the spot unknown 70 

Where the wild waves resigned their 

prey — 
And that which marks thy bed. 

And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, 
Lost Youth ! a solitary Mother; 
This tribute from a casual Friend 
A not unwelcome aid may lend, 
To feed the tender luxury, 
The rising pang to smother. 



59° 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



XXXIII 

SKY-PROSPECT — FROM THE 
PLAIN OF FRANCE 

1S20. 1822 

Lo ! in the burning west, the craggy nape 
Of a proud Ararat ! and, thereupon, 
The Ark, her melancholy voyage done ! 
Yon rampant, cloud mimics a lion's shape ; 
There, combats a huge crocodile — agape 
A golden spear to swallow ! and that brown 
And massy grove, so near yon blazing town, 
Stirs and recedes — destruction to escape ! 
Yet all is harmless — as the Elysian shades 
Where Spirits dwell in undisturbed repose — 
Silently disappears, or quickly fades: 
Meek Nature's evening comment on the 

shows 
That for oblivion take their daily birth 
From all the fuming vanities of Earth ! 



XXXIV 

ON BEING STRANDED NEAR 
THE HARBOUR OF BOULOGNE 



Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore, 

Ye furious waves ! a patriotic Son 

Of England — who in hope her coast had 

won, 
His project crowned, his pleasant travel o'er ? 
Well — let him pace this noted beach once 

more, 
That gave the Roman his triumphal shells ; 
That saw the Corsican his cap and bells 
Haughtily shake, a dreaming Conqueror! — 
Enough: my Country's cliffs I can behold, 
And proudly think, beside the chafing sea, 
Of checked ambition, tyranny controlled, 
And folly cursed with endless memory: 
These local recollections ne'er can cloy; 
Such ground I from my very heart enjoy ! 

XXXV 

AFTER LANDING — THE VAL- 
LEY OF DOVER 

Nov. 1820 

1820. 1822 

Where be the noisy followers of the game 
Where faction breeds; the turmoil where? 
that passed 



Through Europe, echping from the news- 
man's blast, 
And filled our hearts with grief for Eng- 
land's shame. 
Peace greets us ; — rambling on without an 

aim 
We mark majestic herds of cattle, free 
To ruminate, couched on the grassy lea; 
And hear far-off the mellow horn pro- 
claim 
The Season's harmless pastime. Ruder 

soixnd 
Stirs not; enrapt I gaze with strange de- 
light, 
While consciousnesses, not to be disowned, 
Here only serve a feeling to invite 
That lifts the spirit to a calmer height, 
And makes this rural stillness more pro- 
found. 



XXXVI 
AT DOVER 

1820. 1822 

For the impressions on -which this sonnet 
turns, I am indebted to the experience of my 
daughter, during her residence at Dover with 
our dear friend, Miss Fen-wick. 

From the Pier's head, musing ; and with 

increase 
Of wonder, I have watched this sea-side 

Town, 
Under the white cliff's battlemented crown, 
Hushed to a depth of more than Sabbath 

peace: 
The streets and quays are thronged, but 

why disown 
Their natural utterance: whence this 

strange release 
From social noise — silence elsewhere un- 
known ? — 
A Spirit whispered, " Let all wonder 

cease ; 
Ocean's o'erpowering murmurs have set 

free 
Thy sense from pressure of life's common 

din; 
As the dread Voice that speaks from out 

the sea 
Of God's eternal Word, the Voice of Time 
Doth deaden, shocks of tumult, shrieks of 

crime, 
The shouts of folly, and the groans of sin." 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT 



59i 



XXXVII 
DESULTORY STANZAS 

UPON RECEIVING THE PRECEDING 
SHEETS FROM THE PRESS 

1820. 1822 

Is then the final page before me spread, 
Nor further outlet left to mind or heart ? 
Presumptuous Book! too forward to be read, 
How can I give thee licence to depart ? 
One tribute more: unbidden feelings start 
Forth from their coverts; slighted objects 

rise; 
My spirit is the scene of such wild art 
As on Parnassus rules, when lightning flies, 
Visibly leading on the thunder's harmonies. 

All that I saw returns upon my view, 10 
All that I heard comes back upon my ear, 
All that I felt this moment doth renew; 
And where the foot with no unmanly fear 
Recoiled — and wings alone could travel — 

there 
I move at ease; and meet contending 

themes 
That press upon me, crossing the career 
Of recollections vivid as the dreams 
Of midnight, — cities, plains, forests, and 

mighty streams. 

Where Mortal never breathed I dare to sit 
Among the interior Alps, gigantic crew, 20 
Who triumphed o'er diluvian power ! — 

and yet 
What are they but a wreck and residue, 
Whose only business is to perish ? — true 
To which sad course, these wrinkled Sons 

of Time 
Labour their proper greatness to subdue; 
Speaking of death alone, beneath a clime 
Where life and rapture flow in plenitude 

sublime. 

Fancy hath flung for me an airy bridge 
Across thy long deep Valley, furious Rhone ! 
Arch that here rests upon the granite ridge 
Of Monte Rosa — there on frailer stone 31 
Of secondary birth, the Jung-frau's cone; 
And, from that arch, down-looking on the 

Vale 
The aspect I behold of every zone; 
A sea of foliage, tossing with the gale, 
Blithe Autumn's purple crown, and Win- 
ter's icy mail ! 



Far as St. Maurice, from yon eastern 

Forks, 
Down the main avenue my sight can range : 
And all its branchy vales, and all that lurks 
Within them, church, and town, and hut, 
and grange, 40 

For my enjoyment meet in vision strange; 
Snows, torrents ; — to the region's utmost 

bound, 
Life, Death, in amicable interchange ; — 
But list ! the avalanche — the hush pro- 
found 
That follows — yet more awful than that 
awful sound ! 

Is not the chamois suited to his place ? 

The eagle worthy of her ancestry ? 

— Let Empires fall; but ne'er shall Ye dis- 
grace 

Your noble birthright, ye that occupy 

Your council-seats beneath the open sky, 50 

On Sarnen's Mount, there judge of fit and 
right, 

In simple democratic majesty; 

Soft breezes fanning your rough brows — 
the might 

And purity of nature spread before your 
sight ! 

From this appropriate Court, renowned 
Lucerne 

Calls me to pace her honoured Bridge — 
that cheers 

The Patriot's heart with" pictures rude and 
stern, 

An uncouth Chronicle of glorious years. 

Like portraiture, from loftier source, en- 
dears 

That work of kindred frame, which spans 
the lake 60 

Just at the point of issue, where it fears 

The form and motion of a stream to take; 

Where it begins to stir, yet voiceless as a 
snake. 

Volumes of sound, from the Cathedral 

rolled, 
This long-roofed Vista penetrate — but see, 
One after one, its tablets, that unfold 
The whole design of Scripture history; 
From the first tasting of the fatal Tree, 
Till the bright Star appeared in eastern skies, 
Announcing, One was born mankind to free; 
His acts, his wrongs, his final sacrifice; 71 
Lessons for every heart, a Bible for all eyes. 



59 2 



THE RIVER DUDDON 



Our pride misleads, our timid likings 

kill. 
— Long may these homely Works devised 

of old, 
These simple efforts of Helvetian skill, 
Aid, with congenial influence, to uphold 
The State, — the Country's destiny to 

mould ; 
Turning, for them who pass, the common 

dust 
Of servile opportunity to gold; 
Filling the soul with sentiments august — 
The beautiful, the brave, the holy, and the 

just ! 81 



No more; Time halts not in his noiseless 

march — 
Nor turns, nor winds, as doth the liquid 

flood; 
Life slips from underneath us, like that arch 
Of airy workmanship whereon we stood, 
Earth stretched below, heaven in our neigh- 
bourhood. 
Go forth, my little Book ! pursue thy -way; 
Go forth, and please the gentle and the 

good; 
Nor be a whisper stifled, if it say 
That treasures, yet untouched, may grace 
some future Lay. 90 



THE RIVER DUDDON 



A SERIES OF SONNETS 

1820. 1820 

It is with the little river Dnddon as it is with most other rivers, Ganges and Nile not excepted, 
— many springs might claim the honour of being its head. In my own fancy I have fixed its 
rise near the noted Shire-stones placed at the meeting-point of the counties, Westmoreland, 
Cumberland, and Lancashire. They stand by the wayside on the top of the Wrynose Pass, and it 
used to be reckoned a proud thing to say that, by touching them at the same time with feet and 
hands, one had been in the three counties at once. At what point of its course the stream takes 
the name of Duddon I do not know. I first became acquainted with the Duddon, as I have 
good reason to remember, in early boyhood. Upon the banks of the Derwent I had learnt to 
be very fond of angling. Fish abound in that large river; not so in the small streams in the 
neighbourhood of Hawkshead ; and I fell into the common delusion that the farther from home 
the better sport would be had. Accordingly, one day I attached myself to a person living in the 
neighbourhood of Hawkshead, who was going to try his fortune as an angler near the source of 
the Duddon. We fished a great part of the day with very sorry success, the rain pouring torrents, 
and long before we got home I was worn out with fatigue ; and, if the good man had not carried 
me on his back, I must have lain down under the best shelter I could find. Little did I think 
then it would be my lot to celebrate, in a strain of love and admiration, the stream which for 
many years I never thought of without recollections of disappointment and distress. 

During my college vacation, and two or three years afterwards, before taking my Bachelor's 
degree, I was several times resident in the house of a near relative who lived in the small town 
of Broughton. I passed many delightful hours upon the banks of this river, which becomes an 
estuary about a mile from that place. The remembrances of that period are the subject of the 
21st Sonnet. The subject of the 27th is in fact taken from a tradition belonging to Rydal Hall, 
which once stood, as is believed, upon a rocky and woody hill on the right hand as you go from 
Rydal to Ambleside, and was deserted from the superstitious fear here described, and the present 
site fortunately chosen instead. The present Hall was erected by Sir Michael le Fleming, and it 
may be hoped that at some future time there will be an edifice more worthy of so beautiful a 
position. With regard to the 30th Sonnet it is odd enough that this imagination was realised in 
the year 1840, when I made a tour through that district with my wife and daughter, Miss Fen- 
wick and her niece, and Mr. and Miss Quillinan. Before our return from Seathwaite chapel the 
party separated. Mrs. Wordsworth, while most of us went further up the stream, chose an op- 
posite direction, having told us that we should overtake her on our way to Ulpha. But she was 
tempted out of the main road to ascend a rocky eminence near it, thinking it impossible we should 
pass without seeing her. This, however, unfortunately happened, and then ensued vexation and 
distress, especially to me, which I should be ashamed to have recorded, for I lost my temper en- 
tirely. Neither I nor those that were with me saw her again till we reached the Inn at Broughton, 



THE RIVER DUDDON 



593 



seven miles. This may perhaps in some degree excuse my irritability on the occasion, for I 
could not but think she had been much to blame. It appeared, however, on explanation, that 
she had remained on the rock, calling' out and waving her handkerchief as we were passing, in 
order that we also might ascend and enjoy a prospect which had much charmed her. " But on 
we went, her signals proving vain." How then could she reach Broughton before us ? When 
we found she had not gone on before to Ulpha Kirk, Mr. Quillinan went back in one of the car- 
riages in search of her. He met her on the road, took her up, and by a shorter way conveyed 
her to Broughton, where we were all reunited and spent a happy evening. 

I have many affecting remembrances connected with this stream. Those I forbear to mention ; 
especially things that occurred on its banks during the later part of that visit to the seaside of 
which the former part is detailed in my " Epistle to Sir George Beaumont." 

The River Duddon rises upon Wrynose Fell, on the confines of Westmoreland, Cumberland, 
and Lancashire ; and. having served as a boundary to the two last counties for the space of about 
twenty-five miles, enters the Irish Sea, between the Isle of Walney and the Lordship of Milium. 



TO 

THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH 

(with the sonnets to the river duddon, 
and oiher poems in this collection, 1820) 

1S20. 1820 

The Minstrels played their Christmas tune 
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves ; 
While, smitten by a lofty moon, 
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, 
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, 
That overpowered their natural green. 

Through hill and valley every breeze 

Had sunk to rest with folded wings : 

Keen was the air, but could not freeze, 

Nor check, the music of the strings ; 10 

So stout and hardy were the band 

That scraped the chords with strenuous hand ; 

And who but listened ? — till was paid 
Respect to every Inmate's claim : 
The greeting given, the music played, 
In honour of each household name, 
Duly pronounced with lusty call, 
And " merry Christmas " wished to all 1 

O Brother ! I revere the choice 

That took thee from thy native hills ; 20 

And it is given thee to rejoice : 

Though public care full often tills 

(Heaven only witness of the toil) 

A barren and ungrateful soil. 

Yet, would that Thou, witli me and mine, 

Hadst heard this never-failing rite ; 

And seen on other faces shine 

A true revival of the light 

Which Nature and these rustic Powers, 

In simple childhood, spread through ours. 30 

For pleasure hath not ceased to wait 
On these expected annual rounds ; 
Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate 
Call forth the unelaborate sounds, 
Or they are offered at the door 
That guards the lowliest of the poor. 

How touching, when, at midnight, sweep 

Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark, 

To hear — and sink again to sleep ! 

Or, at an earlier call, to mark, 40 

By blazing fire, the still suspense 

Of self-complacent innocence j 



The mutual nod, — the grave disguise 

Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er ; 

And some unbidden tears that rise 

For names once heard, and heard no more ; 

Tears brightened by the serenade 

For infant in the cradle laid. 

Ah ! not for emerald fields alone, 

With ambient streams more pure and bright 50 

Than fabled Cytherea's zone 

Glittering before the Thunderer's sight, 

Is to my heart of hearts endeared 

The ground where we were born and reared ! 

Hail, ancient Manners ! sure defence, 

Where they survive, of wholesome laws ; 

Remnants of love whose modest sense 

Thus into narrow room withdraws ; 

Hail, Usnges of pristine mould, 

And ye that guard them, Mountains old ! 60 

Bear with me. Brother ! quench the thought 

That slights this passion, or condemns ; 

If thee fond Fancy ever brought 

From the proud margin of the Thames, 

And Lambeth's venerable towers, 

To humbler streams, and greener bowers. 

Yes, they can make, who fail to find, 

Short leisure even in busiest days ; 

Moments, to cast a look behind, 

And profit by those kindly rays 70 

That through the clouds do sometimes steal, 

And all the far-off past reveal. 

Hence, while the imperial City's din 
Beats frequent on thy satiate ear, 
A pleased attention I may win 
To agitations less severe, 
That neither overwhelm nor cloy, 
But fill the hollow vale with joy ! 



I 

1820. 1820 

Not envying Latian shades — if yet they 

throw 
A grateful coolness round that crystal 

Spring, 
Blandusia, prattling as when long ago 
The Sabine Bard was moved her praise to 

sing; 



594 



THE RIVER DUDDON 



Careless of flowers that in perennial blow 
Round the moist marge of Persian fountains 

cling; 
Heedless of Alpine torrents thundering 
Through ice-built arches radiant as heaven's 

bow; 
I seek the birthplace of a native Stream. — 
All hail, ye mountains ! hail, thou morning 

light ! 
Better to breathe at large on this clear 

height 
Than toil in needless sleep from dream to 

dream: 
Pure flow the verse, pure, vigorous, free, 

and bright, 
For Duddon, long-loved Duddon, is my 

tbeme ! 



II 

1820. 1820 

Child of the clouds ! remote from every 

taint 
Of sordid industry thy lot is cast; 
Thine are the honours of the lofty waste 
Not seldom, when with heat the valleys 

faint, 
Thy handmaid Frost with spangled tissue 

quaint 
Thy cradle decks; — to chant thy birth, thou 

hast 
No meaner Poet than the whistling Blast, 
And Desolation is thy Patron-saint ! 
She guards thee, ruthless Power ! who 

would not spare 
Those mighty forests, once the bison's 

screen, 
Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy 

lair 
Through paths and alleys roofed with 

darkest green; 
Thousands of years before the silent air 
Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter 

keen ! 



Ill 

1820. 1820 

How shall I paint thee ? — Be this naked 
stone 

My seat, while I give way to such intent; 

Pleased could my verse, a speaking monu- 
ment, 

Make to the eyes of men thy features known. 



But as of all those tripping lambs not one 
Outruns his fellows, so hath Nature lent 
To thy beginning nought that doth present 
Peculiar ground for hope to build upon. 
To dignify the spot that gives thee birth, 
No sign of hoar Antiquity's esteem 
Appears, and none of modern Fortune's 

care; 
Yet thou thyself hast round thee shed a 

gleam 
Of brilliant moss, instinct with freshness 

rare; 
Prompt offering to thy Foster-mother 

Earth ! 

IV 
1820. 1820 

Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, 

take 
This parting glance, no negligent adieu ! 
A Protean change seems wrought while I 

pursue 
The curves, a loosely-scattered chain doth 

make; 
Or rather thou appear'st a glistering snake, 
Silent, and to the gazer's eye untrue, 
Thridding with sinuous lapse the rushes, 

through 
Dwarf willows gliding, and by ferny brake. 
Starts from a dizzy steep the undaunted Rill 
Robed instantly in garb of snow-white foam; 
And laughing dares the Adventurer, who 

hath clomb 
So high, a rival purpose to fulfil; 
Else let the dastard backward wend, and 

roam, 
Seeking less bold achievement, where he 

will! 

V 
1820. 1820 

Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that 

played 
With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful 

sound 
Wafted o'er sullen moss and craggy 

mound — 
Unfruitful solitudes, that seemed to upbraid 
The sun in heaven ! — but now, to form a 

shade 
For Thee, green alders have together wound 
Their foliage ; ashes flung their arms around; 
And birch-trees risen in silver colonnade. 



THE RIVER DUDDON 



595 



And thou hast also tempted here to rise, 

'Mid sheltering pines, this Cottage rude 
and grey; 

Whose ruddy children, by the mother's 
eyes 

Carelessly watched, sport through the sum- 
mer day, 

Thy pleased associates: — light as endless 
May 

On infant bosoms lonely Nature lies. 



VI 
FLOWERS 

1820. 1820 

Ere yet our course was graced with social 
trees 

It lacked not old remains of hawthorn 
bowers, 

Where small birds warbled to their para- 
mours ; 

And, earlier still, was heard the hum of 
bees ; 

I saw them ply their harmless robberies, 

And caught the fragrance which the sundry 
flowers, 

Fed by the stream with soft perpetual 
showers, 

Plenteously yielded to the vagrant breeze. 

There bloomed the strawberry of the wilder- 
ness; 

The trembling eyebright showed her 
sapphire blue, 

The thyme her purple, like the blush of 
Even; 

And if the breath of some to no caress 

Invited, forth they peeped so fair to view, 

All kinds alike seemed favourites of Heaven. 



VII 

1820. 1820 

" Change me, some God, into that breath- 
ing rose ! " 
The love-sick Stripling fancifully sighs, 
The envied flower beholding, as it lies 
On Laura's breast, in exquisite repose; 
Or he would pass into her bird, that throws 
The darts of song from out its wiry cage; 
Enraptured, — could he for himself engage 
The thousandth part of what the Nymph 
bestows; 



And what the little careless innocent 
Ungraciously receives. Too daring choice ! 
There are whose calmer mind it would 

content 
To be an unculled floweret of the glen, 
Fearless of plough and scythe; or darkling 

wren 
That tunes on Duddon's banks her slender 

voice. 

VIII 

1820. 1820 

What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled, 
First of his tribe, to this dark dell — who first 
In this pellucid Current slaked his thirst ? 
What hopes came with him ? what designs 

were spread 
Along his path ? His unprotected bed 
What dreams encompassed ? Was the in- 
truder nursed 
In hideous usages, and rites accursed, 
That thinned the living and disturbed the 

dead? 
No voice replies ; — both air and earth are 

mute; 
And Thou, blue Streamlet, murmuring 

yield'st no more 
Than a soft record, that, whatever fruit 
Of ignorance thou might'st witness hereto- 
fore, 
Thy function was to heal and to restore, 
To soothe and cleanse, not madden and 
pollute ! 

IX 

THE STEPPING-STONES 

1820. 1820 

The struggling Rill insensibly is grown 
Into a Brook of loud and stately march, 
Crossed ever and anon by plank or arch; 
And, for like use, lo ! what might seem a 

zone 
Chosen for ornament — stone matched with 

stone 
In studied symmetry, with interspace 
For the clear waters to pursue their race 
Without restraint. How swiftly have they 

flown, 
Succeeding — still succeeding ! Here the 

Child 
Puts, when the high-swoln Flood runs fierce 

and wild, 



59^ 



THE RIVER DUDDON 



His budding courage to the proof; and 

here 
Declining Manhood learns to note the sly 
And sure encroachments of infirmity, 
Thinking how fast time runs, life's end 

how near ! 



X 

THE SAME SUBJECT 
1S20. 1820 

Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits 
dance 

With prompt emotion, urging them to 
pass; 

A sweet confusion checks the Shepherd- 
lass; 

Blushing she eyes the dizzy flood askance; 

To stop ashamed — too timid to advance; 

She ventures once again — another pause ! 

His outstretched hand He tauntingly with- 
draws — 

She sues for help with piteous utterance ! 

Chidden she chides again; the thrilling 
touch 

Both feel, when he renews the wished-for 
aid: 

Ah ! if their fluttering hearts should stir 
too much, 

Should beat too strongly, both may be be- 
trayed. 

The frolic Loves, who, from yon high rock, 
see 

The struggle, clap their wings for victory ! 



XI 

THE FAERY CHASM 

1820. 1820 

No fiction was it of the antique age: 

A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft, 

Is of the very footmarks unbereft 

Which tiny Elves impressed; — on that 

smooth stage 
Dancing with all their brilliant equipage 
In secret revels — haply after theft 
Of some sweet Babe — Flower stolen, and 

coarse Weed left 
For the distracted Mother to assuage 
Her grief with, as she might ! — But, 

where, oh ! where 
Is traceable a vestisre of the notes 



That ruled those dances wild in char- 
acter ? — 

Deep underground ? Or in the upper air, 

On the shrill wind of midnight ? or where 
floats 

O'er twilight fields the autumnal gossamer ? 



XII 
HINTS FOR THE FANCY 

1820. 1820 

On, loitering Muse — the swift Stream 

chides us — on ! 
Albeit his deep-worn channel doth immure 
Objects immense portrayed in miniature, 
Wild shapes for many a strange compari- 
son ! 
Niagaras, Alpine passes, and anon 
Abodes of Naiads, calm abysses pure, 
Bright liquid mansions, fashioned to en- 
dure 
When the broad oak drops, a leafless 

skeleton, 
And the solidities of mortal pride, 
Palace and tower, are crumbled into 

dust ! — 
The Bard who walks with Duddon for his 

guide, 
Shall find such toys of fancy thickly set: 
Turn from the sight, enamoured Muse — 

we must; 
And, if thou canst, leave them without 
regret ! 

XIII 
OPEN PROSPECT 

1820. 1820 

Hail to the fields — with Dwellings sprin- 
kled o'er, 

And one small hamlet, under a green hill 

Clustering, with barn and byre, and spout- 
ing mill ! 

A glance suffices ; — should we wish for 
more, 

Gay June would scorn us. But when bleak 
winds roar 

Through the stiff lance-like shoots of pollard 
ash, 

Dread swell of sound ! loud as the gusts 
that lash 

The matted forests of Ontario's shore 



THE RIVER DUDDON 



597 



By wasteful steel unsmitten — then would I 
Turn into port; and, reckless of the gale, 
Reckless of angry Duddon sweeping by, 
While the warm hearth exalts the mantling 

ale, 
Laugh with the generous household heartily 
At all the merry pranks of Donnerdale ! 



XIV 

1806. 1807 

O mountain Stream ! the Shepherd and 

his Cot 
Are privileged Inmates of deep solitude ; 
Nor would the nicest Anchorite exclude 
A field or two of brighter green, or plot 
Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot 
Of stationary sunshine: — thou hast viewed 
These only, Duddon ! with their paths re- 
newed 
By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not. 
Thee hath some awful Spirit impelled to 

leave, 
Utterly to desert, the haunts of men, 
Though simple thy companions were and 

few; 
And through this wilderness a passage 

cleave 
Attended but by thy own voice, save when 
The clouds and fowls of the air thy way 
pursue ! 

XV 
1820. 1820 

From this deep chasm, where quivering 

sunbeams play 
Upon its loftiest crags, mine eyes behold 
A gloomy niche, capacious, blank, and 

cold; 
A concave free from shrubs and mosses 

grey; 
In semblance fresh, as if, with dire affray, 
Some Statue, placed amid these regions old 
For tutelary service, thence had rolled, 
Startling the flight of timid Yesterday ! 
Was it by mortals sculptured ? — weary 

slaves 
Of slow endeavour ! or abruptly cast 
Into rude shape by fire, with roaring blast 
Tempestuously let loose from central caves? 
Or fashioned by the turbulence of waves, 
Then, when o'er highest hills the Deluge 

passed ? 



XVI 
AMERICAN TRADITION 

1820. 1S20 

Such fruitless questions may not long be- 
guile 
Or plague the fancy 'mid the sculptured 

shows 
Conspicuous yet where Oroonoko flows; 
There would the Indian answer with a smile 
Aimed at the White Man's ignorance, the 

while, 
Of the Great Waters telling how they 

rose, 
Covered the plains, and, wandering where 

they chose, 
Mounted through every intricate defile, 
Triumphant — Inundation wide and deep, 
O'er which his Fathers urged, to ridge and 

steep 
Else unapproachable, their buoyant way ; 
And carved, on mural cliff's imdreaded side, 
Sun, moon, and stars, and beast of chase 

or prey; 
Whate'er they sought, slimmed, loved, or 

deified ! 



XVII 

RETURN 

1820. 1820 

A dark plume fetch me from yon blasted 

yew, 
Perched on whose top the Danish Raven 

croaks ; 
Aloft, the imperial Bird of Rome invokes 
Departed ages, shedding where he flew 
Loose fragments of wild wailing, that be- 
strew 
The clouds and thrill the chambers of the 

rocks ; 
And into silence hush the timorous flocks, 
That, calmly couching while the nightly dew 
Moistened each fleece, beneath the twin- 
kling stars 
Slept amid that lone Camp on Hardknot's 

height, 
Whose Guardians bent the knee to Jove 

and Mars: 
Or, near that mystic Round of Druid frame 
Tardily sinking by its proper weight 
Deep into patient Earth, from whose smooth 
breast it came ! 



598 



THE RIVER DUDDON 



XVIII 
SEATHWAITE CHAPEL 

1820. 1820 

Sacred Religion ! " mother of form and 
fear," 

Dread arbitress of mutable respect, 

New rites ordaining when the old are 
wrecked, 

Or cease to please the fickle worshipper; 

Mother of Love ! (that name best suits 
thee here) 

Mother of Love ! for this deep vale, pro- 
tect 

Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright 
effect, 

Gifted to purge the vapoury atmosphere 

That seeks to stitle it; — as in those days 

When this low Pile a Gospel Teacher 
knew, 

Whose good works formed an endless re- 
tinue: 

A Pastor such as Chaucer's verse por- 
trays ; 

Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert 
drew; 

And tender Goldsmith crowned with death- 
less praise ! 



XIX 
TRIBUTARY STREAM 

1820. 1820 

My frame hath often trembled with de- 
light 
When hope presented some far-distant good, 
That seemed from heaven descending, like 

the flood 
Of yon pure waters, from their aery height 
Hurrying, with lordly Duddon to unite; 
Who, 'mid a world of images imprest 
On the calm depth of his transparent 

breast, 
Appears to cherish most that Torrent 

white, 
The fairest, softest, liveliest of them all ! 
And seldom hath ear listened to a tune 
More lulling than the busy hum of Noon, 
Sworn by that voice — whose murmur 

musical 
Announces to the thirsty fields a boon 
Dewy and fresh, till showers again shall 
fall. 



XX 
THE PLAIN OF DONNERDALE 

1820. 1820 

The old inventive Poets, had they seen, 
Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains 
Thy waters, Duddon ! 'mid these flowery 

plains — 
The still repose, the liquid lapse serene, 
Transferred to bowers imperishably green, 
Had beautified Elysium ! But these chains 
Will soon be broken; — a rough course re- 
mains, 
Rough as the past; where Thou, of placid 

mien, 
Innocuous as a firstling of the flock, 
And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky, 
Shalt change thy temper; and, with many 

a shock 
Given and received in mutual jeopardy, 
Dance, like a Bacchanal, from rock to rock, 
Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and high ! 



XXI 

1820. 1820 

Whence that low voice ? — A whisper 

from the heart, 
That told of days long past, when here I 

roved 
With friends and kindred tenderly beloved; 
Some who had early mandates to depart, 
Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart 
By Duddon's side; once more do we unite, 
Once more, beneath the kind Earth's tran- 
quil light; 
And smothered joys into new being start. 
From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall 
Of Time, breaks forth triumphant Memory, 
Her glistening tresses bound, yet light and 

free 
As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall 
On gales that breathe too gently to recall 
Aught of the fading year's inclemency ! 



XXII 
TRADITION 

1820. 1820 

A love-lorn Maid, at some far-distant time, 
Came to this hidden pool, whose depths 
surpass 



THE RIVER DUDDON 



599 



In crystal clearness Dian's looking-glass; 
And, gazing, saw that Rose, which from the 

prime 
Derives its name, reflected, as the chime 
Of echo doth reverberate some sweet sound: 
The starry treasure from the blue profound 
She longed to ravish; — shall she plunge, or 

climb 
The humid precipice, and seize the guest 
Of April, smiling high in upper air ? 
Desperate alternative ! what fiend could 

dare 
To prompt the thought ? — Upon the steep 

rock's breast 
The lonely Primrose yet renews its bloom, 
Untouched memento of her hapless doom ! 



XXIII 

SHEEP WASHING 

1820. 1820 

Sad thoughts, avaunt ! — partake we their 

blithe cheer 
Who gathered in betimes the unshorn flock 
To wash the fleece, where haply bands of 

rock, 
Checking the stream, make a pool smooth 

and clear 
As this we look on. Distant Mountains hear, 
Hear and repeat, the turmoil that unites 
Clamour of boys with innocent despites 
Of barking dogs, and bleatings from strange 

fear. 
And what if Duddon's spotless flood receive 
Unwelcome mixtures as the uncouth noise 
Thickens, the pastoral River will forgive 
Such wrong; nor need we blame the li- 
censed joys, 
Though false to Nature's quiet equipoise: 
Frank are the sports, the stains are fugitive. 

XXIV 
THE RESTING-PLACE 

1820. 1820 

Mid-noon is past; — upon the sultry mead 
No zephyr breathes, no cloud its shadow 

throws : 
If we advance unstrengthened by repose, 
Farewell the solace of the vagrant reed ! 
This Nook — with woodbine hung and 

straggling weed 



Tempting recess as ever pilgrim chose, 
Half grot, half arbour — proffers to en- 
close 
Body and mind, from molestation freed, 
In narrow compass — narrow as itself: 
Or if the Fancy, too industrious Elf, 
Be loth that we should breathe awhile ex- 
empt 
From new incitements friendly to our task, 
Here wants not stealthy prospect, that may 

tempt 
Loose Idless to forego her wily mask. 



XXV 
1820. 1S20 

Methinks 't were no unprecedented feat 
Should some benignant Minister of air 
Lift, and encircle with a cloudy chair, 
The One for whom my heart shall ever 

beat 
With tenderest love ; — or, if a safer seat 
Atween his downy wings be furnished, 

there 
Would lodge her, and the cherished burden 

bear 
O'er hill and valley to this dim retreat ! 
Rough ways my steps have trod ; — too 

rough and long 
For her companionship; here dwells soft 

ease: 
With sweets that she partakes not, some 

distaste 
Mingles, and lurking consciousness of 

wrong; 
Languish the flowers; the waters seem to 

waste 
Their vocal charm; their sparklings cease 

to please. 



XXVI 

1820. 1820 

Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued, 
Even when a child, the Streams — un- 
heard, unseen; 
Through tangled woods, impending rocks 

between; 
Or, free as air, with flying inquest viewed 
The sullen reservoirs whence their bold 

brood — 
Pure as the morning, fretful, boisterous, 
keen, 



6oo 



THE RIVER DUDDON 



Green as the salt-sea billows, white and 

green — 
Poured down the hills, a choral multitude ! 
Nor have I tracked their course for scanty 

gains; 
They taught me random cares and truant 

joys, 

That shield from mischief and preserve 

from stains 
Vague minds, while men are growing out 

of boys; 
Maturer Fancy owes to their rough noise 
Impetuous thoughts that brook not servile 

reins. 



XXVII 

1820. 1820 

Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap, 
Or quietly self-buried in earth's mould, 
Is that embattled House, whose massy 

Keep, 
Flung from yon cliff a shadow large and 

cold. 
There dwelt the gay, the bountiful, the 

bold; 
Till nightly lamentations, like the sweep 
Of winds — though winds were silent — 

struck a deep 
And lasting terror through that ancient 

Hold. 
Its line of Warriors fled; — they shrunk 

when tried 
By ghostly power: — but Time's unsparing 

hand 
Hath plucked such foes, like weeds, from 

out the land; 
And now, if men with men in peace abide, 
All other strength the weakest may with- 
stand, 
All worse assaults may safely be defied. 



XXVIII 

JOURNEY RENEWED 

1820. 1820 

I ROSE while yet the cattle, heat-opprest, 
Crowded together under rustling trees 
Brushed by the current of the water- 
breeze; 
And for their sakes, and love of all that 
rest, 



On Duddon's margin, in the sheltering 

nest; 
For all the startled scaly tribes that slink 
Into his coverts, and each fearless link 
Of dancing insects forged upon his breast; 
For these, and hopes and recollections worn 
Close to the vital seat of human clay; 
Glad meetings, tender partiugs, that up- 

stay 
The drooping mind of absence, by vows 

sworn 
In his pure presence near the trysting 

thorn — 
I thanked the Leader of my onward way. 



XXIX 

1820. 1820 

No record tells of lance opposed to lance, 
Horse charging horse, 'mid these retired 

domains ; 
Tells that their turf drank purple from the 

veins 
Of heroes, fallen, or struggling to advance, 
Till doubtful combat issued in a trance 
Of victory, that struck through heart and 

reins 
Even to the inmost seat of mortal pains, 
And lightened o'er the pallid countenance. 
Yet, to the loyal and the brave, who lie 
In the blank earth, neglected and forlorn, 
The passing Winds memorial tribute pay; 
The Torrents chant their praise, inspiring 

scorn 
Of power usurped ; with proclamation high, 
And glad acknowledgment, of lawful sway. 



XXX 

1820. 1820 

Who swerves from innocence, who makes 
divorce 

Of that serene companion — a good name, 

Recovers not his loss; but walks with 
shame, 

With doubt, with fear, and haply with re- 
morse: 

And oft-times he — who, yielding to the 
force 

Of chance-temptation, ere his journey end, 

From chosen comrade turns, or faithful 
friend — 

In vain shall rue the broken intercourse. 



THE RIVER DUDDON 



601 



Not 



loosely 



the 



to thy 



o with such 

chain 
That binds them, pleasant River ! 

side : — 
Through the rough copse wheel thou with 

hasty stride; 
I choose to saunter o'er the grassy plain, 
Sure, when the separation has been tried, 
That we, who part in love, shall meet 

again. 



XXXI 

1820. 1820 

TnE Kirk of Ulpha to the pilgrim's eye 
Is welcome as a star, that doth present 
Its shining forehead through the peaceful 

rent 
Of a black cloud diffused o'er half the 

sky: 
Or as a fruitful palm-tree towering high 
O'er the parched waste beside an Arab's 

tent ; 
Or the Indian tree whose branches, down- 
ward bent, 
Take root again, a boundless canopy. 
How sweet were leisure ! could it yield no 

more 
Than 'mid that wave-washed Churchyard 

to recline, 
From pastoral graves extracting thoughts 

divine ; 
Or there to pace, and mark the summits 

hoar 
Of distant moonlit mountains faintly shine, 
Soothed by the unseen River's gentle roar. 



XXXII 

1820. 1820 

Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep ; 
Lingering no more 'mid flower-enamelled 

lands 
And blooming thickets ; nor by rocky bands 
Held; but in radiant progress toward the 

Deep 
Where mightiest rivers into powerless sleep 
Sink, and forget their nature — now expands 
Majestic Duddon, over smooth flat sands 
Gliding in silence with unfettered sweep ! 
Beneath an ampler sky a region wide 
Is opened round him : — hamlets, towers, 

and towns, 



And blue-topped hills, behold him from 

afar; 
In stately mien to sovereign Thames allied, 
Spreading his bosom under Kentish downs, 
With commerce freighted, or triumphant 

war. 



• XXXIII 

CONCLUSION 

1820. 1820 

But here no cannon thunders to the gale; 
Upon the wave no haughty pendants cast 
A crimson splendour: lowly is the mast 
That rises here, and humbly spread, the 

sail; 
While, less disturbed than in the narrow 

Vale 
Through which with strange vicissitudes he 

passed, 
The Wanderer seeks that receptacle vast 
Where all his unambitious functions fail 
And may thy Poet, cloud-born Stream ! be 

free — 
The sweets of earth contentedly resigned, 
And each tumultuous working left behind 
At seemly distance — to advance like Thee ; 
Prepared, in peace of heart, in calm of mind 
And soul, to mingle with Eternity ! 



XXXIV 
AFTER-THOUGHT 

1820. 1820 

/ THO UGHTof Thee, my partner and my guide, 
As being past away. — Vain sympathies ! 
For, backward, Duddon, as I cast my eyes, 
1 see what was, and is, and ivill abide; 
Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever 

glide; 
The Form remains, the Function never dies; 
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise, 
We Men, who in our morn of youth defied 
The elements, must vanish; — be it so 1 
Enough, if something from our hands have 

power 
To live, and act, and serve the future hour; 
A nd if, as toward the silent tomb we go, 
Through love, through hope, and faith 1 's tran~ 

scendent dower, 
We feel that we are greater than we know. 



602 



A PARSONAGE IN OXFORDSHIRE 



A PARSONAGE IN OXFORD- 
SHIRE 

1S20. 1822 

This Parsonage was the residence of my 
friend Jones, and is particularly described in 
another note. 

Where holy ground begins, unhallowed 
ends, * 

Is marked by no distinguishable line; 

The turf unites, the pathways intertwine; 

And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep 
tends, 

Garden, and that domain where kindred, 
friends, 

And neighbours rest together, here con- 
found 

Their several features, mingled like the 
sound 

Of many waters, or as evening blends 

With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub 
and flower, 

Waft fragrant greetings to each silent 
grave; 

And while those lofty poplars gently 
wave 

Their tops, between them comes and goes 
a sky 

Bright as the glimpses of eternity, 

To saints accorded in their mortal hour. 



TO ENTERPRISE 

1S20. 1822 

Keep for the Young the impassioned smile 
Shed from thy countenance, as I see thee 

stand 
High on that chalky cliff of Britain's Isle, 
A slender volume grasping in thy hand — 
(Perchance the pages that relate 
The various turns of Crusoe's fate) — 
Ah, spare the exulting smile, 
And drop thy pointing finger bright 
As the first flash of beacon light; 
But neither veil thy head in shadows dim, 10 
Nor turn thy face away 
From One who, in the evening of his day, 
To thee would offer no presumptuous 

hymn ! 



Bold Spirit ! who art free to rove 
Among the starry courts of Jove, 



And oft in splendour dost appear 

Embodied to poetic eyes, 

While traversing this nether sphere, 

Where Mortals call thee Enterprise. 

Daughter of Hope ! her favourite Child, 20 

Whom she to young Ambition bore, 

When hunter's arrow first defiled 

The grove, and stained the turf with gore; 

Thee winged Fancy took, and nursed 

On broad Euphrates' palmy shore, 

And where the mightier Waters burst 

From caves of Indian mountains hoar ! 

She wrapped thee in a panther's skin; 

And Thou, thy favourite food to win, 

The flame-eyed eagle oft wouldst scare 30 

From her rock-fortress in mid air, 

With infant shout; and often sweep, 

Paired with the ostrich, o'er the plain; 

Or, tired with sport, woiddst sink asleep 

Upon the couchant lion's mane ! 

With rolling years thy strength increased 

And, far beyond thy native East, 

To thee, by varying titles known 

As variously thy power was shown, 

Did incense-bearing altars rise, 40 

Which caught the blaze of sacrifice, 

From suppliants panting for the skies ! 



What though this ancient Earth be trod 

No more by step of Demi-god 

Mounting from glorious deed to deed 

As thou from clime to clime didst lead; 

Yet still, the bosom beating high, 

And the hushed farewell of an eye 

Where no procrastinating gaze 

A last infirmity betrays, 50 

Prove that thy heaven-descended sway 

Shall ne'er submit to cold decay. 

By thy divinity impelled, 

The Stripling seeks the tented field; 

The aspiring Virgin kneels; and, pale 

With awe, receives the hallowed veil, 

A soft and tender Heroine 

Vowed to severer discipline; 

Inflamed by thee, the blooming Boy 

Makes of the whistling shrouds a toy, 60 

And of the ocean's dismal breast 

A play-ground, — or a couch of rest; 

'Mid the blank world of snow and ice, 

Thou to his dangers dost enchain 

The Chamois-chaser awed in vain 

By chasm or dizzy precipice; 

And hast Thou not with triumph seen 

How soaring: Mortals glide between 



TO ENTERPRISE 



603 



Or through the clouds, and brave the light 
With bolder than Icarian flight ? 70 

How they, in bells of crystal, dive — 
Where winds and waters cease to strive — 
For no unholy visitings, 
Among the monsters of the Deep; 
And all the sad and precious things 
Which there in ghastly silence sleep ? 
Or, adverse tides and currents headed, 
And breathless calms no longer dreaded, 
In never-slackening voyage go 
Straight as an arrow from the bow; 80 

And, slighting sails and scorning oars, 
Keep faith with Time on distant shores ? 

— Within our fearless reach are placed 
The secrets of the burning Waste; 
Egyptian tombs unlock their dead, 
Nile trembles at his fountain head; 
Thou speak'st — and lo ! the polar Seas 
Unbosom their last mysteries. 

— But oh ! what transports, what sublime 

reward, 
Won from the world of mind, dost thou 

prepare 90 

For philosophic Sage; or high-souled Bard 
Who, for thy service trained in lonely 

woods, 
Hath fed on pageants floating through the 

air, 
Or calentured in depth of limpid floods; 
Nor grieves — tho' doomed thro' silent 

night to bear 
The domination of his glorious themes, 
Or struggle in the net-work of thy dreams ! 



If there be movements in the Patriot's 
soul, 

From source still deeper, and of higher 
worth, 

'T is thine the quickening impulse to con- 
trol, 100 

And in due season send the mandate 
forth; 

Thy call a prostrate Nation can restore, 

When but a single Mind resolves to crouch 
no more. 



Dread Minister of wrath ! 

Who to their destined punishment dost 
urge 

The Pharaohs of the earth, the men of hard- 
ened heart ! 

Not unassisted by the flattering stars, 



Thou strew'st temptation o'er the path 
When they in pomp depart 109 

With trampling horses and refulgent cars — 
Soon to be swallowed by the briny surge; 
Or cast, for lingering death, on unknown 

strands ; 
Or caught amid a whirl of desert sands — 
An Army now, and now a living hill 
That a brief while heaves with convulsive 

throes — 
Then all is still ; 
Or, to forget their madness and their 

woes, 
Wrapt in a winding-sheet of spotless snows ! 



Back flows the willing current of my 

Song: 
If to provoke sxich doom the Impious 

dare, 120 

Why should it daunt a blameless prayer ? 
— Bold Goddess ! range our Youth among; 
Nor let thy genuine impulse fail to beat 
In hearts no longer young; 
Still may a veteran Few have pride 
In thoughts whose sternness makes them 

sweet; 
In fixed resolves by Reason justified; 
That to their object cleave like sleet 
Whitening a pine tree's northern side, 
When fields are naked far and wide, 130 
And withered leaves, from earth's cold 

breast 
Up-caught in whirlwinds, nowhere can find 

rest. 

VI 

But, if such homage thou disdain 
As doth with mellowing years agree, 
One rarely absent from thy train 
More humble favours may obtain 
For thy contented Votary. 
She, who incites the frolic lambs 
In presence of their heedless dams, 
And to the solitary fawn 140 

Vouchsafes her lessons, bounteous Nymph 
That wakes the breeze, the sparkling lymph 
Doth hurry to the lawn; 
She, who inspires that strain of joyance holy 
Which the sweet Bird, misnamed the mel- 
ancholy, 
Pours forth in shady groves, shall plead for 

me; 
And vernal mornings opening bright 
With views of undefined delight, 



604 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



And cheerful songs, and suns that shine 
On busy days, with thankful nights, be 



But thou, O Goddess ! in thy favourite Isle 

(Freedom's impregnable redoubt, 

The wide earth's store-house fenced about 



With breakers roaring to the gales 
That stretch a thousand thousand sails) 
Quicken the slothful, and exalt the vile ! — 
Thy impulse is the life of Fame; 
Glad Hope would almost cease to be 
If torn from thy society; 
And Love, when worthiest of his name, :6o 
Is proud to walk the earth with Thee ! 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



IN SERIES 
1821. 1822 

My purpose in writing 1 this Series was, as much as possible, to confine my view to the introduction, 
progress, and operation of the Church in England, both previous and subsequent to the Reformation. 
The Sonnets were written long before ecclesiastical history and points of doctrine had excited the 
interest with whicli they have been recently enquired into and discussed. The former particular 
is mentioned as an excuse for my having fallen into error in respect to an incident which had been 
selected as setting forth the height to which the power of the Popedom over temporal sovereignty 
had attained, and the arrogance with which it was displayed. I allude to the last Sonnet but 
one in the first series, where Pope Alexander the third at Venice is described as setting his foot 
on the neck of the Emperor Barbarossa. Though this is related as a fact in history, I am told it 
is a mere legend of no authority. Substitute for it an undeniable truth not less fitted for my 
purpose, namely, the penance inflicted by Gregory the Seventh upon the Emperor Henry the 
Fourth. 

Before I conclude my notice of these Sonnets, let me observe that the opinion I pronounced in 
favour of Laud (long before the Oxford Tract movement) and which had brought censure upon 
me from several quarters, is not in the least changed. Omitting here to examine into his conduct 
in respect to the persecuting spirit with which he has been charged, I am persuaded that most of 
his aims to restore ritual practices which had been abandoned were good and wise, whatever errors 
he might commit in the manner he sometimes attempted to enforce them. I further believe that, 
had not he, and others who shared his opinions and felt as he did, stood up in opposition to the 
reformers of that period, it is questionable whether the Church would ever have recovered its lost 
ground and become the blessing it now is, and will, I trust, become in a still greater degree, both 
to those of its communion and to those who unfortunately are separated from it. 



PART I 

FROM THE INTRODUCTION OF CHRIS- 
TIANITY INTO BRITAIN, TO THE 
CONSUMMATION OF THE PAPAL 
DOMINION 

" A verse may catch a wandering Soul, that flies 
Profounder Tracts, and by a blest surprise 
Convert delight into a Sacrifice." 



INTRODUCTION 

1821. 1822 

I, who accompanied with faithful pace 
Cerulean Duddon from his cloud-fed spring, 
And loved with spirit ruled by his to sing 
Of mountain quiet and boon nature's grace; 



I, who essayed the nobler Stream to 

trace 
Of Liberty, and smote the plausive string 
Till the checked torrent, proudly triumph- 
ing, 
Won for herself a lasting resting-place ; 
Now seek iipon the heights of Time the 

source 
Of a Holy River, on whose banks are 

found 
Sweet pastoral flowers, and laurels that 

have crowned 
Full oft the unworthy brow of lawless 

force ; 
And, for delight of him who tracks its 

course, 
Immortal amaranth and palms abound. 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



605 



CONJECTURES 
1821. 1822 

If there be prophets on whose spirits rest 
Past things, revealed like future, they can 

tell 
What Powers, presiding o'er the sacred well 
Of Christian Faith, this savage Island 

blessed 
With its first bounty. Wandering through 

the west, 
Did holy Paul a while in Britain dwell, 
And call the Foimtain forth by miracle, 
And with dread signs the nascent Stream 

invest ? 
Or He, whose bonds dropped off, whose 

prison doors 
Flew open, by an Angel's voice unbarred ? 
Or some of humbler name, to these wild 

shores 
Storm-driven; who, having seen the cup of 

woe 
Pass from their Master, sojourned here to 

guard 
The precious Current they had taught to 

flow? 



TREPIDATION OF THE DRUIDS 
1821. 1822 

Screams round the Arch-druid's brow the 

seamew — white 
As Menai's foam; and toward the mystic 

ring 
Where Augurs stand, the Future question- 
ing 
Slowly the cormorant aims her heavy flight, 
Portending ruin to each baleful rite, 
That, in the lapse of ages, hath crept o'er 
Diluvian truths, and patriarchal lore. 
Haughty the Bard: can these meek doctrines 

blight 
His transports ? wither his heroic strains ? 
But all shall be fulfilled; — the Julian 

spear 
A way first opened; and, with Roman 

chains, 
The tidings come of Jesus crucified; 
They come — they spread — the weak, the 

suffering, hear; 
Receive the faith, and hi the hope abide. 



DRUIDICAL EXCOMMUNICATION 

1821. 1822 

Mercy and Love have met thee on thy road, 
Thou wretched Outcast, from the gift of 

fire 
And food cut off by sacerdotal ire, 
From every sympathy that Man bestowed ! 
Yet shall it claim our reverence, that to God, 
Ancient of days ! that to the eternal Sire, 
These jealous Ministers of law aspire, 
As to the one sole fount whence wisdom 

flowed, 
Justice, and order. Tremblingly escaped, 
As if with prescience of the coming storm, 
That intimation when the stars were shaped; 
And still, 'mid yon thick woods, the primal 

truth 
Glimmers through many a superstitious 

form 
That fills the Soul with unavailing ruth. 



UNCERTAINTY 

1821. 1822 

Darkness surrounds us; seeking, we are 

lost 
On Snowdon's wilds, amid Brigantian coves, 
Or where the solitary shepherd roves 
Along the plain of Sarum, by the ghost 
Of Time and shadows of Tradition, crost; 
And where the boatman of the Western 

Isles 
Slackens his course — to mark those holy 

piles 
Which yet survive on bleak Iona's coast. 
Nor these, nor monuments of eldest name, 
Nor Taliesin's unforgotten lays, 
Nor characters of Greek or Roman fame, 
To an unquestionable Source have led; 
Enough — if eyes, that sought the fountain- 
head 
In vain, upon the growing Rill may gaze. 

VI 

PERSECUTION 

1821. 1822 

Lament 1 for Diocletian's fiery sword 
Works busy as the lightning; but instinct 



6o6 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



With malice ne'er to deadliest weapon 

linked 
Which God's ethereal store-houses afford: 
Against the Followers of the incarnate Lord 
It rages; some are smitten in the field — 
Some pierced to the heart through the in- 
effectual shield 
Of sacred home ; — with pomp are others 

gored 
And dreadful respite. Thus was Alban 

tried, 
England's first Martyr, whom no threats 

could shake; 
Self-offered victim, for his friend he died, 
And for the faith; nor shall his name for- 
sake 
That Hill, whose flowery platform seems 

to rise 
By Nature decked for holiest sacrifice. 



VII 
RECOVERY 

1821. 1822 

As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds 

regain 
Their cheerfulness, and busily retrim 
Their nests, or chant a gratulating hymn 
To the blue ether and bespangled plain; 
Even so, in many a re-constructed fane, 
Have the survivors of this Storm renewed 
Their holy rites with vocal gratitude: 
And solemn ceremonials they ordain 
To celebrate their great deliverance; 
Most feelingly instructed 'mid their fear — 
That persecution, blind with rage extreme, 
May not the less, through Heaven's mild 

countenance, 
Even in her own despite, both feed and 

cheer; 
For all things are less dreadful than they 

seem. 



TEMPTATIONS FROM ROMAN REFINE- 
MENTS 

1821. 1822 

Watch, and be firm ! for, soul-subduing 

vice, 
Heart-killing luxury, on your steps await. 
Fair houses, baths, and banquets delicate, 
And temples flashing, bright as polar ice, 



Their radiance through the woods — may 

yet suffice 
To sap your hardy virtue, and abate 
Your love of Him upon whose forehead sate 
The crown of thorns; whose life-blood 

flowed, the price 
Of your redemption. Shun the insidious arts 
That Rome provides, less dreading from 

her frown 
Than from her wily praise, her peaceful 

gown, 
Language, and letters; — these, though 

fondly viewed 
As humanising graces, are but parts 
And instruments of deadliest servitude ! 

IX 

DISSENSIONS 

1821. 1822 

That heresies should strike (if truth be 

scanned 
Presumptuously) their roots both wide and 

deep, 
Is natural as dreams to feverish sleep. 
Lo ! Discord at the altar dares to stand 
Uplifting toward high Heaven her fiery 

brand, 
A cherished Priestess of the new-baptized ! 
But chastisement shall follow peace de- 
spised. 
The Pictish cloud darkens the enervate land 
By Rome abandoned j vain are suppliant 

cries, 
And prayers that would undo her forced 

farewell ; 
For she returns not. — Awed by her own 

knell, 
She casts the Britons upon strange Allies 
Soon to become more dreaded enemies 
Than heartless misery called them to repel. 



STRUGGLE OF THE BRITONS AGAINST 
THE BARBARIANS 

1821. 1822 

Rise ! — they have risen: of brave Aneurin 

ask 
How they have scourged old foes, perfidious 

friends : 
The Spirit of Caractacus descends 
Upon the Patriots, animates their task; — 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



607 



Amazement runs before the towering casque 
Of Arthur, bearing through the stormy field 
The virgin sculptured on his Christian 

shield : — 
Stretched in the sunny light of victory 

bask 
The Host that followed Urien as he strode 
O'er heaps of slain; — from Cambrian wood 

and moss 
Druids descend, auxiliars of the Cross; 
Bards, nursed on blue Plinlimmon's still 

abode, 
Rush on the fight, to harps preferring 

swords, 
And everlasting deeds to burning words ! 



XI 

SAXON CONQUEST 

1821. 1822 

Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid 
Of hallelujahs tost from hill to hill — 
For instant victory. But Heaven's high 

will 
Permits a second and a darker shade 
Of Pagan night. Afflicted and dismayed, 
The Relics of the sword flee to the moun- 
tains : 
wretched Land ! whose tears have flowed 

like fountains; 
Whose arts and honours in the dust are laid 
By men yet scarcely conscious of a care 
For other monuments than those of Earth; 
Who, as the fields and woods have given 

them birth, 
Will build their savage fortunes only there ; 
Content, if foss, and barrow, and the girth 
Of long-drawn rampart, witness what they 
were. 

XII 

MONASTERY OF OLD BANGOR 

1821. 1822 

The oppression of the tumult — wrath and 

scorn — 
The tribulation — and the gleaming blades — 
Such is the impetuous spirit that pervades 
The song of Taliesin; — Ours shall mourn 
The unarmed Host who by their prayers 

would turn 
The sword from Bangor's walls, and guard 

the store 
Of Aboriginal and Roman lore, 



And Christian monuments, that now must 
burn 

To senseless ashes. Mark ! how all things 
swerve 

From their known course, or vanish like a 
dream; 

Another language spreads from coast to 
coast; 

Only perchance some melancholy Stream 

And some indignant Hills old names pre- 
serve, 

When laws, and creeds, and people all are 
lost! 

XIII 

CASUAL INCITEMENT 

1821. 1822 

A bright-haired company of youthful 

slaves, 
Beautiful strangers, stand within the pale 
Of a sad market, ranged for public sale, 
Where Tiber's stream the immoi*tal City 

laves : 
Angli by name; and not an Angel waves 
His wing who could seem lovelier to man's 

eye 
Than they appear to holy Gregory; 
Who, having learnt that name, salvation 

craves 
For Them, and for their Land. The ear- 
nest Sire, 
His questions urging, feels, in slender ties 
Of chiming sound, commanding sympathies; 
De-irians — he would save them from 

God's Ire; 
Subjects of Saxon .ZElla — they shall sing 
Glad HALLE-lujahs to the eternal King ! 



GLAD TIDINGS 

1821. 1822 

For ever hallowed be this morning fair, 
Blest be the unconscious shore on which 

ye tread, 
And blest the silver Cross, which ye, instead 
Of martial banner, in procession bear; 
The Cross preceding Him who floats in air, 
The pictured Saviour ! — By Augustin led, 
They come — and onward travel without 

dread, 
Chanting in barbarous ears a tuneful 

prayer — 



6o8 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



Sung for themselves, and those whom they 
would free ! 

Rich conquest waits them: — the tempestu- 
ous sea 

Of Ignorance, that ran so rough and high 

And heeded not the voice of clashing 
swords, 

These good men humble by a few bare 
words, 

And cakn with fear of God's divinity. 

XV 

PAULINUS 

1821. 1822 

But, to remote Northumbrian roj^al Hall, 
Where thoughtful Edwin, tutored in the 

school 
Of sorrow, still maintains a heathen rule, 
Who comes with functions apostolical ? 
Mark him, of shoulders curved, and stature 

tall, 
Black hair, and vivid eye, and meagre 

cheek, 
His prominent feature like an eagle's beak; 
A Man whose aspect dotli at once appal 
And strike with reverence. The Monarch 

leans 
Toward the pure truths this Delegate pro- 
pounds, 
Repeatedly his own deep mind he sounds 
With careful hesitation, — then convenes 
A synod of his Councillors: — give ear, 
And what a pensive Sage doth utter, hear ! 

XVI 

PERSUASION 

1821. 1822 

" Man's life is like a Sparrow, mighty 

King ! 
That — while at banquet with your Chiefs 

you sit 
Housed near a blazing fire — is seen to flit 
Safe from the wintry tempest. Fluttering, 
Here did it enter; there, on hasty wing, 
Flies out, and passes on from cold to cold; 
But whence it came we know not, nor be- 
hold 
Whither it goes. Even such, that transient 

Thing, 
The human Soul; not utterly unknown 
While in the Body lodged, her warm abode ; 



But from what world She came, what woe 

or weal 
On her departure waits, no tongue hath 

shown ; 
This mystery if the Stranger can reveal, 
His be a welcome cordially bestowed ! " 



CONVERSION 
1821. 1822 

Prompt transformation works the novel 

Lore; 
The Council closed, the Priest in full career 
Rides forth, an armed man, and hurls a 

spear 
To desecrate the Fane which heretofore 
He served in folly. Woden falls, and Thor 
Is overturned; the mace, in battle heaved 
(So might they dream) till victory was 

achieved, 
Drops, and the God himself is seen no 

more. 
Temple and Altar sink, to hide their shame 
Amid oblivious weeds. " come to me, 
Ye heavy laden ! " such the inviting voice 
Heard near fresh streams; and thousands, 

who rejoice 
In the new Rite, the pledge of sanctity, 
Shall, by regenerate life, the promise claim. 

XVIII 
APOLOGY 
1821. 1822 

Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth 

lend 
The Soul's eternal interests to promote: 
Death, darkness, danger, are our natural 

lot; 
And evil Spirits may our walk attend 
For aught the wisest know or comprehend; 
Then be good Spirits free to breathe a note 
Of elevation; let their odours float 
Around these Converts; and their glories 

blend, 
The midnight stars outshining, or the blaze 
Of the noon-day. Nor doubt that golden 

cords 
Of good works, mingling with the visions, 

raise 
The Soul to purer worlds: and who the 

line 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



609 



Shall draw, the limits of the power define, 
That even imperfect faith to man affords ? 

XIX 

PRIMITIVE SAXON CLERGY 

I82I. 1822 

How beautiful your presence, how benign, 
Servants of God ! who not a thought will 

share 
With the vain world; who, outwardly as 

bare 
As winter trees, yield no fallacious sign 
That the firm soul is clothed with fruit 

divine ! 
Such Priest, when service worthy of his 

care 
Has called him forth to breathe the com- 
mon air, 
Might seem a saintly Image from its shrine 
Descended: — happy are the eyes that 

meet 
The Apparition; evil thoughts are stayed 
At his approach, and low-bowed necks 

entreat 
A benediction from his voice or hand ; 
Whence grace, through which the heart 

can understand, 
And vows, that bind the will, in silence 

made. 

xx 

OTHER INFLUENCES 
1821. 1822 

Ah, when the Body, round which in love 

we clung, 
Is chilled by death, does mutual service 

fail? 
Is tender pity then of no avail ? 
Are intercessions of the fervent tongue 
A waste of hope ? — From this sad source 

have sprung 
Rites that console the Spirit, under grief 
Which ill can brook more rational relief: 
Hence, prayers are shaped amiss, and 

dirges sung 
For Souls whose doom is fixed ! The way 

is smooth 
For Power that travels with the human 

heart: 
Confession ministers the pang to soothe 
In him who at the ghost of guilt doth 

start. 



Ye holy Men, so earnest in your care, 
Of your own mighty instruments beware ! 



SECLUSION 
1821. 1822 

Lance, shield, and sword relinquished, at 

his side 
A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book, 
Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's 

crook, 
The war-worn Chieftain quits the world — 

to hide 
His thin autumnal locks where Monks abide 
In cloistered privacy. But not to dwell 
In soft repose he comes: within his cell, 
Round the decaying trunk of human pride, 
At morn, and eve, and midnight's silent 

hour, 
Do penitential cogitations cling; 
Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they 

twine 
In grisly folds and strictures serpentine ; 
Yet, while they strangle, a fair growth they 

bring, 
For recompence — their own perennial 

bower. 

XXII 
CONTINUED 

1S21. 1822 

Methinks that to some vacant hermitage 
My feet would rather turn — to some dry 

nook 
Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook 
Hurled down a mountain-cove from stage 

to stage, 
Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling 

rage 
In the soft heaven of a translucent pool; 
Thence creeping under sylvan arches cool, 
Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage 
Woidd elevate my dreams. A beechen bowl, 
A maple dish, my furniture should be; 
Crisp, yellow leaves my bed; the hooting 

owl 
My night-watch: nor should e'er the crested 

fowl 
From thorp or vill his matins sound for 

me, 
Tired of the world and all its industry. 



6io 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



XXIII 
REPROOF 
1821. 1822 

But what if One, through grove or flowery 

mead, 
Indulging thus at will the creeping feet 
Of a voluptuous indolence, should meet 
Thy hovering Shade, O venerable Bede ! 
The saint, the scholar, from a circle freed 
Of toil stupendous, in a hallowed seat 
Of learning, where thou heard'st the billows 

beat 
On a wild coast, rough monitors to feed 
Perpetual industry. Sublime Recluse ! 
The recreant soul, that dares to shun the 

debt 
Imposed on human kind, must first forget 
Thy diligence, thy unrelaxing use 
Of a long life ; and, in the hour of death, 
The last dear service of thy passing breath ! 



XXIV 

SAXON MONASTERIES, AND LIGHTS 
AND SHADES OF THE RELIGION 

1 82 1. 1822 

By such examples moved to unbought pains, 
The people work like congregated bees; 
Eager to build the quiet Fortresses 
Where Piety, as they believe, obtains 
From Heaven a general blessing : timely rains 
Or needf id sunshine ; prosperous enterprise, 
Justice and peace: — bold faith! yet also 

rise 
The sacred Structures for less doubtful 

gains. 
The Sensual think with reverence of the 

palms 
Which the chaste Votaries seek, beyond the 

grave 
If penance be redeemable, thence alms 
Flow to the poor, and freedom to the slave ; 
And if fidl oft the Sanctuary save 
Lives black with guilt, ferocity it calms. 



XXV 

MISSIONS AND TRAVELS 

1821. 1822 

Not sedentary all: there are who roam 
To scatter seeds of life on barbarous shores; 



Or quit with zealous step their knee-worn 

floors 
To seek the general mart of Christendom; 
Whence they, like richly-laden merchants, 

come 
To their beloved cells : — or shall we say 
That, like the Red-cross Knight, they urge 

their way, 
To lead ha memorable triumph home 
Truth, their immortal Una ? Babylon, 
Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, 
Nor leaves her Speech one word to aid the 

sigh 
That would lament her ; — Memphis, Tyre, 

are gone 
With all their Arts, — but classic lore glides 

on 
By these Religious saved for all posterity. 



ALFRED 

1821. 1822 

Behold a pupil of the monkish gown, 
The pious Alfred, King to Justice dear ! 
Lord of the harp and liberating spear; 
Mirror of Princes ! Indigent Renown 
Might range the starry ether for a crown 
Equal to his deserts, who, like the year, 
Pours forth his bounty, like the day doth 

cheer, 
And awes like night with mercy-tempered 

frown. 
Ease from this noble miser of his time 
No moment steals; pain narrows not his 

cares. 
Though small his kingdom as a spark or 

gem, 
Of Alfred boasts remote Jerusalem, 
And Christian India, through her wide- 
spread clime, 
In sacred converse gifts with Alfred shares. 

XXVII 

HIS DESCENDANTS 

1821. 1822 

When thy great soul was freed from mortal 

chains, 
Darling of England ! many a bitter shower 
Fell on thy tomb; but emulative power 
Flowed in thy line through undegenerate 

veins. 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



6n 



The Race of Alfred covet glorious pains 
When dangers threaten, dangers ever new ! 
Black tempests bursting, blacker still in 

view ! 
But manly sovereignty its hold retains; 
The root sincere, the branches bold to strive 
With the fierce tempest, while, within the 

round 
Of their protection, gentle virtues thrive ; 
As oft, 'mid some green plot of open ground, 
Wide as the oak extends its dewy gloom, 
The fostered hyacinths spread their purple 

bloom. 



INFLUENCE ABUSED 

1821. 1822 

Urged by Ambition, who with subtlest skill 
Changes her means, the Enthusiast as a 

dupe 
Shall soar, and as a hypocrite can stoop, 
And turn the instruments of good to ill, 
Mouldmg the credulous people to his will. 
Such Dunstan: — from its Benedictine coop 
Issues the master Mind, at whose fell swoop 
The chaste affections tremble to fulfil 
Their purposes. Behold, pre-signified, 
The Might of spiritual sway ! his thoughts, 

his dreams, 
Do in the supernatural world abide: 
So vaunt a throng of Followers, filled with 

pride 
In what they see of virtues pushed to 

extremes, 
And sorceries of talent misapplied. 



XXIX 

DANISH CONQUESTS 

1821. 1822 

Woe to the Crown that doth the Cowl 

obey ! 
Dissension, checking arms that would re- 
strain 
The incessant Rovers of the northern main, 
Helps to restore and spread a Pagan sway: 
But Gospel-truth is potent to allay 
Fierceness and rage; and soon the cruel 

Dane 
Feels, through the influence of her gentle 

reign, 
His native superstitions melt away. 



Thus, often, when thick gloom the east 

o'ershrouds, 
The full-orbed Moon, slow climbing, doth 

appear 
Silently to consume the heavy clouds; 
How no one can resolve; but every eye 
Around her sees, while air is hushed, a 

clear 
And widening circuit of ethereal sky. 

XXX 

CANUTE 

1821. 1822 

A pleasant music floats along the Mere, 
From Monks in Ely chanting service high, 
While-as Canute the King is rowing by: 
" My Oarsmen," quoth the mighty King, 

" draw near, 
That we the sweet song of the Monks may 

hear ! " 
He listens (all past conquests, and all 

schemes 
Of future, vanishing like empty dreams) 
Heart-touched, and haply not without a 

tear. 
The Royal Minstrel, ere the choir is still, 
While his free Barge skims the smooth 

flood along, 
Gives to that rapture an accordant Rhyme. 
O suffering Earth ! be thankful: sternest 

clime 
And rudest age are subject to the thrill 
Of heaven-descended Piety and Song. 



XXXI 

THE NORMAN CONQUEST 
1821. 1822 

The woman-hearted Confessor prepares 

The evanescence of the Saxon line. 

Hark ! 't is the tolling Curfew I — the stars 
shine; 

But of the lights that cherish household 
cares 

And festive gladness, burns not one that 
dares 

To twinkle after that dull stroke of thine, 

Emblem and instrument, from Thames to 
Tyne, 

Of force that daunts, and cunning that en- 
snares ! 



6l2 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



Yet as the terrors of the lordly bell, 

That quench, from hut to palace, lamps and 

fires, 
Touch not the tapers of the sacred quires; 
Even so a thraldom, studious to expel 
Old laws, and ancient customs to derange, 
To Creed or Ritual brings no fatal change. 

XXXII 

1821. 1837 

Coldly we spake. The Saxons, over- 
powered 

By wrong triumphant through its own ex- 
cess, 

From fields laid waste, from house and 
home devoured 

By flames, look up to heaven and crave re- 
dress 

From God's eternal justice. Pitiless 

Though men be, there are angels that can feel 

For wounds that death alone has powei? to 
heal, 

For penitent guilt, and innocent distress. 

And has a Champion risen hi arms to try 

His Country's virtue, fought, and breathes 
no more; 

Him in their hearts the people canonize; 

And far above the mine's most precious ore 

The least small pittance of bare mould they 
prize 

Scooped from the sacred earth where his 
dear relics lie. 

XXXIII 

THE COUNCIL OF CLERMONT 

1821. 1822 

" And shall," the Pontiff asks, " profane- 

ness flow 
From Nazareth — source of Christian piety, 
From Bethlehem, from the Mounts of 

Agony 
And glorified Ascension ? Warriors, go, 
With prayers and blessings we your path 

will sow; 
Like Moses hold our hands erect, till ye 
Have chased far off by righteous victory 
These sons of Amalek, or laid them 

low ! " — 
" God willeth it," the whole assembly 

cry; 
Shout which the enraptured multitude as- 
tounds ! 



The Council-roof and Clermont's towers 

reply; — 
" God willeth it," from hill to hill rebounds, 
And, in awe-stricken Countries far and nigh, 
Through " Nature's hollow arch " that voice 

resounds. 

XXXIV 

CRUSADES 

1821. 1822 

The turbaned Race are poured in thicken- 
ing swarms 

Along the west; though driven from Aqui- 
taine, 

The Crescent glitters on the towers of Spain; 

And soft Italia feels renewed alarms; 

The scimitar, that yields not to the charms 

Of ease, the narrow Bosphorus will disdain ; 

Nor long (that crossed) would Grecian hills 
detain 

Their tents, and check the current of their 
arms. 

Then blame not those who, by the mightiest 
lever 

Known to the moral world, Imagination, 

Upheave, so seems it, from her natural sta- 
tion 

All Christendom: — they sweep along (was 
never 

So huge a host !) — to tear from the Un- 
believer 

The precious Tomb, their haven of salvation. 

xxxv 

RICHARD I 

1821. 1822 

Redoubted King, of courage leonine, 
I mark thee, Richard ! urgent to equip 
Thy warlike person with the staff and scrip; 
I watch thee sailing o'er the midland brine ; 
In conquered Cyprus see thy Bride decline 
Her blushing cheek, love-vows upon her lip, 
And see love-emblems streaming from thy 

ship, 
As thence she holds her way to Palestine. 
My Song, a fearless homager, would attend 
Thy thundering battle-axe as it cleaves the 

press 
Of war, but duty summons her away 
To tell — how, finding in the rash distress 
Of those Enthusiasts a subservient friend, 
To giddier heights hath clomb the Papal 

sway. 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



613 



XXXVI 

AN INTERDICT 

lS2I. 1822 

Realms quake by turns: proud Arbitress 

of grace, 
Tbe Church, by mandate shadowing forth 

the power 
She arrogates o'er heaven's eternal door, 
Closes the gates of every sacred place. 
Straight from the sun and tainted air's em- 
brace 
All sacred things are covered: cheerful morn 
Grows sad as night — no seemly garb is worn, 
Nor is a face allowed to meet a face 
With natural smiles of greeting. Bells are 

dumb; 
Ditches are graves — funereal rites denied; 
And in the churchyard he must take his bride 
Who dares be wedded! Fancies thickly come 
Into the pensive heart ill fortified, 
And comfortless despairs the soul benumb. 



XXXVII 

PAPAL ABUSES 

1821. 1822 

As with the Stream our voyage we pursue, 
The gross materials of this world present 
A marvellous study of wild accident; 
Uncouth proximities of old and new; 
And bold transfigurations, more untrue 
(As might be deemed) to disciplined intent 
Than aught the sky's fantastic element, 
When most fantastic, offers to the view. 
Saw we not Henry scourged at Becket's 

shrine ? 
Lo ! John self-stripped of his insignia: — 

crown, 
Sceptre and mantle, sword and ring, laid down 
At a proud Legate's feet ! The spears that 

line 
Baronial halls, the opprobrious insult feel; 
And angry Ocean roars a vain appeal. 

XXXVIII 

SCENE IN VENICE 

1821. 1822 

Black Demons hovering o'er his mitred 

head, 
To Caesar's Successor the Pontiff spake; 



" Ere I absolve thee, stoop ! that on thy 

neck 
Levelled with earth this foot of mine may 

tread." 
Then he, who to the altar had been led, 
He, whose strong arm the Orient could not 

check, 
He, who had held the Soldan at his beck, 
Stooped, of all glory disinherited, 
And even the common dignity of man ! — 
Amazement strikes the crowd : while many 

turn 
Their eyes away in sorrow, others burn 
With scorn, invoking a vindictive ban 
From outraged Nature; but the sense of 

most 
In abject sympathy with power is lost. 

XXXIX 

PAPAL DOMINION 

1821. 1822 

Unless to Peter's Chair the viewless wind 
Must come and ask permission when to 

blow, 
What further empire would it have ? for 

now 
A ghostly Domination, unconfined 
As that by dreaming Bards to Love as- 
signed, 
Sits there in sober truth — to raise the low, 
Perplex the wise, the strong to overthrow; 
Through earth and heaven to bind and to 

unbind ! — 
Resist — the thunder quails thee ! — crouch 

— rebuff 
Shall be thy recompence ! from land to land 
The ancient thrones of Christendom are stuff 
For occupation of a magic wand, 
And 't is the Pope that wields it: — whether 

rough 
Or smooth his front, our world is in his 

hand ! 

PART II 

TO THE CLOSE OF THE TROUBLES IN 
THE REIGN OF CHARLES I 



1821. 1845 

How soon — alas ! did Man, created pure — ■ 
By Angels guarded, deviate from the line 



614 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



Prescribed to duty : — woeful forfeiture 
He made by wilful breacb of law divine. 
With like perverseness did the Church 

abjure 
Obedience to her Lord, and haste to twine, 
'Mid Heaven-born flowers that shall for aye 

endure, 
Weeds on whose front the world had fixed 

her sign. 
O Man, — if with thy trials thus it fares, 
If good can smooth the way to evil choice, 
From all rash censure be the mind kept 

free ; 
He only judges right who weighs, compares, 
And in the sternest sentence which his 

voice 
Pronounces, ne'er abandons Charity. 



1821. 1845 

From false assumption rose, and, fondly 

hailed 
By superstition, spread the Papal power; 
Yet do not deem the Autocracy prevailed 
Thus only, even in error's darkest hour. 
She daunts, forth-thundering from her 

spiritual tower, 
Brute rapine, or with gentle lure she tames. 
Justice and Peace through Her uphold their 

claims ; 
And Chastity finds many a sheltering 

bower. 
Realm there is none that if controlled or 

swayed 
By her commands partakes not, in degree, 
Of good, o'er manners, arts and arms, 

diffused : 
Yes, to thy domination, Roman See, 
Tho' miserably, oft monstrously, abused 
By blind ambition, be this tribute paid. 



ill 

CISTERTIAN MONASTERY 

1821. 1822 

"HERE Man more purely lives, less oft 

. doth fall, 
More promptly rises, walks with stricter 

heed, 
More safely rests, dies happier, is freed 
Earlier from cleansing fires, and gains 

withal 



A brighter crown." — On yon Cistertian 
wall 

That confident assurance may be read; 

And, to like shelter, from the world have 
fled 

Increasing midtitudes. The potent call 

Doubtless shall cheat full oft the heart's 
desires ; 

Yet, while the rugged Age on pliant knee 

Vows to rapt Fancy humble fealty, 

A gentler life spreads round the holy spires; 

Where'er they rise, the sylvan waste re- 
tires, 

And aery harvests crown the fertile lea. 



1821. 1835 

Deplorable his lot who tills the ground, 
His whole life long tills it, with heartless 

toil 
Of villain-service, passing with the soil 
To each new Master, like a steer or hound, 
Or like a rooted tree, or stone earth-bound; 
But mark how gladly, through their own 

domains, 
The Monks relax or break these iron chains; 
While Mercy, uttering, through their voice, 

a sound 
Echoed in Heaven, cries out, " Ye Chiefs, 

abate 
These legalized oppressions ! Man — whose 

name 
And nature God disdained not; Man — 

whose soul 
Christ died for — cannot forfeit his high 

claim 
To live and move exempt from all control 
Which fellow-feeling doth not mitigate ! " 



MONKS AND SCHOOLMEN 

1821. 1822 

Record we too, with just and faithful 

pen, 
That many hooded Cenobites there are, 
Who in their private cells have yet a care 
Of public quiet; unambitious Men, 
Counsellors for the world, of piercing ken; 
Whose fervent exhortations from afar 
Move Princes to their duty, peace or war; 
And oft-times in the most forbidding den 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



6i5 



Of solitude, with love of science strong, 
How patiently the yoke of thought they bear, 
How subtly glide its finest threads along ! 
Spirits that crowd the intellectual sphere 
With mazy boundaries, as the astronomer 
With orb and cycle girds the starry throng. 



OTHER BENEFITS 

1821. 1822 

And, not in vain embodied to the sight, 
Religion finds even in the stern retreat 
Of feudal sway her own appropriate seat; 
From the collegiate pomps on Windsor's 

height 
Down to the humbler altar, which the 

Knight 
And his retainers of the embattled hall 
Seek in domestic oratory small, 
For prayer in stillness, or the chanted rite; 
Then chiefly dear, when foes are planted 

round, 
Who teach the intrepid guardians of the 

place — 
Hourly exposed to death, with famine worn, 
And suffering under many a perilous 

wound — 
How sad would be their durance, if forlorn 
Of offices dispensing heavenly grace ! 

VII 
CONTINUED 

1821. 1822 

And what melodious sounds at times pre- 
vail ! 
And, ever and anon, how bright a gleam 
Pours on the surface of the turbid Stream ! 
What heartfelt fragrance mingles with the 



That swells the bosom of our passing sail ! 
For where, but on this River's margin, blow 
Those flowers of chivalry, to bind the brow 
Of hardihood with wreaths that shall not 

fail ? — 
Fair Court of Edward ! wonder of the 

world ! 
I see a matchless blazonry unfurled 
Of wisdom, magnanimity, and love; 
And meekness tempering honourable pride; 
The lamb is couching by the lion's side, 
And near the flame-eyed eagle sits the dove. 



VIII 

CRUSADERS 

1821. 1822 

Furl we the sails, and pass with tardy oars 
Through these bright regions, casting many 

a glance 
Upon the dream-like issues — the romance 
Of many-coloured life that Fortune pours 
Round the Crusaders, till on distant shores 
Their labours end; or they return to lie, 
The vow performed, in cross-legged effigy, 
Devoutly stretched upon their chancel floors. 
Am I deceived ? Or is their requiem 

chanted 
By voices never mute when Heaven unties 
Her inmost, softest, tenderest harmonies; 
Requiem which Earth takes up with voice 

undaunted, 
When she would tell how Brave, and Good, 

and Wise, 
For their high guerdon not in vain have 

panted ! 



1842. 1845 

As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest 
While from the Papal Unity there came, 
What feebler means had failed to give, one 

aim 
Diffused thro' all the regions of the West; 
So does her Unity its power attest 
By works of Art, that shed, on the out- 
ward frame 
Of worship, glory and grace, which who 

shall blame 
Tha| ever looked to heaven for final rest ? 
Hail countless Temples ! that so well befit 
Your ministry; that, as ye rise and take 
Form, spirit and character from holy writ, 
Give to devotion, wheresoe'er awake, 
Pinions of high and higher sweep, and make 
The unconverted soul with awe submit. 



1842. 1845 

Where long and deeply hath been fixed 

the root 
In the blest soil of gospel truth, the Tree 
( Blighted or scathed tho' many branches be, 
Put forth to wither, many a hopeful shoot) 



6i6 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



Can never cease to bear celestial fruit. 

Witness the Church that oft-times, with 
effect 

Dear to the saints, strives earnestly to eject 

Her bane, her vital energies recruit. 

Lamenting, do not hopelessly repine, 

When such good work is doomed to be un- 
done, 

The conquests lost that were so hardly 
won: — 

All promises vouchsafed by Heaven will 
shine 

In light confirmed while years their course 
shall run, 

Confirmed alike hi progress and decline. 

XI 

TRANSUBSTANTIATION 
1821. 1822 

Enough ! for see, with dim association 

The tapers burn ; the odorous incense feeds 

A greedy flame; the pompous mass pro- 
ceeds ; 

The Priest bestows the appointed consecra- 
tion ; 

And, while the Host is raised, its elevation 

An awe and supernatural horror breeds; 

And all the people bow their heads, like 
reeds 

To a soft breeze, in lowly adoration. 

This Valdo brooks not. On the banks of 
Rhone 

He taught, till persecution chased him 
thence, 

To adore the Invisible, and Him alone. 

Nor are his Followers loth to seek defence, 

'Mid woods and wilds, on Nature's craggy 
throne, 

From rites that trample upon soul and sense. 



XII 

THE VAUDOIS 

1821. 1835 

But wh3nce came they who for the Saviour 

Lord 
Have long borne witness as the Scriptures 

teach ? — 
Ages ere Valdo raised his voice to preach 
In Gallic ears the unadulterate Word, 
Their fugitive Progenitors explored 
Subalpiue vales, in quest of safe retreats 



Where that pure Church survives, though 

summer heats 
Open a passage to the Romish sword, 
Far as it dares to follow. Herbs self-sown, 
And fruitage gathered from the chestnut 

wood, 
Nourish the sufferers then; and mists, that 

brood 
O'er chasms with new-fallen obstacles be- 

strown, 
Protect them; and the eternal snow that 

daunts 
Aliens, is God's good winter for their haunts. 

XIII 

1821. 1835 

Praised be the Rivers, from their moun- 
tain springs 

Shouting to Freedom, " Plant thy banners 
here ! " 

To harassed Piety, " Dismiss thy fear, 

And hi our caverns smooth thy ruffled 
wings ! " 

Nor be unthanked their final lingerings — 

Silent, but not to high-souled Passion's 
ear — 

'Mid reedy fens wide-spread and marshes 
drear, 

Their own creation. Such glad welcom- 
ings 

As Po was heard to give where Venice 
rose 

Hailed from aloft those Heirs of truth divine 

Who near his fountains sought obscure re- 
pose, 

Yet came prepared as glorious lights to 
shine, 

Should that be needed for their sacred 
Charge; 

Blest Prisoners They, whose spirits were at 
large ! 

XIV 
WAiDENSES 

1821. 1822 

Those had given earliest notice, as the 

lark 
Springs from the ground the morn to grat- 

ulate ; 
Or rather rose the day to antedate, 
By striking out a solitary spark, 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



617 



When all the world with midnight gloom 

was dark. — 
Then followed the Waldensian bands, whom 

Hate 
In vain endeavours to exterminate, 
Whom Obloquy pursues with hideous 

bark: 
But they desist not; — and the sacred fire, 
Rekindled thus, from dens and savage 

woods 
Moves, handed on with never-eeasing care, 
Through courts, through camps, o'er limit- 
ary floods; 
Nor lacks this sea-girt Isle a timely share 
Of the new Flame, not suffered to expire. 



xv 

ARCHBISHOP CHICHELY TO HENRY V 
1821. 1822 

" What beast in wilderness or cultured 

field 
The lively beauty of the leopard shows ? 
What flower hi meadow-ground or garden 

grows 
That to the towering lily doth not yield ? 
Let both meet only on thy royal shield ! 
Go forth, great King ! claim what thy 

birth bestows; 
Conquer the Gallic lily which thy foes 
Dare to usurp ; — thou hast a sword to 

wield, 
And Heaven will crown the right." — The 

mitred Sire 
Thus spake — and lo ! a Fleet, for Gaul 

addrest, 
Ploughs her bold course across the wonder- 
ing seas; 
For, sooth to say, ambition, in the breast 
Of youthful heroes, is no sullen fire, 
But one that leaps to meet the fanning 

breeze. 

XVI 

WARS OF YORK AND LANCASTER 

1821. 1822 

Thus is the storm abated by the craft 
Of a shrewd Counsellor, eager to protect 
The Church, whose power hath recently 

been checked, 
Whose monstrous riches threatened. So 

the shaft 



Of victory mounts high, and blood is quaffed 
In fields that rival Cressy and Poictiers — 
Pride to be washed away by bitter tears ! 
For deep as Hell itself, the avenging draught 
Of civil slaughter. Yet, while temporal 

power 
Is by these shocks exhausted, spiritual 

truth 
Maintains the else endangered gift of life; 
Proceeds from infancy to lusty youth; 
And, under cover of this woeful strife, 
Gathers unblighted strength from hour to 

hour. 

XVII 

WICLIFFE 

1821. 1822 

Oxce more the Church is seized with sud- 
den fear, 
And at her call is Wicliffe disinhumed: 
Yea, his dry bones to ashes are consumed 
And flung into the brook that travels near; 
Forthwith, that ancient Voice which Streams 

can hear 
Thus speaks (that Voice which walks upon 

the wind, 
Though seldom heard by busy human 

kind) — 
" As thou these ashes, little Brook! wilt bear 
Into the Avon, Avon to the tide 
Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, 
Into main Ocean they, this deed accurst 
An emblem yields to friends and enemies 
How the bold Teacher's Doctrine, sanctified 
By truth, shall spread, throughout the 
world dispersed." 



XVIII 
CORRUPTIONS OF THE HIGHER CLERGY 

1821. 1822 

" Woe to you, Prelates ! rioting in ease 
And cumbrous wealth — the shame of your 

estate ; 
You, on whose progress dazzling trains 

await 
Of pompous horses ; whom vain titles please ; 
Who will be served by others on their 

knees, 
Yet will yourselves to God no service pay; 
Pastors who neither take nor point the 

way 
To Heaven; for, either lost in vanities 



6x8 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



Ye have no skill to teach, or if ye know 
And speak the word " Alas ! of fear- 
fid things 
'T is the most fearful when the people's 

eye 
Abuse hath cleared from vain imaginings; 
And taught the general voice to prophesy 
Of Justice armed, and Pride to be laid low. 



ABUSE OF MONASTIC POWER 
1821. 1822 

And what is Penance with her knotted 

thong; 
Mortification with the shirt of hair, 
Wan cheek, and knees indurated with 

prayer, 
Vigils, and fastings rigoroiis as long; 
If cloistered Avarice scruple not to wrong 
The pious, humble, useful Secular, 
And rob the people of his daily care, 
Scorning that world whose blindness makes 

her strong ? 
Inversion strange ! that, unto One who 

lives 
For self, and struggles with himself alone, 
The amplest share of heavenly favour 

gives; 
That to a Monk allots, both in the esteem 
Of God and man, place higher than to 

him 
Who on the good of others builds his own ! 



XX 

MONASTIC VOLUPTUOUSNESS 

1821. 1822 

Yet more, — round many a Convent's blaz- 
ing fire 
Unhallowed threads of revelry are spun; 
There Venus sits disguised like a Nun, — 
While Bacchus, clothed in semblance of a 

Friar, 
Pours out his choicest beverage high and 

higher 
Sparkling, until it cannot choose but run 
Over the bowl, whose silver lip hath won 
An instant kiss of masterful desire — 
To stay the precious waste. Through 

every brain 
The domination of the sprightly juice 



Spreads high conceits to madding Fancy 

dear, 
Till the arched roof, with resolute abuse 
Of its grave echoes, swells a choral strain, 
Whose votive burthen is — " Our king- 
dom 's here ! " 



XXI 

DISSOLUTION OF THE MONASTERIES 
1821. 1S22 

Threats come which no submission may 

assuage, 
No sacrifice avert, no power dispute ; 
The tapers shall be quenched, the belfries 

mute, 
And, 'mid their choirs unroofed by selfish 

rage, 
The warbling wren shall find a leafy cage; 
The gadding bramble hang her purple fruit; 
And the green lizard and the gilded newt 
Lead unmolested lives, and die of age. 
The owl of evening and the woodland fox 
For their abode the shrines of Waltham 

choose : 
Proud Glastonbury can no more refuse 
To stoop her head before these desperate 

shocks — 
She whose high pomp displaced, as storytells, 
Arimathean Joseph's wattled cells. 



THE SAME SUBJECT 

1821. 1822 

The lovely Nun (submissive, but more meek 
Through saintly habit than from effort due 
To unrelenting mandates that pursue 
With equal wrath the steps of strong and 

weak) 
Goes forth — unveiling timidly a cheek 
Suffused with blushes of celestial hue, 
While through the Convent's gate to open 

view 
Softly she glides, another home to seek. 
Not Iris, issuing from her cloudy shrine, 
An Apparition more divinely bright ! 
Not more attractive to the dazzled sight 
Those watery glories, on the stormy brine 
Poured forth, while summer suns at dis- 
tance shine, 
And the green vales lie hushed in sober 
light ! 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



619 



xxin 

CONTINUED 

1821. 1822 

Yet many a Novice of the cloistral shade, 
And many chained by vows, with eager glee 
The warrant hail, exulting to be free; 
Like ships before whose keels, full long 

embayed 
In polar ice, propitious winds have made 
Unlooked-for outlet to an open sea, 
Their liquid world, for bold discovery, 
In all her quarters temptingly displayed ! 
Hope guides the young; but when the old 

must pass 
The threshold, whither shall they turn to find 
The hospitality — the alms (alas ! 
Alms may be needed) which that House 

bestowed ? 
Can they, in faith and worship, train the 

mind 
To keep this new and questionable road ? 



XXIV 

SAINTS 

1821. 1822 

Ye, too, must fly before a chasing hand, 
Angels and Saints, in every hamlet 

mourned ! 
Ah ! if the old idolatry be spurned, 
Let not your radiant Shapes desert the Land: 
Her adoration was not your demand, 
The fond heart proffered it — the servile 

heart ; 
And therefore are ye summoned to depart, 
Michael, and thou, St. George, whose flam- 
ing brand 
The Dragon quelled ; and valiant Margaret 
Whose rival sword a like Opponent slew: 
And rapt Cecilia, seraph-haunted Queen 
Of harmony; and weeping Magdalene, 
Who in the penitential desert met 
Gales sweet as those that over Eden blew ! 



xxv 

THE VIRGIN 

I82I. 1822 

Mother ! whose virgin bosom was uncrost 
With the least shade of thought to sin 
allied; 



Woman ! above all women glorified, 
Our tainted nature's solitary boast; 
Purer than foam on central ocean tost; 
Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak 

strewn 
With fancied roses, than the unblemished 

moon 
Before her wane begins on heaven's blue 

coast; 
Thy Image falls to earth. Yet some, I 

ween, 
Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might 

bend, 
As to a visible Power, in which did blend 
All that was mixed and reconciled in Thee 
Of mother's love with maiden purity, 
Of high with low, celestial with terrene ! 

XXVI 

APOLOGY 

1821. 1822 

Not utterly unworthy to endure 
Was the supremacy of crafty Rome; 
Age after age to the arch of Christendom 
Aerial keystone haughtily secure; 
Supremacy from Heaven transmitted .pu?e v 
As many hold; and, therefore, to the tomb 
Pass, some through fire — and by the scaffold 

some — 
Like saintly Fisher, and unbending More. 
" Lightly for both the bosom's lord did sit 
Upon his throne ; " unsof tened, undis- 
mayed 
By aught that mingled with tl e tragic scene 
Of pity or fear: and More's gay genius 

played 
With the inoffensive sword of native wit, 
Than the bare axe more luminous and keen. 



XXVII 

IMAGINATIVE REGRETS 

1821. 1822 

Deep is the lamentation ! Not alone 
From Sages justly honoured by mankind; 
But from the ghostly tenants of the wind, 
Demons and Spirits, many a dolorous groan 
Issues for that dominion overthrown : 
Proud Tiber grieves, and far-off Ganges, 

blind 
As his own worshippers: and Nile, reclined 
Upon his monstrous urn, the farewell moan 



620 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



Renews. Through every forest, cave, and 

den, 
Where frauds were hatched of old, hath 

sorrow past — 
Hangs o'er the Arabian Prophet's native 

Waste, 
Where once his airy helpers schemed and 

planned 
'Mid spectral lakes bemocking thirsty men, 
And stalking pillars built of fiery sand. 

XXVIII 

REFLECTIONS 

1821. 1822 

Grant, that by this unsparing hurricane 

Green leaves with yellow mixed are torn 
away, 

And goodly fruitage with the mother 
spray; 

'T were madness — wished we, therefore, to 
detain, 

With hands stretched forth in mollified dis- 
dain, 

The " trumpery " that ascends in bare dis- 
play — 

Bulls, pardons, relics, cowls black, white, 
and grey — 

Upwhirled, and flying o'er the ethereal plain 

Fast bound for Limbo Lake. And yet not 
choice 

But habit rules the unreflecting herd, 

And airy bonds are hardest to disown; 

Hence, with the spiritual sovereignty trans- 
ferred 

Unto itself, the Crown assumes a voice 

Of reckless mastery, hitherto unknown. 



TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE 

1 82 1. 1822 

But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book, 
In dusty sequestration wrapt too long, 
Assumes the accents of our native tongue; 
And he who guides the plough, or wields 

the crook, 
With understanding spirit now may look 
Upon her records, listen to her song, 
And sift her laws — much wondering that 

the wrong, 
Which Faith has suffered, Heaven could 

calmly brook. 



Transcendent boon ! noblest that earthly 

King 
Ever bestowed to equalize and bless 
Under the weight of mortal wretchedness ! 
But passions spread like plagues, and thou- 
sands wild 
With bigotry shall tread the Offering 
Beneath their feet, detested and defiled. 



XXX 

THE POINT AT ISSUE 

1821. 1827 

For what contend the wise ? — for nothing 

less 
Than that the Soul, freed from the bonds of 

Sense, 
And to her God restored by evidence 
Of things not seen, drawn forth from their 

recess, 
Root there, and not in forms, her holi- 
ness; — 
For Faith, which to the Patriarchs did dis- 
pense 
Sure guidance, ere a ceremonial fence 
Was needful round men thirsting to trans- 
gress; — 
For Faith, more perfect still, with which the 

Lord 
Of all, himself a Spirit, in the youth 
Of Christian aspiration, deigned to fill 
The temples of their hearts who, with his 

word 
Informed, were resolute to do his will, 
And worship him in spirit and in truth. 

XXXI 

EDWARD VI 

1821. 1822 

" Sweet is the holiness of Youth " — so felt 
Time-honoured Chaucer speaking through 

that Lay 
By which the Prioress beguiled the way, 
And many a Pilgrim's rugged heart did 

melt. 
Hadst thou, loved Bard ! whose spirit often 

dwelt 
In the clear land of vision, but foreseen 
King, child, and seraph, blended in the mien 
Of pious Edward kneeling as he knelt 
In meek and simple infancy, what joy 
For universal Christendom had thrilled 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



621 



Thy- heart ! what hopes inspired thy genius, 

skilled 
(O great Precursor, genuine morning Star) 
The lucid shafts of reason to employ, 
Piercing the Papal darkness from afar ! 



XXXII 

EDWARD SIGNING THE WARRANT FOR 
THE EXECUTION OF JOAN OF KENT 

1821. 1822 

The tears of man in various measure gush 
From various sources; gently overflow 
From blissful transport some — from clefts 

of woe 
Some with ungovernable impulse rush; 
And some, coeval with the earliest blush 
Of infant passion, scarcely dare to show 
Their pearly lustre — coming but to go ; 
And some break forth when others' sorrows 

crush 
The sympathising heart. Nor these, nor yet 
The noblest drops to admiration known, 
To gratitude, to injuries forgiven — 
Claim Heaven's regard like waters that have 

wet 
The innocent eyes of youthful Monarchs 

driven 
To pen the mandates nature doth disown. 



XXXIII 
REVIVAL OF POPERY 

1821. 1827 

The saintly Youth has ceased to rule, dis- 
crowned 
By unrelenting Death. O People keen 
For change, to whom the new looks always 

green ! 
Rejoicing did they cast upon the ground 
Their Gods of wood and stone ; and, at the 

sound 
Of counter-proclamation, now are seen 
(Proud triumph is it for a sullen Queen !) 
Lifting them up, the worship to confound 
Of the Most High. Again do they invoke 
The Creature, to the Creature glory give; 
Again with frankincense the altars smoke 
Like those the Heathen served; and mass 

is sung; 
And prayer, man's rational prerogative, 
Runs through blind channels of an unknown 
tongue. 



XXXIV 

LATIMER AND RIDLEY 

1821. 1827 

How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled ! 
See Latimer and Ridley hi the might 
Of Faith stand coupled for a common flight ! 
One (like those prophets whom God sent of 

old) 
Transfigured, from this kindling hath fore- 
told 
A torch of inextinguishable light; 
The Other gains a confidence as bold; 
And thus they foil their enemy's despite. 
The penal instruments, the shows of crime, 
Are glorified while this once-mitred pair 
Of saintly Friends the " murtherer's chain 

partake, 
Corded, and burning at the social stake: " 
Earth never witnessed object more sublime 
In constancy, in fellowship more fair ! 

xxxv 

CRANMER 

1821. 1822 

Outstretching flameward his upbraided 

hand 
(O God of mercy, may no earthly Seat 
Of judgment such presumptuous doom re- 
peat !) 
Amid the shuddering throng doth Cranmer 

stand; 
Firm as the stake to which with iron band 
His frame is tied ; firm from the naked feet 
To the bare head. The victory is complete; 
The shrouded Body to the Soul's command 
Answers with more than Indian fortitude, 
Through all her nerves with finer sense en- 
dued, 
Till breath 'departs in blissful aspiration: 
Then, 'mid the ghastly ruins of the fire, 
Behold the unalterable heart entire, 
Emblem of faith untouched, miraculous 
attestation ! 



GENERAL VIEW OF THE TROUBLES OF 
THE REFORMATION 

182I. 1822 

Aid, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of 

light, 
Our mortal ken ! Inspire a perfect trust 



622 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



(While we look round) that Heaven's de- 
crees are just: 
Which few can hold committed to a fight 
That shows, ev'n on its better side, the might 
Of proud Self-will, Rapacity, and Lust, 
'Mid clouds enveloped of polemic dust, 
Which showers of blood seem rather to incite 
Than to allay. Anathemas are hurled 
From both sides; veteran thunders (the 

brute test 
Of truth) are met by fulminations new — 
Tartarean flags are caught at, and unfurled — 
Friends strike at friends — the flying shall 

pursue — 
And Victory sickens, ignorant where to rest! 

XXXVH 

ENGLISH REFORMERS IN EXILE 

1821. 1822 

Scattering, like birds escaped the fowler's 

net, 
Some seek with timely flight a foreign 

strand; 
Most happy, re-assembled in a land 
By dauntless Luther freed, could they forget 
• Their Country's woes. But scarcely have 

they met, 
Partners in faith, and brothers in distress, 
Free to pour forth their common thankful- 
ness, 
Ere hope declines : — their union is beset 
With speculative notions rashly sown, 
Whence thickly-sprouting growth of poison- 
ous weeds; 
Their forms are broken staves; their pas- 
sions, steeds 
That master them. How enviably blest 
Is he who can, by help of grace, enthrone 
The peace of God within his single breast ! 

XXXVIII 
ELIZABETH 

1821. 1822 

Hail, Virgin Queen ! o'er many an envious 

bar 
Triumphant, snatched from many a 

treacherous wile I 
All hail, sage Lady, whom a grateful Isle 
Hath blest, respiring from that dismal war 
Stilled by thy voice ! But quickly from 

afar 



Defiance breathes with more malignant aim ; 
And alien storms with home-bred ferments 

claim 
Portentous fellowship. Her silver car, 
By sleepless prudence ruled, glides slowly 

on; 
Unhurt by violence, from menaced taint 
Emerging pure, and seemingly more bright : 
Ah ! wherefore yields it to a foul constraint 
Black as the clouds its beams dispersed, 

while shone, 
By men and angels blest, the glorious light ? 

XXXIX 

EMINENT REFORMERS 

1821. 1822 

Methinks that I could trip o'er heaviest 

soil, 
Light as a buoyant bark from wave to wave, 
Were mine the trusty staff that Jewel gave 
To youthful Hooker, in familiar style 
The gift exalting, and with playful smile: 
For thus equipped, and bearing on his head 
The Donor's farewell blessing, can he dread 
Tempest, or length of way, or weight of 

toil ? — 
More sweet than odours caught by him who 

sails 
Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, 
A thousand times more exquisitely sweet, 
The freight of holy feeling which we meet, 
In thoughtful moments, wafted by the gales 
From fields where good men walk, or bower9 

wherein they rest. 

XL 

THE SAME 

1821. 1822 

Holy and heavenly Spirits as they are, 
Spotless in life, and eloquent as wise, 
With what entire affection do they prize 
Their Church reformed ! labouring with 

earnest care 
To baffle all that may her strength impair; 
That Church, the unperverted Gospel's seat; 
In their afflictions a divine retreat; 
Source of their liveliest hope, and tenderest 

prayer ! — 
The truth exploring with an equal mind, 
In doctrine and communion they have 

sought 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



623 



Firmly between the two extremes to steer; 
But theirs the wise man's ordinary lot — 
To trace right courses for the stubborn 

blind, 
And prophesy to ears that will not hear. 



DISTRACTIONS 
1821. 1822 

Men, who have ceased to reverence, soon 

defy, 
Their forefathers; lo ! sects are formed, 

and split 
With morbid restlessness ; — the ecstatic fit 
Spreads wide; though special mysteries 

multiply, » 

The Saints must govern, is their common cry; 
And so they labour, deeming Holy Writ 
Disgraced by aught that seems content to 

sit 
Beneath the roof of settled Modesty. 
The Romanist exults; fresh hope he draws 
From the confusion, craftily incites 
The overweening, personates the mad — 
To heap disgust upon the worthier Cause: 
Totters the Throne; the new-born Church 

is sad, 
For every wave against her peace unites. 

XLII 

GUNPOWDER PLOT 

1821. 1822 

Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree 
To plague her beating heart; and there is 

one 
(Nor idlest that !) which holds communion 
With things that were not, yet were meant 

to be. 
Aghast within its gloomy cavity 
That eye (which sees as if fulfilled and done 
Crimes that might stop the motion of the 

sun) 
Beholds the horrible catastrophe 
Of an assembled Senate unredeemed 
From subterraneous Treason's darkling 

power: 
Merciless act of sorrow infinite ! 
Worse than the product of that dismal night, 
When gushing, copious as a thunder-shower, 
The blood of Huguenots through Paris 

streamed. 



XLIII 

ILLUSTRATION 

THE JUNG-FRAU AND THE FALL OF 
THE RHINE NEAR SCHAFFHAUSEN 

1821. 1822 

The Virgin Mountain, wearing like a Queen 
A brilliant crown of everlasting snow, 
Sheds ruin from her sides; and men below 
Wonder thafe- aught of aspect so serene 
Can link with desolation. Smooth and 

green, 
And seeming, at a little distance, slow, 
The waters of the Rhine; but on they go 
Fretting and whitening, keener and more 

keen; 
Till madness seizes on the whole wide Flood, 
Turned to a fearful Thing whose nostrils 

breathe 
Blasts of tempestuous smoke — wherewith 

he tries 
To hide himself, but only magnifies; 
And doth in more conspicuous torment 

writhe, 
Deafening the region in his ireful mood. 



XLIV 

TROUBLES OF CHARLES THE FIRST 

1821. 1822 

Even such the contrast that, where'er we 
move, 

To the mind's eye Religion doth present; 

Now with her own deep quietness con- 
tent; 

Then, like the mountain, thundering from 
above 

Against the ancient pine-trees of the grove 

And the Land's humblest comforts. Now 
her mood 

Recalls the transformation of the flood, 

Whose rage the gentle skies in vain re- 
prove ; 

Earth cannot check. O terrible excess 

Of headstrong will ! Can this be Piety ? 

No — some fierce Maniac hath usurped her 
name; 

And scourges England struggling to be 
free: 

Her peace destroyed ! her hopes a wilder- 
ness ! 

Her blessings cursed — her glory turned to 
shame ! 



T)24 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



LAUD 
l82I. 1822 

Prejudged by foes determined not to spare, 

An old weak Man for vengeance thrown 
aside, 

Laud, " in the painful art of dying " tried, 

(Like a poor bird entangled in a snare 

Whose heart still flutters, though his wings 
forbear 

To stir in useless struggle) hath relied 

On hope that conscious innocence sup- 
plied, 

And in his prison breathes celestial air. 

Why tarries then thy chariot ? Wherefore 
stay, 

O Death ! the ensanguined yet triumphant 
wheels, 

Which thou prepar'st, full often, to con- 
vey 

(What time a State with madding faction 
reels) 

The Saint or Patriot to the world that 
heals 

All wounds, all perturbations doth allay ? 



XLVI 

AFFLICTIONS OF ENGLAND 

1821. 1822 

Harp ! could'st thou venture, on thy bold- 
est string, 
The faintest note to echo which the blast 
Caught from the hand of Moses as it passed 
O'er Sinai's top, or from the Shepherd 

king, 
Early awake, by Siloa's brook, to sing 
Of dread Jehovah; then, should wood and 

waste 
Hear also of that name, and mercy cast 
Off to the mountains, like a covering 
Of which the Lord was weary. Weep, oh ! 

weep, 
Weep with the good, beholding King and 

Priest 
Despised by that stern God to whom they 

raise 
Their suppliant hands; but holy is the 

feast 
He keepeth; like the firmament his ways: 
His statutes like the chambers of the 

deep. 



PART III 

FROM THE RESTORATION TO THE 
PRESENT TIMES 

1821. 1822 

When I came to this part of the series I had 
the dream described in this Sonnet. The figure 
was that of my daughter, and the whole passed 
exactly as here represented. The Sonnet was 
composed on the middle road leading from 
Grasraere to Ambleside : it was begun as I left 
the last house of the vale, and finished, word 
for word as it now stands, before I came in 
view of Rydal. I wish I could say the same of 
the five or six hundred I have written : most 
of them were frequently retouched in the course 
of composition, and. not a few, laboriously. 

I have only further to observe that the in- 
tended Church which prompted these Sonnets 
was erected on Coleorton Moor towards the 
centre of a very populous parish between three 
and four miles from Ashby-de-la-Zouch, on the 
road to Loughborough, and has proved, I be- 
lieve, a great benefit to the neighbourhood. 



I saw the figure of a lovely Maid 
Seated alone beneath a darksome tree, 
Whose fondly-overhanging canopy 
Set off her brightness with a pleasing shade. 
No Spirit was she; that my heart betrayed, 
For she was one I loved exceedingly; 
But while I gazed in tender reverie 
(Or was it sleep that with my Fancy 

played ?) 
The bright corporeal presence — form and 

face — 
Remaining still distinct grew thin and rare, 
Like sunny mist ; — at length the golden hair, 
Shape, limbs, and heavenly features, keep- 
ing pace 
Each with the other in a lingering race 
Of dissolution, melted into air. 



II 

PATRIOTIC SYMPATHIES 

1821. 1822 

Last night, without a voice, that Vision spake 
Fear to my Soul, and sadness which might 

seem 
Wholly dissevered from our present theme; 
Yet, my beloved Country ! I partake 
Of kindred agitations for thy sake; 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



625 



Thou, too, dost visit oft my midnight dream; 
Thy glory meets me witli the earliest heam 
Of light, which tells that Morning is awake. 
If aught impair thy beauty or destroy, 
Or but forebode destruction, I deplore 
With filial love the sad vicissitude; 
If thou hast fallen, and righteous Heaven 

restore 
The prostrate, then my spring-time is re- 
newed, 
And sorrow bartered for exceeding joy. 



CHARLES THE SECOND 
1821. 1822 

Who comes — with rapture greeted, and 

caressed 
With frantic love — his kingdom to regain ? 
Him Virtue's Nurse, Adversity, in vain 
Received, and fostered in her iron breast: 
For all she taught of hardiest and of best, 
Or would have taught, by discipline of pain 
And long privation, now dissolves amain, 
Or is remembered only to give zest 
To wantonness. — Away, Circean revels ! 
But for what gain ? if England soon must 

sink 
Into a gulf which all distinction levels — 
That bigotry may swallow the good name, 
And, with that draught, the life-blood: 

misery, shame, 
By Poets loathed; from which Historians 

shrink ! 



LATITUDINARIANISM 
1821. 1822 

Yet Truth is keenly sought for, and the 

wind 
Charged with rich words poured out in 

thought's defence; 
Whether the Church inspire that eloquence, 
Or a Platonic Piety confined 
To the sole temple of the inward mind; 
And One there is who builds immortal lays, 
Though doomed to tread in solitary ways, 
Darkness before and danger's voice behind ; 
Yet not alone, nor helpless to repel 
Sad thoughts; for from above the starry 

sphere 
Come secrets, whispered nightly to his ear; 
And the pure spirit of celestial light 



Shines through his soul — " that he may see 

and tell 
Of things invisible to mortal sight." 



WALTON'S BOOK OF LIVES 

1821. 1822 

There are no colours in the fairest sky 
So fair as these. The feather, whence the 

pen 
Was shaped that traced the lives of these 

good men, 
Dropped from an Angel's wing. With 

moistened eye 
We read of faith and purest charity 
In Statesman, Priest, and humble Citizen: 
Oh could we copy their mild virtues, then 
What joy to live, what blessedness to die ! 
Methinks their very names shine still and 

bright; 
Apart — like glow-worms on a summer 

night; 
Or lonely tapers when from far they fling 
A guiding ray ; or seen — like stars on high, 
Satellites burning in a lucid ring 
Around meek Walton's heavenly memory. 



VI 

CLERICAL INTEGRITY 

1821. 1822 

Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject 
Those Unconforming; whom one rigorous 

day 
Drives from their Cures, a voluntary prey 
To poverty, and grief, and disrespect. 
And some to want — as if by tempests 

wrecked 
On a wild coast — how destitute ! did They 
Feel not that Conscience never can be- 
tray, 
That peace of mind is Virtue's sure effect. 
Their altars they forego, their homes they 

quit, 
Fields which they love, and paths they 

daily trod, 
And cast the future upon Providence ; 
As men the dictate of whose inward sense 
Outweighs the world; whom self -deceiving 

wit 
Lures not from what they deem the cause 

of God. 



626 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



VII 

PERSECUTION OF THE SCOTTISH 
COVENANTERS 

1821. 1827 

When Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant 

cry, 
The Majesty of England interposed 
And the sword stopped; the bleeding 

wounds were closed; 
And Faith preserved her ancient purity. 
How little boots that precedent of good, 
Scorned or forgotten, Thou canst testify, 
For England's shame, O Sister Realm ! 

from wood, 
Mountain, and moor, and crowded street, 

where lie 
The headless martyrs of the Covenant, 
Slain by Compatriot-protestants that draw 
From councils senseless as intolerant 
Their warrant. Bodies fall by wild sword- 
law; 
But who would force the Soul, tilts with a 

straw 
Against a Champion cased in adamant. 



ACQUITTAL OF THE BISHOPS 

1821. 1822 

A voice, from long-expecting thousands sent, 
Shatters the air, and troubles tower and 

spire; 
For Justice hath absolved the innocent, 
And Tyranny is balked of her desire: 
Up, down, the busy Thames — rapid as fire 
Coursing a train of gunpowder — it went, 
And transport finds in every street a vent, 
Till the whole City rings like one vast quire. 
The Fathers urge the People to be still, 
With outstretched hands and earnest speech 

— in vain ! 
Yea, many, haply wont to entertain 
Small reverence for the mitre's offices, 
And to Religion's self no friendly will, 
A Prelate's blessing ask on bended knees. 



WILLIAM THE THIRD 

1821. 1822 

Calm as an under-current, strong to draw 
Millions of waves into itself, and run, 



From sea to sea, impervious to the sun 
And ploughing storm, the spirit of Nassau 
Swerves not, (how blest if by religious awe 
Swayed, and thereby enabled to contend 
With the wide world's commotions) from 

its end 
Swerves not — diverted by a casual law. 
Had mortal action e'er a nobler scope ? 
The Hero comes to liberate, not defy; 
And, while he marches on with stedfast 

hope, 
Conqueror beloved ! expected anxiously ! 
The vacillating Bondman of the Pope 
Shrinks from the verdict of his stedfast 

eye. 



OBLIGATIONS OF CIVIL TO RELIGIOUS 
LIBERTY 

1 82 1. 1822 

Ungrateful Country, if thou e'er forget 
The sons who for thy civil rights have bled ! 
How, like a Roman, Sidney bowed his 

head, 
And Russel's milder blood the scaffold wet ; 
But these had fallen for profitless regret 
Had not thy holy Church her champions 

bred, 
And claims from other worlds inspirited 
The star of Liberty to rise. Nor yet 
(Grave this within thy heart !) if spiritual 

things 
Be lost, through apathy, or scorn, or fear, 
Shalt thou thy humbler franchises support, 
However hardly won or justly dear: 
What came from heaven to heaven by 

natvire clings, 
And, if dissevered thence, its course is 

short. 



SACHEVEREL 

1821. 1827 

A sudden conflict rises from the swell 
Of a proud slavery met by tenets strained 
In Liberty's behalf. Fears, true or feigned, 
Spread through all ranks; and lo ! the 

Sentinel 
Who loudest rang his pulpit 'larum bell, 
Stands at the Bar, absolved by female eyes 
Mingling their glances with grave flatteries 
Lavished on Him — that England may 

rebel 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



627 



Against her ancient virtue. High and 

Low, 
Watchwords of Party, on all tongues are 

rife; 
As if a Church, though sprung from heaven, 

must owe 
To opposites and fierce extremes her life, — 
Not to the golden mean, and quiet flow 
Of truths that soften hatred, temper strife. 

XII 

1821. 1827 

Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold 
design 

Have we pursued, with livelier stir of heart 

Than his who sees, borne forward by the 
Rhine, 

The living landscapes greet him, and de- 
part; 

Sees spires fast sinking — up again to start ! 

And strives the towers to number, that 
recline 

O'er the dark steeps, or on the horizon 
line 

Striding with shattered crests his eye 
athwart, 

So have we hurried on with troubled plea- 
sure: 

Henceforth, as on the bosom of a stream 

That slackens, and spreads wide a watery 
gleam, 

We, nothing loth a lingering course to 
measure, 

May gather up our thoughts, and mark at 
leisure 

How widely spread the interests of our 
theme. 



ASPECTS OF CHRISTIANITY IN 
AMERICA 

I. THE PILGRIM FATHERS 

1842. 1845 

Well worthy to be magnified are they 
Who, with sad hearts, of friends and 

country took 
A last farewell, their loved abodes forsook, 
And hallowed ground hi which their fathers 

lay; 
Then to the new-found World explored 

their way, 



That so a Church, unforced, uncalled to 

brook 
Ritual restraints, within some sheltering 

nook 
Her Lord might worship and his word obey 
In freedom. Men they were who could not 

bend ; 
Blest Pilgrims, surely, as they took for 

guide 
A will by sovereign Conscience sanctified; 
Blest while their Spirits from the woods 

ascend 
Along a Galaxy that knows no end, 
But in His glory who for Shiners died. 

XIV 

II. CONTINUED 

1842. 1845 

From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled 
To Wilds where both were utterly unknown ; 
But not to them had Providence foreshown 
What benefits are missed, what evils bred, 
In worship neither raised nor limited 
Save by Self-will. Lo ! from that distant 

shore, 
For Rite and Ordinance, Piety is led 
Back to the Land those Pilgrims left of 

yore, 
Led by her own free choice. So Truth 

and Love 
By Conscience governed do their steps re- 
trace. — 
Fathers ! your Virtues, such the power of 

grace, 
Their spirit, in your Children, thus approve. 
Transcendent over time, unbound by place, 
Concord and Charity in circles move. 



III. CONCLUDED. — AMERICAN 
. EPISCOPACY 

1842. 1845 

Patriots informed with Apostolic light 
Were they, who, when their Country had 

been freed, 
Bowing with reverence to the ancient creed, 
Fixed on the frame of England's Church 

their sight, 
And strove in filial love to reunite 
What force had severed. Thence they 

fetched the seed 



628 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



Of Christian unity, and won a meed 

Of praise from Heaven. To Thee, O 

saintly White, 
Patriarch of a wide-spreading family, 
Remotest lands and unborn times shall turn, 
Whether they would restore or build — to 

Thee, 
As one who rightly taught how zeal should 

burn, 
As one who drew from out Faith's holiest 

urn 
The purest stream of patient Energy. 



1 82 1. 1845 

Bishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if deep 
(As yours above all offices is high), 
Deep in your hearts the sense of duty lie; 
Charged as ye are by Christ to feed and 

keep 
From wolves your portion of his chosen 

sheep : 
Labouring as ever in your Master's sight, 
Making your hardest task your best de- 
light, 
What perfect glory ye in Heaven shall 

reap ! — 
But, in the solemn Office which ye sought 
And undertook premonished, if unsound 
Your practice prove, faithless though but in 

thought, 
Bishops and Priests, think what a gulf pro- 
found 
Awaits you then, if they were rightly taught 
Who framed the Ordinance by your lives 
disowned ! 



XVII 

PLACES OF WORSHIP 

1821. 1822 

As star that shines dependent upon star 

Is to the sky while we look up and love; 

As to the deep fair ships which though they 
move 

Seem fixed, to eyes that watch them from 
afar; 

As to the sandy desert fountains are, 

With palm-groves shaded at wide inter- 
vals, 

Whose fruit around the sun-burnt Native 
falls, 



Of roving tired or desultory war — 

Such to this British Isle her christian 
Fanes, 

Each linked to each for kindred services; 

Her Spires, her Steeple-towers with glitter- 
ing vanes 

Far-kenned, her Chapels lurking among 
trees, 

Where a few villagers on bended knees 

Find solace which a busy world disdains. 

XVIII 

PASTORAL CHARACTER 

1821. 1822 

A genial hearth, a hospitable board, 
And a refined rusticity, belong 
To the neat mansion, where, his flock among, 
The learned Pastor dwells, their watchful 

Lord. 
Though meek and patient as a sheathed 

sword ; 
Though pride's least lurking thought appear 

a wrong 
To human kind; though peace be on his 

tongue, 
Gentleness in his heart — can earth afford 
Such genuine state, pre-eminence so free, 
As when, arrayed in Christ's authority, 
He from the pulpit lifts his awful hand; 
Conjures, implores, and labours all he 

can 
For re-subjecting to divine command 
The stubborn spirit of rebellious man ? 

XIX 

THE LITURGY 

1821. 1822 

Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear 
Attract us still, and passionate exercise 
Of lofty thoughts, the way before us lies 
Distinct with signs, through which in set 

career, 
As through a zodiac, moves the ritual 

year 
Of England's Church; stupendous mys- 
teries ! 
Which whoso travels in her bosom eyes, 
As he approaches them, with solemn 

cheer. 
Upon that circle traced from sacred story 
We only dare to cast a transient glance, 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



629 



Trusting in hope that Others may ad- 
vance 
With mind intent upon the King of Glory, 
From his mild advent till his countenance 
Shall dissipate the seas and mountains 
hoary. 

xx 

BAPTISM 
1821. 1827 

Dear be the Church, that, watching o'er 

the needs 
Of Infancy, provides a timely shower 
Whose virtue changes to a christian Flower 
A Growth from sinful Nature's bed of 

weeds ! — 
Fitliest beneath the sacred roof proceeds 
The ministration; while parental Love 
Looks on, and Grace descendeth from 

above 
As the high service pledges now, now 

pleads. 
There, should vain thoughts outspread their 

wings and fly 
To meet the coming hours of festal mirth, 
The tombs — which hear and answer that 

brief cry, 
The Infant's notice of his second birth — 
Recall the wandering Soul to sympathy 
With what man hopes from Heaven, yet 

fears from Earth. 

XXI 

SPONSORS 

1821. 1822 

Father ! — to God himself we cannot give 
A holier name ! then lightly do not bear 
Both names conjoined, but of thy spiritual 

care 
Be duly mindful: still more sensitive 
Do Thou, in truth a second Mother, strive 
Against disheartening custom, that by Thee 
Watched, and with love and pio\is industry 
Tended at need, the adopted Plant may 

thrive 
For everlasting bloom. Benign and pure 
This Ordhiance, whether loss it would sup- 

Prevent omission, help deficiency, 
Or seek to make assurance doubly sure. 
Shame if the consecrated Vow be found 
An idle form, the Word an empty sound ! 



XXII 

CATECHISING 

1821. 1S32 

From Little down to Least, in due degree, 
Around the Pastor, each in new-wrought vest, 
Each with a vernal posy at his breast, 
We stood, a trembling, earnest Company ! 
With low soft murmur, like a distant bee, 
Some spake, by thought-perplexing fears 

betrayed; 
And some a bold unerring answer made : 
How fluttered then thy anxious heart for me, 
Beloved Mother ! Thou whose happy hand 
Had bound the flowers I wore, with faithful 

tie: 
Sweet flowers ! at whose inaudible command 
Her countenance, phantom-like, doth re-ap- 
pear: 

lost too early for the frequent tear, 
And ill requited by this heartfelt sigh ! 

XXIII 

CONFIRMATION 

1 821. 1827 

The Young-ones gathered in from hill and 

dale, 
With holiday delight on every brow: 
'T is passed away ; far other thoughts pre- 
vail; 
For they are taking the baptismal Vow 
Upon their conscious selves; their own lips 

speak 
The solemn promise. Strongest sinews fail, 
And many a blooming, many a lovely, cheek 
Under the holy fear of God turns pale ; 
While on each head his lawn-robed Servant 

lays 
An apostolic hand, and with prayer seals 
The Covenant. The Omnipotent will raise 
Their feeble Souls ; and bear with his regrets, 
Who, looking round the fair assemblage, 

feels 
That ere the Sun goes down their childhood 
sets. 

XXIV 

CONFIRMATION CONTINUED 

1821. 1827 

1 saw a Mother's eye intensely bent 
Upon a Maiden trembling as she knelt; 



630 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



In and for whom the pious Mother felt 
Things that we judge of by a light too 

faint: 
Tell, if ye may, some star-crowned Muse, 

or Saint ! 
Tell what rushed in, from what she was re- 
lieved — 
Then, when her Child the hallowing touch 

received, 
And such vibration through the Mother 

went 
That tears burst forth amain. Did gleams 

appear ? 
Opened a vision of that blissful place 
Where dwells a Sister-child ? And was 

power given 
Part of her lost One's glory back to trace 
Even to this Rite ? For thus She knelt, 

and, ere 
The summer-leaf had faded, passed to 

Heaven. 

xxv 

SACRAMENT 
1821. 1827 

By chain yet stronger must the Soul be 

tied; 
One duty more, last stage of this ascent, 
Brings to thy food, mysterious Sacrament ! 
The Offspring, haply, at the Parent's side; 
But not till They, with all that do abide 
In Heaven, have lifted up their hearts to 

laud 
And magnify the glorious name of God, 
Fountain of grace, whose Son for sinners 

died. 
Ye, who have duly weighed the summons, 

pause 
No longer; ye, whom to the saving rite 
The Altar calls, come early under laws 
That can secure for you a path of light 
Through gloomiest shade ; put on (nor dread 

its weight) 
Armour divine, and conquer in your cause ! 

XXVI 

THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY 

1 82 1. 1845 

The Vested Priest before the Altar stands ; 
Approach, come gladly, ye prepared, in 

sight 



Of God and chosen friends, your troth to 

plight 
With the symbolic ring, and willing hands 
Solemnly joined. Now sanctify the bands 
O Father ! — to the Espoused thy blessing 

give, 
That mutually assisted they may live 
Obedient, as here taught, to thy commands. 
So prays the Church, to consecrate a Vow 
" The which would endless matrimony 

make ; " 
Union that shadows forth and doth partake 
A mystery potent human love to endow 
With heavenly, each more prized for the 

other's sake; 
Weep not, meek Bride ! uplift thy timid 

brow. 

XXVII 
THANKSGIVING AFTER CHILDBIRTH 
1821. 1845 

Woman ! the Power who left his throne on 

high, 
And deigned to wear the robe of flesh we 

wear, 
The Power that thro' the straits of Infancy 
Did pass dependent on maternal care, 
His own humanity with Thee will share, 
Pleased with the thanks that in his People's 

eye 
Thou offerest up for safe Delivery 
From Childbirth's perilous throes. And 

should the Heir 
Of thy fond hopes hereafter walk inclined 
To courses fit to make a mother rue 
That ever he was born, a glance of mind 
Cast upon this observance may renew 
A better will; and, in the imagined view 
Of thee thus kneeling, safety he may find. 

XXVIII 

VISITATION OF THE SICK 

1821. 1845 

The Sabbath bells renew the inviting peal; 
Glad music ! yet there be that, worn with 

pain 
And sickness, listen where they long have 

lain, 
In sadness listen. With maternal zeal 
Inspired, the Church sends ministers to 

kneel 
Beside the afflicted; to sustain with prayer, 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



631 



And soothe the heart confession hath laid 

bare — 
That pardon, from God's throne, may set its 

seal 
On a true Penitent. When breath departs 
From one disburthened so, so comforted, 
His Spirit Angels greet; and ours be hope 
That, if the Sufferer rise from his sick-bed, 
Hence he will gain a firmer mind, to cope 
With a bad world, and foil the Tempter's 

arts. 

XXIX 

THE COMMINATION SERVICE 

I82I. 1845 

Shun not this Rite, neglected, yea abhorred, 
By some of unreflecting mind, as calling 
Man to curse man, (thought monstrous and 

appalling.) 
Go thou and hear the threatenings of the 

Lord; 
Listening within his Temple see his sword 
Unsheathed in wrath to strike the offender's 

head, 
Thy own, if sorrow for thy sin be dead, 
Guilt unrepented, pardon unimplored. 
Two aspects bears Truth needful for salva- 
tion ; 
Who knows not that ? — yet would this 

delicate age 
Look only on the Gospel's brighter page: 
Let lvght and dark duly our thoughts em- 
ploy; 
So shall the fearful words of Commination 
Yield timely fruit of peace and love and_ 

j°y- 

XXX 

FORMS OF PRAYER AT SEA 

1821. 1845 

To kneeling Worshippers no earthly floor 

Gives holier invitation than the deck 

Of a storm-shattered Vessel saved from 

Wreck 
(When all that Man could do availed no 

more) 
By him who raised the Tempest and re- 
strains : 
Happy the crew who this have felt, and pour 
Forth for his mercy, as the Church ordains, 
Solemn thanksgiving. Nor will they im- 
plore 
In vain who, for a rightful cause, give breath 



To words the Church prescribes, aiding the 

U P 

For the heart's sake, ere ship with hostde 

ship 
Encounters, armed for work of pain and 

death. 
Suppliants ! the God to whom your cause 

ye trust 
Will listen, and ye know that He is just. 

XXXI 

FUNERAL SERVICE 

1821. 1845 

From the Baptismal hour, thro weal and 

woe, 
The Church extends her care to thought 

and deed; 
Nor quits the Body when the Soul is freed, 
The mortal weight cast off to be laid low. 
Blest Rite for him who hears in faith, " I 

know 
That my Redeemer liveth," — hears each 

word 
That follows — striking on some kindred 

chord 
Deep in the thankful heart; — yet tears will 

flow. 
Man is as grass that springeth up at morn, 
Grows green, and is cut down and wither- 
ed 
Ere nightfall — truth that well may claim 

a sigh, 
Its natural echo; but hope comes reborn 
At Jesu's bidding. We rejoice, " O Death, 
Where is thy Sting ? — O Grave, where is 

thy Victory ? " 



XXXII 
RURAL CEREMONY 
1821. 1822 

Closing the sacred Book which long has 

fed 
Our meditations, give we to a day 
Of annual joy one tributary lay; 
This day, when, forth by rustic music led, 
The village Children, while the sky is red 
With evening lights, advance in long array 
Through the still churchyard, each with 

garland gay, 
That, carried sceptre-like, o'ertops the 

head 



632 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



Of the proud Bearer. To the wide church- 
door, 
Charged with these offerings which their 

fathers bore 
For decoration in the Papal time, 
The innocent procession softly moves: — 
The spirit of Laud is pleased in heaven's 

pure clime, 
And Hooker's voice the spectacle approves I 



REGRETS 
1821. 1822 

Would that our scrupulous Sires had dared 

to leave 
Less scanty measure of those graceful rites 
And usages, whose due return invites 
A stir of mind too natural to deceive; 
Giving to Memory help when she would 

weave 
A crown for Hope ! — I dread the boasted 

lights 
That all too often are but fiery blights, 
Killing the bud o'er which in vain we grieve. 
Go, seek, when Christmas snows discomfort 

bring, 
The counter Spirit found in some gay 

church 
Green with fresh holly, every pew a perch 
In which the linnet or the thrush might 

sing, 
Merry and loiid and safe from prying search, 
Strains offered only to the genial Spring. 



MUTABILITY 

1821. 1822 

From low to high doth dissolution climb, 
And sink from high to low, along a scale 
Of awful notes, whose concord shall not 

fail; 
A musical but melancholy chime, 
Which they can hear who meddle not with 

crime, 
Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. 
Truth fails not; but her outward forms that 

bear 
The longest date do melt like frosty rime, 
That in the morning whitened hill and plain 
And is no more; drop like the tower sub- 
lime 



Of yesterday, which royally did wear 

His crown of weeds, but could not even 

sustain 
Some casual shout that broke the silent 

air, 
Or the unimaginable touch of Time. 

xxxv 

OLD ABBEYS 

1821. 1822 

Monastic Domes ! following my down- 
ward way, 
Untouched by due regret I marked your 

fall! 
Now, ruin, beauty, ancient stillness, all 
Dispose to judgments temperate as we 

lay 
On our past selves in life's declining day: 
For as, by discipline of Time made wise, 
We learn to tolerate the infirmities 
And faults of others — gentty as he may, 
So with our own the mild Instructor deals, 
Teaching us to forget them or forgive. 
Perversely curious, then, for hidden ill 
Why should we break Time's charitable 

seals ? 
Once ye were holy, ye are holy still; 
Your spirit freely let me drhik, and live ! 

XXXVI 

EMIGRANT FRENCH CLERGY 

1821. 1827 

Even while I speak, the sacred roofs of 

France 
Are shattered into dust; and self-exiled 
From altars threatened, levelled, or defiled, 
Wander the Ministers of God, as chance 
Opens a way for life, or consonance 
Of faith invites. More welcome to no land 
The fugitives than to the British strand, 
Where priest and layman with the vigilance 
Of true compassion greet them. Creed and 

test 
Vanish before the unreserved embrace 
Of catholic humanity: — distrest 
They came, — and, while the moral tempest 

roars 
Throughout the Country they have left, our 

shores 
Give to their Faith a fearless resting- 
place. 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



633 



XXXVII 

CONGRATULATION 
1821. 1822 

Thus all things lead to Charity secured 

By them who blessed the soft and happy 
gale 

That landward urged the great Deliverer's 
sail, 

Till in the sunny bay his fleet was moored ! 

Propitious hour ! — had we, like them, en- 
dured 

Sore stress of apprehension, with a mind 

Sickened by injuries, dreading worse de- 
signed, 

From month to month trembling and un- 
assured, 

How had we then rejoiced ! But we have 
felt, 

As a loved substance, their futurity: 

Good, which they dared not hope for, we 
have seen; 

A State whose generous will through earth 
is dealt; 

A State — which, balancing herself be- 
tween 

Licence and slavish order, dares be free. 



XXXVIII 
NEW CHURCHES 

1821. 1822 

But liberty, and triumphs on the Main, 
And laurelled armies, not to be withstood — 
What serve they ? if, on transitory good 
Intent, and sedulous of abject gain, 
The State (ah, surely not preserved in 

vain !) 
Forbear to shape due channels which the 

Flood 
Of sacred truth may enter — till it brood 
O'er the wide realm, as o'er the Egyptian 

plain 
The all-sustaining Nile. No more — the 

time 
Is conscious of her want; through England's 

bounds, 
In rival haste, the wished-for Temples rise ! 
I hear their sabbath bells' harmonious 

chime 
Float on the breeze — the heavenliest of all 

sounds 
That vale or hill prolongs or multiplies ! 



xxxix 

CHURCH TO BE ERECTED 

l82I. 1822 

Be this the chosen site; the virgin sod, 
Moistened from age to age by dewy eve, 
Shall disappear, and grateful earth receive 
The corner-stone from hands that build to 

God. 
Yon reverend hawthorns, hardened to the rod 
Of whiter storms, jet budding cheerfully; 
Those forest oaks of Druid memory, 
Shall long survive, to shelter the Abode 
Of genuine Faith. Where, haply, 'mid 

this band 
Of daisies, shepherds sate of yore and wove 
May-garlands, there let the holy altar stand 
For kneeling adoration; — while — above, 
Broods, visibly portrayed, the mystic Dove, 
That shall protect from blasphemy the 

Land. 

XL 
CONTINUED 

1821. 1822 

Mine ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued, 
Sharing the strong emotion of the crowd, 
When each pale brow to dread hosannas 

bowed 
While clouds of incense mounting veiled 

the rood, 
That glimmered like a pine-tree dimly 

viewed 
Through Alpine vapours. Such appalling rite 
Our Church prepares not, trusting to the 

might 
Of simple truth with grace divine imbued; 
Yet will we not conceal the precious Cross, 
Like men ashamed: the Sun with his first 

smile 
Shall greet that symbol crowning the low 

Pile: 
And the fresh air of incense-breathing morn 
Shall wooingly embrace it ; and green moss 
Creep round its arms through centuries un- 
born. 

XLI 

NEW CHURCHYARD 

1821. 1822 

The encircling ground, in native turf ar« 

rayed, 
Is now by solemn consecration given 



634 



ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS 



To social interests, and to favouring 

Heaven; 
And where the rugged colts their gambols 

played, 
And wild deer bounded through the forest 

glade, 
Unchecked as when by merry Outlaw driven, 
Shall hymns of praise resound at morn and 

even; 
And soon, full soon, the lonely Sexton's spade 
Shall wound the tender sod. Encincture 

small, 
But infinite its grasp of weal and woe ! 
Hopes, fears, in never-ending ebb and 

flow; — 
The spousal trembling, and the " dust to 

dust," 
The prayers, the contrite struggle, and the 

trust 
That to the Almighty Father looks through 

all. 



CATHEDRALS, ETC. 
I82I. 1822 

Open your gates, ye everlasting Piles ! 

Types of the spiritual Church which God 
hath reared; 

Not loth we quit the newly-hallowed sward 

And humble altar, 'mid your sumptuous 
aisles 

To kneel, or thrid your intricate defiles, 

Or down the nave to pace in motion slow; 

Watching, with upward eye, the tall tower 
grow 

And mount, at every step, with living wiles 

Instinct — to rouse the heart and lead the 
will 

By a bright ladder to the world above. 

Open your gates, ye Monuments of love 

Divine ! thou Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill ! 

Thou, stately York ! and Ye, whose splen- 
dours cheer 

Isis and Cam, to patient Science dear ! 



INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, 
CAMBRIDGE 

1821. 1822 

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 
With ill-matched aims the Architect who 

planned — 
Albeit labouring for a scanty band 



Of white robed Scholars only — this im- 
mense 
And glorious Work of fine intelligence ! 
Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects 

the lore 
Of nicely-calculated less or more ; 
So deemed the man who fashioned for the 

sense 
These lofty pillars, spread that branching 

roof 
Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand 

cells, 
Where light and shade repose, where music 

dwells 
Lingering — and wandering on as loth to 

die; 
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yield- 

eth proof 
That they were born for immortality. 

XLIV 

THE SAME 

1821. 1822 

What awful perspective ! while from our 

sight 
With gradual stealth the lateral windows 

hide 
Their Portraitures, their stone-work glim- 
mers, dyed 
In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light. 
Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite, 
Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen, 
Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen, 
Shine on, until ye fade with coming Night! — 
But, from the arms of silence — list! O list! 
The music bursteth into second life; 
The notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed 
By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife; 
Heart-thrilling strains, that cast, before the 

eye 
Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy ! 

XLV 
CONTINUED 

1821. 1822 

They dreamt not of a perishable home 
Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours 

of fear 
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here; 
Or through the aisles of Westminster to 



MEMORY 



635 



Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing 

foam 
Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the 

wreath 
Of awe-struck wisdom droops : or let my path 
Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like 

dome 
Hath typified by reach of daring art 
Infinity's embrace; whose guardian crest, 
The silent Cross, among the stars shall 

spread 
As now, when She hath also seen her breast 
Filled with mementos, satiate with its part 
Of grateful England's overflowing Dead. 

XLVI 

EJACULATION 

1821. 1822 

Glory to God ! and to the Power who came 
In filial duty, clothed with love divine, 
That made his human tabernacle shine 
Like Ocean burning with purpureal flame; 
Or like the Alpine Mount, that takes its 

name 
From roseate hues, far kenned at morn and 

even 
In hours of peace, or when the storm is 

driven 
Along the nether region's rugged frame ! 
Earth prompts — Heaven urges ; let us seek 

the light, 



Studious of that pure intercourse begun 
When first our infant brows their lustre won ; 
So, like the Mountain, may we grow more 

bright 
From unimpeded commerce with the Sun, 
At the approach of all-involving night. 



CONCLUSION 

1821. 1822 

Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled, 
Coil within coil, at noon-tide ? For the 

Word 
Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith ex- 
plored, 
Power at whose touch the sluggard shall 

unfold 
His drowsy rings. Look forth ! — that 

Stream behold, 
That Stream upon whose bosom we have 

passed 
Floating at ease while nations have effaced 
Nations, and Death has gathered to his fold 
Long lines of mighty Kings — look forth, 

my Soul ! 
(Nor in this vision be thou slow to trust) 
The living Waters, less and less by guilt 
Stained and polluted, brighten as they roll, 
Till they have reached the eternal City — 

built 
For the perfected Spirit of the just ! 



MEMORY 
1823. 1827 

A pen — to register; a key — 
That winds through secret wards, 
Are well assigned to Memory 
By allegoric Bards. 

As aptly, also, might be given 

A Pencil to her hand; 

That, softening objects, sometimes even 

Outstrips the heart's demand; 

That smooths foregone distress, the 

lines 
Of lingering care subdues, 
Long-vanished happiness refines, 
And clothes in brighter hues; 



Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works 
Those Spectres to dilate 
That startle Conscience, as she lurks 
Within her lonely seat. 

Oh! that our lives, which flee so fast, 
In purity were such, 
That not an image of the past 
Should fear that pencil's touch ! 

Retirement then might hourly look 
Upon a soothing scene, 
Age steal to his allotted nook 
Contented and serene; 

With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, 

In frosty moonlight glistening; 

Or mountain rivers, where they creep 

Along a channel smooth and deep, 

To their own far-off murmurs listening. 



636 



TO THE LADY FLEMING 



TO THE LADY FLEMING 

ON SEEING THE FOUNDATION PREPARING 
FOR THE ERECTION OF RYDAL CHAPEL, 
WESTMORELAND 

1823. 1827 

After thanking Lady Fleming 1 in prose for 
the service she had done to her neighbourhood 
by erecting this Chapel, I have nothing to say 
beyond the expression of regret that the archi- 
tect did not furnish an elevation better suited 
to the site in a narrow mountain-pass, and, 
what is of more consequence, better constructed 
in the interior for the purposes of worship. It 
has no chancel ; the altar is unbecomingly con- 
fined ; the pews are so narrow as to preclude 
the possibility of kneeling with comfort ; there 
is no vestry ; and what ought to have been first 
mentioned, the font, instead of standing at its 
proper place at the entrance, is thrust into the 
farther end of a pew. When these defects shall 
be pointed out to the munificent Patroness, they 
will, it is hoped, be corrected. 



Blest is this Isle — our native Land; 
Where battlement and moated gate 
Are objects only for the hand 
Of hoary Time to decorate; 
Where shady hamlet, town that breathes 
Its busy smoke in social wreaths, 
No rampart's stern defence require, 
Nought but the heaven-directed spire, 
And steeple tower (with pealing bells 
Far-heard) — our only citadels. 



O Lady ! from a noble line 
Of chieftains sprimg, who stoutly bore 
The spear, yet gave to works divine 
A bounteous help in days of yore 
(As records mouldering in the Dell 
Of Nightshade haply yet may tell); 
Thee kindred aspirations moved 
To build, within a vale beloved, 
For Him upon whose high behests 
All peace depends, all safety rests. 



How fondly will the woods embrace 
This daughter of thy pious care, 
Lifting her front with modest grace 
To make a fair recess more fair; 
And to exalt the passing hour; 
Or soothe it with a healing power 



Drawn from the Sacrifice fulfilled, 
Before this rugged soil was tilled, 
Or human habitation rose 
To interrupt the deep repose ! 



3c 



Well may the villagers rejoice ! 

Nor heat, nor cold, nor weary ways, 

Will be a hindrance to the voice 

That would unite in prayer and praise; 

More duly shall wild wandering Youth 

Receive the curb of sacred truth, 

Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear 

The Promise, with uplifted ear; 

And all shall welcome the new ray 

Imparted to their sabbath-day. 40 



Nor deem the Poet's hope misplaced, 

His fancy cheated — that can see 

A shade upon the future cast, 

Of time's pathetic sanctity; 

Can hear the monitory clock 

Sound o'er the lake with gentle shock 

At evening, when the ground beneath 

Is ruffled o'er with cells of death; 

W'here happy generations lie, 

Here tutored for eternity. so 



Lives there a man whose sole delights 
Are trivial pomp and city noise, 
Hardening a heart that loathes or slights 
What every natural heart enjoys ? 
Who never caught a noon-tide dream 
From murmur of a running stream; 
Could strip, for aught the prospect 

yields 
To him, their verdure from the fields ; 
And take the radiance from the clouds 
In which the sun his setting shrouds. 60 



A soul so pitiably forlorn, 

If such do on this earth abide, 

May season apathy with scorn, 

May turn indifference to pride; 

And still be not unblest — compared 

With him who grovels, self-debarred 

From all that lies within the scope 

Of holy faith and christian hope; 

Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast 

False fires, that others may be lost. 70 



" A VOLANT TRIBE OF BARDS ON EARTH ARE FOUND " 637 



Alas ! that such perverted zeal 

Should spread on Britain's favoured ground ! 

That public order, private weal, 

Should e'er have felt or feared a wound 

From champions of the desperate law 

Which from their own blind hearts they 

draw ; 
Who tempt their reason to deny 
God, whom their passions dare defy, 
And boast that they alone are free 
Who reach this dire extremity ! 80 

IX 

But turn we from these " bold bad " men ; 
The way, mild Lady ! that hath led 
Down to their " dark opprobrious den," 
Is all too rough for Thee to tread. 
Softly as morning vapours glide 
Down Rydal-cove from Fairfield's side, 
Should move the tenor of his song 
Who means to charity no wrong; 
Whose offering gladly would accord 89 

With this day's work, in thought and word. 

X 

Heaven prosper it ! may peace, and love, 
And hope, and consolation, fall, 
Through its meek influence, from above, 
And penetrate the hearts of all; 
All who, around the hallowed Fane, 
Shall sojourn in this fair domain; 
Grateful to Thee, while service pure, 
And ancient ordinance, shall endure, 
For opportunity bestowed 
To kneel together, and adore their God! 100 

ON THE SAME OCCASION 
1823. 1827 

Oh ! gather whencesoe'er ye safely may 
The help which slackening Piety requires ; 
Nor deem that he perforce must go astray 
Who treads upon the footmarks of his sires. 

Our churches, invariably perhaps, stand east 
and west, but why is by few persons exactly 
known ; nor, that the degree of deviation from 
due east ofteu noticeable in the ancient ones 
was determined, in each particular case, by the 
point in the horizon, at which the sun rose upon 
the day of the saint to whom the church was 
dedicated. These observances of our ancestors, 
and the causes of them, are the subject of the 
following' stanzas. 

When in the antique age of bow and spear 
And feudal rapine clothed with iron mail, 



Came ministers of peace, intent to rear 
The Mother Church in yon sequestered vale ; 

Then, to her Patron Saint a previous rite 
Resounded with deep swell and solemn close, 
Through unremitting vigils of the night, 
Till from his couch the wished-for Sun up- 



He rose, and straight — as by divine com- 
mand, 

They, who had waited for that sign to trace 

Their work's foundation, gave with careful 
hand 

To the high altar its determined place; 

Mindful of Him who in the Orient born 

There lived, and on the cross his life re- 
signed, 

And who, from out the regions of the 
morn, 

Issuing in pomp, shall come to judge man- 
kind. 

So taught their creed; — nor failed the east- 
ern sky, 

'Mid these more awful feelings, to infuse 

The sweet and natural hopes that shall not 
die, 

Long as the sun his gladsome course renews. 

For us hath such prelusive vigil ceased; 
Yet still we plant, like men of elder days, 
Our christian altar faithful to the east, 
Whence the tall window drinks the morn- 
ing rays; 

That obvious emblem giving to the eye 
Of meek devotion, which erewhile it gave, 
That symbol of the dayspring from on high, 
Triumphant o'er the darkness of the grave. 



"A VOLANT TRIBE OF BARDS 
ON EARTH ARE FOUND" 

1823. 1827 

A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are 

found, 
Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round 

them play, 
On " coignes of vantage " hang their nests 

of clay ; 
How quickly from that aery hold unbound, 
Dust for oblivion ! To the solid ground 






638 ; 'NOT LOVE, NOT WAR, NOR THE TUMULTUOUS SWELL" 



Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye ; 
Convinced that there, there only, she can lay 
Secure foundations. As the year runs 

round, 
Apart she toils within the chosen ring; 
While the stars shine, or while day's purple 

eye 
Is gently closing with the flowers of spring; 
Where even the motion of an Angel's wing 
Would interrupt the intense tranquillity 
Of silent hills, and more than silent sky. 



"NOT LOVE, NOT WAR, NOR 
THE TUMULTUOUS SWELL" 

1823. 1827 

Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell 
Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, 
Nor Duty struggling with afflictions 

strange — 
Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell; 
But where untroubled peace and concord 

dwell, 
There also is the Muse not loth to range, 
Watching the twilight smoke of cot or 

grange, 
Skyward ascending from a woody dell. 
Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour, 
And sage content, and placid melancholy; 
She loves to gaze upon a crystal river — 
Diaphanous because it travels slowly; 
Soft is the music that would charm for ever; 
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and 

lowly. 

TO 

1824. 1827 

Written at Rydal Mount. On Mrs. Words- 
worth. 

Let other bards of angels sing, 

Bright suns without a spot; 
But thou art no such perfect thing: 

Rejoice that thou art not ! 

Heed not tho' none should call thee fair; 

So, Mary, let it be 
If nought in loveliness compare 

With what thou art to me. 

True beauty dwells in deep retreats, 

Whose veil is unremoved 
Till heart with heart in concord beats, 

And the lover is beloved. 



TO 

1824. 1827 

Written at Rydal Mount. To Mrs. W. 

O dearer far than light and life are dear, 
Full oft our human foresight I deplore; 
Trembling, through my unworthmess, with 

fear 
That friends, by death disjoined, may meet 

no more ! 

Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control, 
Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest; 
While all the future, for thy purer soul, 
With " sober certainties " of love is blest. 

That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear, 
Tells tbat these words thy humbleness of- 
fend; 
Yet bear me up — else faltering in the rear 
Of a steep march: support me to the end. 

Peace settles where the intellect is meek, 
And Love is dutiful in thought and deed; 
Through Thee communion with that Love 

I seek: 
The faith Heaven strengthens where he 

moulds the Creed. 



"HOW RICH THAT FOREHEAD'S 
CALM EXPANSE" 

1824. 1827 

Written at Rydal Mount. Mrs. Words- 
worth's impression is that the Poem was writ- 
ten at Coleorton : it was certainly suggested by 
a Print at Coleorton Hall. 

How rich that forehead's calm expanse ! 

How bright that heaven-directed glance ! 

— Waft her to glory, winged Powers, 

Ere sorrow be renewed, 

And intercourse with mortal hours 

Bring back a humbler mood ! 

So looked Cecilia when she drew 

An Angel from his station ; 

So looked; not ceasing to pursue 

Her tuneful adoration ! 

But hand and voice alike are still; 

No sound here sweeps away the will 

That gave it birth : in service meek 

One upright arm sustains the cheek, 

And one across the bosom li<;s — 

That rose, and now forgets to rise, 

Subdued by breathless harmonies 



A FLOWER GARDEN 



639 



Of meditative feeling; 

Mute strains from worlds beyond the skies, 
Through the pure light of female eyes, 
Their sanctity revealing ! 



TO 

1824. 1827 

Written at Rydal Mount. Prompted by the 
undue importance attached to personal beauty 
by some dear friends of mine. 

Look at the fate of summer flowers, 
Which blow at daybreak, droop e'er even- 
song; 
And, grieved for their brief date, confess 

that ours, 
Measured by what we are and ought to be, 
Measured by all that, trembling, we foresee, 
Is not so long ! 

If human Life do pass away, 
Perishing yet more swiftly than the flower, 
If we are creatures of a winter's day ; 
What space hath Virgin's beauty to disclose 
Her sweets, and triumph o'er the breathing 
rose ? 

Not even an hour ! 

The deepest grove whose foliage hid 
The happiest lovers Arcady might boast, 
Could not the entrance of this thought for- 
bid: 
O be thou wise as they, soul-gifted Maid ! 
Nor rate too high what must so quickly fade, 
So soon be lost. 

Then shall love teach some virtuous Youth 
" To draw, out of the object of his eyes," 
The while on thee they gaze in simple truth, 
Hues more exalted, " a refined Form," 
That dreads not age, nor suffers from the 
worm, 

And never dies. 



A FLOWER GARDEN 

AT COLEORTON HALL, LEICESTERSHIRE 
1824. 1827 

Planned by my friend, Lady Beaumont, in 
connection with the garden at Coleorton. 

Tell me, ye Zephyrs ! that unfold, 
While fluttering o'er this gay Recess, 



Pinions that fanned the teeming mould 

Of Eden's blissful wilderness, 

Did only softly-stealing hours 

There close the peaceful lives of flowers ? 

Say, when the moving creatures saw 

All kinds commingled without fear, 

Prevailed a like indulgent law 

For the still growths that prosper here ? 10 

Did wanton fawn and kid forbear 

The half-blown rose, the lily spare ? 

Or peeped they often from their beds 
And prematurely disappeared, 
Devoured like pleasure ere it spreads 
A bosom to the sun endeared ? 
If such their harsh untimely doom, 
It falls not here on bud or bloom. 

All summer long the happy Eve 

Of this fair Spot her flowers may bind, 20 

Nor e'er, with ruffled fancy, grieve, 

From the next glance she casts, to find 

That love for little things by Fate 

Is rendered vain as love for great. 

Yet, where the guardian fence is wound, 

So subtly are our eyes beguiled 

We see not nor suspect a bound, 

No more than in some forest wild; 

The sight is free as air — or crost 

Only by art in nature lost. 30 

And, though the jealous turf refuse 
By random footsteps to be prest, 
And feed on never-sullied dews, 
Ye, gentle breezes from the west, 
With all the ministers of hope 
Are tempted to this sunny slope ! 

And hither throngs of birds resort; 
Some, inmates lodged in shady nests, 
Some, perched on stems of stately port 
That nod to welcome transient guests; 4c 
While hare and leveret, seen at play, 
Appear not more shut out than they. 

Apt emblem (for reproof of pride) 
This delicate Enclosure shows 
Of modest kindness, that would hide 
The firm protection she bestows; 
Of manners, like its viewless fence, 
Ensuring peace to innocence. 

Thus spake the moral Muse — her wing 
Abruptly spreading to depart, 50 



640 



TO THE LADY E. B. AND THE HON. MISS P. 



She left that farewell offering, 
Memento for some docile heart; 
That may respect the good old age 
When Fancy was Truth's willing Page; 
And Truth woidd skim the flowery glade, 
Though entering but as Fancy's Shade. 

TO THE LADY E. B. AND THE 
HON. MISS P. 

1824. 1827 

Composed in the Grounds of Plass Newidd, 
near Llangollen, 1824. 

In this Yale of Meditation my friend Jones 
resided, having been allowed by his diocesan to 
fix himself there without resigning his Living 
in Oxfordshire. He was with my wife and 
daughter and me when we visited these cele- 
brated ladies who had retired, as one may say, 
into notice in this vale. Their cottage lay di- 
rectly in the road between London and Dublin, 
and they were of course visited by their Irish 
friends as well as innumerable strangers. 
They took much delight in passing jokes on 
our friend Jones's plumpness, ruddy cheeks, 
and smiling countenance, as little suited to a 
hermit living in the Vale of Meditation. We 
all thought there was ample room for retort on 
his part, so curious was the appearance of 
these ladies, so elaborately sentimental about 
themselves and their Caro Albergo, as they 
named it in an inscription on a tree that stood 
opposite, the endearing epithet being preceded 
by the word Ecco ! calling upon the saunterer 
to look about him. So oddly was one of these 
ladies attired that we took her, at a little dis- 
tance, for a Roman Catholic priest, with a 
crucifix and relics hung at his neck. They were 
without caps, their hair bushy and white as 
snow, which contributed to the mistake. 

A Stream, to mingle with your favourite 

Dee, 
Along the Vale of Meditation flows; 
So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to 

see 
In Nature's face the expression of repose; 
Or haply there some pious hermit chose 
To live and die, the peace of heaven his aim ; 
To whom the wild sequestered region owes 
At this late day, its sanctifying name. 
Glyn Cafaillgaroch, in the Cambrian 

tongue, 
In ours, the Vale of Friendship, let this 

spot 
Be named; where, faithful to a low-roofed 

Cot, 



On Deva's banks, ye have abode so long; 
Sisters in love, a love allowed to climb, 
Even on this earth, above the reach of 
Time ! 



TO THE TORRENT AT THE 
DEVIL'S BRIDGE, NORTH 
WALES, 1S24 

1824. 1827 

How art thou named ? In search of what 

strange land, 
From what huge height descending? Can 

such force 
Of waters issue from a British source, 
Or hath not Pindus fed thee, where the 

band 
Of Patriots scoop their freedom out, with 

hand 
Desperate as thine ? Or come the inces- 
sant shocks 
From that young Stream, that smites the 

throbbing rocks 
Of Viamala ? There I seem to stand, 
As in life's morn; permitted to behold, 
From the dread chasm, woods climbing 

above woods, 
In pomp that fades not ; everlasting snows ; 
And skies that ne'er relinquish their repose; 
Such power possess the family of floods 
Over the minds of Poets, young or old ! 



COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS 
OF A CASTLE IN NORTH WALES 

1824. 1827 

Through shattered galleries, 'mid roofless 

halls, 
Wandering with timid footsteps oft be- 
trayed, 
The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid 
Old Time, though he, gentlest among the 

Thralls 
Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid 
His lenient touches, soft as light that falls, 
From the wan Moon, upon the towers and 

walls, 
Light deepening the profoundest sleep of 

shade. 
Relic of Kings ! Wreck of forgotten wars, 
To winds abandoned and the prying stars, 
Time loves Thee ! at his call the Seasons 
twine 



CENOTAPH 



641 



Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead 

hoar; 
And, though past pomp no changes can 

restore, 
A soothing recompence, his gift, is thine ! 

ELEGIAC STANZAS 

ADDRESSED TO SIR G. H. B. UPON THE 
DEATH OF HIS SISTER-IN-LAW 

1824. 1827 

On Mrs. Fermor. This lady had been a 
■widow long- before I knew her. Her husband 
■was of the family of the lady celebrated in the 
' ' Rape of the Lock, ' ' and was, I believe, a 
Roman Catholic. The sorrow which his death 
caused her was fearful in its character as de- 
scribed in this poem, but was subdued in 
course of time by the strength of her religious 
faith. I have been, for many weeks at a time, 
an inmate with her at Coleorton Hall, as were 
also Mrs. Wordsworth and my Sister. The 
truth in the sketch of her character here given 
was acknowledged with gratitude by her near- 
est relatives. She was eloquent in conversa- 
tion, energetic upon public matters, open in 
respect to those, but slow to communicate her 
personal feelings ; upon these she never touched 
in her intercourse with me, so that I could not 
regard myself as her confidential friend, and 
was accordingly surprised when I learnt she 
had left me a legacy of £100, as a token of 
her esteem. See, in further illustration, the 
second stanza inscribed upon her Cenotaph in 
Coleorton church. 

O FOR a dirge ! But why complain ? 

Ask rather a triumphal strain 

When Fermor's race is run; 

A garland of immortal boughs 

To twine around the Christian's brows, 

Whose glorious work is done. 

We pay a high and holy debt; 

No tears of passionate regret 

Shall stain this votive lay; 

Ill-worthy, Beaumont ! were the grief 10 

That flings itself on wild relief 

When Saints have passed away. 

Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel, 

For ever covetous to feel, 

And impotent to bear ! 

Such once was hers — to think and think 

On severed love, and only sink 

From anguish to despair ! 



But nature to its inmost part 

Faith had refined; and to her heart 20 

A peaceful cradle given: 

Calm as the dew-drop's, free to rest 

Within a breeze-fanned rose's breast 

Tdl it exhales to Heaven. 

Was ever Spirit that could bend 

So graciously ? — that could descend, 

Another's need to suit, 

So promptly from her lofty throne ? — 

In works of love, in these alone, 

How restless, how minute ! 3c 

Pale was her hue ; yet mortal cheek 
Ne'er kindled with a livelier streak 
When aught had suffered wrong, — 
When aught that breathes had felt a wound; 
Such look the Oppressor might confound, 
However proud and strong. 

But hushed be every thought that springs 

From out the bitterness of things; 

Her quiet is secure; 

No thorns can pierce her tender feet, 40 

Whose life was, like the violet, sweet, 

As climbing jasmine, pure — 

As snowdrop on an infant's grave, 

Or lily heaving with the wave 

That feeds it and defends ; 

As Vesper, ere the star hath kissed 

The mountain top, or breathed the mist 

That from the vale ascends. 

Thou takest not away, O Death ! 

Thou strikest — absence perisheth, 50 

Indifference is no more; 

The future brightens on our sight; 

For on the past hath fallen a light 

That tempts us to adore. 



CENOTAPH 

1824. 1842 

See "Elegiac Stanzas. Addressed to Sir G. 
H. B. upon the death of his Sister-in-Law." 

In affectionate remembrance of Frances Fer- 
mor, whose remains are deposited in the church 
of Claines, near Worcester, this stone is erected 
by her sister, Dame Margaret, wife of Sir George 
Beaumont, Bart., who, feeling not less than the 
love of a brother for the deceased, commends 
this memorial to the care of his heirs and sue* 
cessors in the possession of this place. 



642 



EPITAPH 



By vain affections unenthralled, 
Though resolute when duty called 
To meet the world's broad eye, 
Pure as the holiest cloistered nun 
That ever feared the tempting sun, 
Did Fermor live and die. 
This Tablet, hallowed by her name, 
One heart-relieving tear may claim; 
But if the pensive gloom 
Of fond regret be still thy choice, 
Exalt thy spirit, hear the voice 
Of Jesus from her tomb ! 

"I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE 
LIFE " 



EPITAPH 

IN THE CHAPEL-YARD OF LANGDALE, 
WESTMORELAND 

1824. 1842 

Owen Lloyd, the subject of this epitaph, was 
born at Old Brathay, near Ambleside, and was 
the son of Charles Lloyd and his wife Sophia 
(u6e Pemberton), both of Birmingham, who 
came to reside in this part of the country soon 
after their marriage. They had many children, 
both sons and daughters, of whom the most 
remarkable was the subject of this epitaph. He 
was educated under Mr. Dawes, at Ambleside, 
Dr. Butler, of Shrewsbury, and lastly at Trinity 
College, Cambridge, where he would have been 
greatly distinguished as a scholar but for inher- 
ited infirmities of bodily constitution, which, 
from early childhood, affected his mind. His 
love for the neighbourhood in which he was 
born, and his sympathy with the habits and 
characters of the mountain yeomanry, in con- 
junction with irregular spirits, that unfitted him 
for facing duties in situations to which he was 
unaccustomed, induced him to accept the re- 
tired curacy of Langdale. How much he was 
beloved and honoured there, and with what 
feelings he discharged his duty under the op- 
pression of severe malady, is set forth, though 
imperfectly, in the epitaph. 

By playful smiles (alas ! too oft 

A sad heart's sunshine), by a soft 

And gentle nature, and a free 

Yet modest hand of charity, 

Through life was Owen Lloyd endeared 

To young and old; and how revered 

Had been that pious spirit, a tide 

Of humble mourners testified, 

When, after pains dispensed to prove 

The measure of God's chastening love, 



Here, brought from far, his corse found 

rest, — 
Fulfilment of his own request; — 
Urged less for this Yew's shade, though he 
Planted with such fond hope the tree; 
Less for the love of stream and rock, 
Dear as they were, than that his Flock, 
When they no more their Pastor's voice 
Could hear to guide them in their choice 
Through good and evil, help might have, 
Admonished, from his silent grave, 
Of righteousness, of sins forgiven, 
For peace on earth and bliss in heaven. 

1824. 

THE CONTRAST 

THE PARROT AND THE WREN 



1; 



25. 1827 



The Parrot belonged to Mrs. Luff while liv- 
ing at Fox-Ghyll. The Wren was one that 
haunted for many years the summer-house be- 
tween the two terraces at Rydal Mount. 



Within her gilded cage confined, 
I saw a dazzling Belle, 
A Parrot of that famous kind 
Whose name is Non-pareil. 

Like beads of glossy jet her eyes; 
And, smoothed by Nature's skill, 
With pearl or gleaming agate vies 
Her finely-curved bill. 

Her plumy mantle's living hues 
In mass opposed to mass, 
Outshine the splendour that imbues 
The robes of pictured glass. 

And, sooth to say, an apter Mate 
Did never tempt the choice 
Of feathered Thing most delicate 
In figure and in voice. 

But, exiled from Australian bowers, 
And singleness her lot, 
She trills her song with tutored powers, 
Or mocks each casual note. 

No more of pity for regrets 
With which she may have striven ! 
Now but in wantonness she frets, 
Or spite, if cause be given; 



ODE 



643 



Arch, volatile, a sportive bird 
By social glee inspired; 
Ambitious to be seen or heard, 
And pleased to be admired ! 



This moss-lined shed, green, soft, and dry, 
Harbours a self-contented Wren, 30 

Not shunning man's abode, though shy, 
Almost as thought itself, of human ken. 

Strange places, coverts unendeared, 
She never tried; the very nest 
In which this Child of Spring was reared, 
Is warmed, thro' winter, by her feathery 
breast. 

To the bleak winds she sometimes gives 
A slender unexpected strain; 
Proof that the hermitess still lives, 
Though she appear not, and be sought in 



Say, Dora ! tell me, by yon placid moon, 
If called to choose between the favoured 

pair, 
Which would you be, — the bird of the 

saloon 
By lady-fingers tended with nice care, 
Caressed, applauded, upon dainties fed, 
Or Nature's Darkling of this mossy shed ? 



TO A SKY-LARK 

1825. 1827 

Written at Rydal Mount. 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares 

abound ? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that mu- 
sic still ! 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 
A privacy of glorious light is thine; 
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a 

flood 
Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; 
True to the kindred points of Heaven and 

Home ! 



"ERE WITH COLD BEADS OF 
MIDNIGHT DEW" 

1826. 1827 

Written at Rydal Mount. Suggested by the 
condition of a friend. 

Ere with cold beads of midnight dew 

Had mingled tears of thine, 
I grieved, fond Youth ! that thou shouldst 
sue 

To haughty Geraldine. 

Immoveable by generous sighs, 

She glories in a train 
Who drag, beneath our native skies, 

An oriental chain. 

Pine not like them with arms across, 

Forgetting in thy care 
How the fast-rooted trees can toss 

Their branches in mid air. 

The humblest rivulet will take 

Its own wild liberties; 
And, every day, the imprisoned lake 

Is flowing in the breeze. 

Then, crouch no more on suppliant knee, 
But scorn with scorn outbrave; 

A Briton, even in love, should be 
A subject, not a slave ! 



ODE 

COMPOSED ON MAY MORNING 

1826. 1835 

This and the following poem originated in the 
lines " How delicate the leafy veil," etc. — My 
daughter and I left Rydal Mount upon a tour 
through our mountains with Mr. and Mrs. Carr 
in the month of May 1826, and as we were going 
up the vale of Newlands I was struck with the 
appearance of the little chapel gleamingthrough 
the veil of half-opened leaves; and the feeling 
which was then conveyed to my mind was ex- 
pressed in the stanza referred to above. As in 
the case of " Liberty " and " Humanity," my 
first intention was to write only one poem, hut 
subsequently I broke it into two, making addi- 
tions to each part so as to produce a consistent 
and appropriate whole. 

While from the purpling east departs 
The star that led the dawn, 



644 



TO MAY 



Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts, 

For May is on the lawn. 
A quickening hope, a freshening glee, 

Foreran the expected Power, 
Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and 
tree, 

Shakes off that pearly shower. 

All Nature welcomes Her whose sway 

Tempers the year's extremes; 10 

Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day, 

Like morning's dewy gleams; 
While mellow warble, sprightly trill, 

The tremulous heart excite; 
And hums the balmy air to still 

The balance of delight. 

Time was, blest Power ! when youths and 
maids 

At peep of dawn would rise, 
And wander forth, in forest glades 

Thy birth to solemnize. 20 

Though mute the song — to grace the 
rite 

Untouched the hawthorn bough, 
Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight; 

Man changes, but not Thou ! 

Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings 

In love's disport employ; 
Warmed by thy influence, creeping things 

Awake to silent joy : 
Queen art thou still for each gay plant 

Where the slim wild deer roves; 30 

And served in depths where fishes 
haunt 

Their own mysterious groves. 

Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath, 

Instinctive homage pay; 
Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath 

To honour thee, sweet May! 
Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs 

Behold a smokeless sky, 
Their puniest flower-pot-nursling dares 

To open a bright eye. 40 

And if, on this thy natal morn, 

The pole, from which thy name 
Hath not departed, stands forlorn 

Of song and dance and game.; 
Still from the village-green a vow 

Aspires to thee addrest, 
Wherever peace is on the brow, 

Or love within the breast. 



Yes ! where Love nestles thou canst teach 

The soul to love the more; 50 

Hearts also shall thy lessons reach 

That never loved before. 
Stript is the haughty one of pride, 

The baslif ul freed from fear, 
While rising, like the ocean-tide, 

In flows the joyous year. 

Hush, feeble lyre ! weak words refuse 

The service to prolong ! 
To yon exulting thrush the Muse 

Entrusts the imperfect song; 60 

His voice shall chant, in accents clear, 

Throughout the live-long day, 
Till the first silver star appear, 

The sovereignty of May. 



TO MAY 
1826-34. 1835 

Though many suns have risen and set 

Since thou, blithe May, wert born, 
And Bards, who hailed thee, may forget 

Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn; 
There are who to a birthday strain 

Confine not harp and voice, 
But evermore throughout thy reign 

Are grateful and rejoice ! 

Delicious odours ! music sweet, 

Too sweet to pass away ! * 

Oh for a deathless song to meet 

The soul's desire — a lay 
That, when a thousand years are told, 

Should praise thee, genial Power ! 
Through summer heat, autumnal cold, 

And winter's dreariest hour. 

Earth, sea, thy presence feel — nor less, 

If yon ethereal blue 
With its soft smile the truth express, 

The heavens have felt it too. 2 < 

The inmost heart of man if glad 

Partakes a livelier cheer; 
And eyes that cannot but be sad 

Let fall a brightened tear. 

Since thy return, through days and weeks 
Of hope that grew by stealth, 

How many wan and faded cheeks 
Have kindled into health ! 

The Old, by thee revived, have said, 
" Another year is ours; " 3 < 



"ONCE I COULD HAIL (HOWE'ER SERENE THE SKY)" 645 



And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed, 
Have smiled upon thy flowers. 

Who tripping lisps a merry song 

Amid his playful peers ? 
The tender Infant who was long 

A prisoner of fond fears; 
But now, when every sharp-edged blast 

Is quiet in its sheath, 
His Mother leaves him free to taste 

Earth's sweetness in thy breath. 40 

Thy help is with the weed that creeps 

Along the humblest ground ; 
No cliff so bare but on its steeps 

Thy favours may be found ; 
But most on some peculiar nook 

That our own hands have drest, 
Thou and thy train are proud to look, 

And seem to love it best. 

And yet how pleased we wander forth 

When May is whispering, " Come ! 50 
Choose from the bowers of virgin earth 

The happiest for your home ; 
Heaven's bounteous love through me is 
spread 

From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, 
Drops on the mouldering turret's head, 

And on your turf-clad graves ! " 

Such greeting heard, away with sighs 

For lilies that must fade, 
Or " the rathe primrose as it dies 

Forsaken " in the shade ! 60 

Vernal fruitions and desires 

Are linked in endless chase; 
While, as one kindly growth retires, 

Another takes its place. 

And what if thou, sweet May, hast known 

Mishap by worm and blight; 
If expectations newly blown 

Have perished in thy sight; 
If loves and joys, while up they sprung, 

Were caught as in a snare; 70 

Such is the lot of all the young, 

However bright and fair. 

Lo ! Streams that April could not check 

Are patient of thy rule; 
Gurgling in foamy water-break, 

Loitering in glassy pool: 
By thee, thee only, coidd be sent 

Such gentle mists as glide, 



Curling with unconfirmed intent, 

On that green mountain's side. 80 

How delicate the leafy veil 

Through which yon house of God 
Gleams, mid the peace of this deep dale 

By few but shepherds trod ! 
And lowly huts, near beaten ways, 

No sooner stand attired 
In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise 

Peep forth, and are admired. 

Season of fancy and of hope, 

Permit not for one hour, 90 

A blossom from thy crown to drop, 

Nor add to it a flower ! 
Keep, lovely May, as if by touch 

Of self-restraining art, 
This modest charm of not too much, 

Part seen, imagined part ! 



"ONCE I COULD HAIL (HOW- 
E'ER SERENE THE SKY)" 

1826. 1827 

" No faculty yet given me to espy 
The dusky Shape within her arms imbound." 

Afterwards, when I could not avoid seeing it, 
I wondered at this, and the more so because, 
like most children, I had been in the habit of 
watching' the moon through all her changes, 
and had often continued to gaze at it when at 
the full, till half blinded. 

" Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone 
Wi' the auld moone in hir arrae." 

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 
Percy's Reliques. 

Once I could hail (howe'er serene the sky) 
The Moon re-entering her monthly round, 
No faculty yet given me to espy 
The dusky Shape within her arms imbound, 
That thin memento of effulgence lost 
Which some have named her Predecessor's 
ghost. 

Yoxmg, like the Crescent that above me shone, 
Nought I perceived within it dull or dim; 
All that appeared was suitable to One 
Whose fancy had a thousand fields to 

skim; 10 

To expectations spreading with wild growth, 
And hope that kept with me her plighted 

troth. 



646 "THE MASSY WAYS, CARRIED ACROSS THESE HEIGHTS" 



I saw (ambition quickening at the view) 
A silver boat launched on a boundless flood ; 
A pearly crest, like Dian's when it threw 
Its brightest splendour round a leafy wood ; 
But not a hint from under-ground, no sign 
Fit for the glimmering brow of Proserpine. 

Or was it Dian's self that seemed to move 
Before me ? — nothing blemished the fair 
sight; 20 

On her I looked whom jocund Fairies love, 
Cynthia, who puts the little stars to flight, 
And by that thinning magnifies the great, 
For exaltation of her sovereign state. 

And when I learned to mark the spectral 

Shape 
As each new Moon obeyed the call of Time, 
If gloom fell on me, swift was my escape; 
Such happy privilege hath life's gay Prime, 
To see or not to see, as best may please 
A buoyant Spirit, and a heart at ease. 30 

Now, dazzling Stranger ! when thou meet'st 

my glance, 
Thy dark Associate ever I discern; 
Emblem of thoughts too eager to advance 
While I salute my joys, thoughts sad or 

stern ; 
Shades of past bliss, or phantoms that, to 

gain 
Their fill of promised lustre, wait in vain. 

So changes mortal Life with fleeting years ; 
A mournful change, should Reason fail to 

bring 
The timely insight that can temper fears, 
And from vicissitude remove its sting; 40 
While Faith aspires to seats in that domain 
Where joys are perfect — neither wax nor 

wane. 



"THE MASSY WAYS, CARRIED 
ACROSS THESE HEIGHTS" 

1826. 1 S3 5 

The walk is what we call the Far-terrace, 
beyond the summer-house at Rydal Mount. 
The lines were written when we were afraid of 
being 1 obliged to quit the place to which we 
were so much attached. 

The massy Ways, carried across these 

heights 
By Roman perseverance, are destroyed, 



Or hidden under ground, like sleeping 

worms. 
How venture then to hope that Time will 

spare 
This humble Walk ? Yet on the moun- 
tain's side 
A Poet's hand first shaped it; and the 

steps 
Of that same Bard — repeated to and fro 
At morn, at noon, and under moonlight 

skies 
Through the vicissitudes of many a year — 
Forbade the weeds to creep o'er its grey 

line. 
No longer, scattering to the heedless winds 
The vocal raptures of fresh poesy, 
Shall he frequent these precincts; locked 

no more 
In earnest converse with beloved Friends, 
Here will he gather stores of ready bliss, 
As from the beds and borders of a garden 
Choice flowers are gathered ! But, if 

Power may spring 
Out of a farewell yearning — favoured more 
Than kindred wishes mated suitably 
With vain regrets — the Exile would con- 
sign 
This Walk, his loved possession, to the care 
Of those pure Minds that reverence the 
Muse. 



THE PILLAR OF TRAJAN 

1826. 1827 

These verses perhaps had better be trans- 
ferred to the class of " Italian Poems." I had 
observed in the Newspaper, that the Pillar of 
Trajan was given as a subject for a prize-poem 
in English verse. I had a wish perhaps that 
my son, who was then an undergraduate at- 
Oxford, should try his fortune, and I told him 
so ; but he, not having been accustomed to 
write verse, wisely declined to enter on the 
task ; whereupon I showed him these lines as a 
proof of what might, without difficulty, be 
done on such a subject. 

Where towers are crushed, and unfor- 
bidden weeds 

O'er mutilated arches shed their seeds; 

And temples, doomed to milder change, 
unfold 

A new magnificence that vies with old; 

Firm in its pristine majesty hath stood 

A votive Column, spared by fire and 
flood: — 



FAREWELL LINES 



647 



And, though the passions of man's fretful 
race 

Have never ceased to eddy round its base, 

Not injured more by touch of meddling 
hands 

Than a lone obelisk, 'mid Nubian sands, 10 

Or aught hi Syrian deserts left to save 

From death the memory of the good and 
brave. 

Historic figures round the shaft embost 

Ascend, with lineaments in air not lost; 

Still as he turns, the charmed spectator 
sees 

Group winding after group with dream-like 
ease; 

Triumphs in sunbright gratitude displayed, 

Or softly stealing into modest shade. 

— So, pleased with purple clusters to en- 
twine 

Some lofty elm-tree, mounts the daring 
vine; 20 

The woodbine so, with spiral grace, and 
breathes 

Wide-spreading odours from her flowery 
wreaths. 
Borne by the Muse from rills in shep- 
herds' ears 

Murmuring but one smooth story for all 
years, 

I gladly commune with the mind and 
heart 

Of him who thus survives by classic art, 

His actions witness, venerate his mien, 

And study Trajan as by Pliny seen; 

Behold how fought the Chief whose con- 
quering sword 

Stretched far as earth might own a single 
lord ; 30 

In the delight of moral prudence schooled, 

How feelingly at home the Sovereign ruled; 

Best of the good — in pagan faith allied 

To more than Man, by virtue deified. 

Memorial Pillar ! 'mid the wrecks of 
Time 

Preserve thy charge with confidence sub- 
lime — 

The exultations, pomps, and cares of Rome, 

Whence half the breathing world received 
its doom; 

Things that recoil from language; that, if 
shown 39 

By apter pencil, from the light had flown. 

A Pontiff, Trajan here the Gods implores, 

There greets an Embassy from Indian 
shores; 



Lo ! he harangues his cohorts — there the 

storm 
Of battle meets him in authentic form ! 
Unharnessed, naked, troops of Moorish 

horse 
Sweep to the charge; more high, the 

Dacian force, 
To hoof and finger mailed; — yet, high or 

low, 
None bleed, and none lie prostrate but the 

foe. 
In every Roman, through all turns of fate, 
Is Roman dignity inviolate; 50 

Spirit in him pre-eminent, who guides, 
Supports, adorns, and over all presides; 
Distinguished only by inherent state 
From honoured Instruments that round 

him wait; 
Rise as he may, his grandeur scorns the test 
Of outward symbol, nor will deign to rest 
On aught by which another is deprest. 
— Alas ! that One thus disciplined could toil 
To enslave whole nations on their native soil; 
So emulous of Macedonian fame', 60 

That, when his age was measured with his 

aim, 
He drooped, 'mid else unclouded victories, 
And turned his eagles back with deep- 
drawn sighs: 
weakness of the Great ! O folly of the 

Wise ! 
Where now the haughty Empire that 

was spread 
With such fond hope ? her very speech is 

dead ; 
Yet glorious Art the power of Time defies, 
And Trajan still, through various enterprise, 
Mounts, in this fine illusion, toward the 

skies: 
Still are we present with the imperial Chief, 
Nor cease to gaze upon the bold Relief 71 
Till Rome, to silent marble unconfined, 
Becomes with all her years a vision of the 

Mind. 



FAREWELL LINES 
1826. 1842 

These lines were designed as a farewell to 
Charles Lamb and his sister, who had retired 
from the throng's of London to comparative 
solitude in the village of Enfield. 

" High bliss is only for a higher state," 
But, surely, if severe afflictions borne 



648 ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP 



With patience merit the reward of peace, 
Peace ye deserve; and may the solid good, 
Sought by a wise though late exchange, and 

here 
With bounteous hand beneath a cottage-roof 
To you accorded, never be withdrawn, 
Nor for the world's best promises re- 
nounced. 
Most soothing was it for a welcome Friend, 
Fresh from the crowded city, to behold 
That lonely union, privacy so deep, 
Such calm employments, such entire con- 
tent. 
So when the rain is over, the storm laid, 
A pair of herons oft-times have I seen, 
Upon a rocky islet, side by side, 
Drying their feathers in the sun, at ease; 
And so, when night with grateful gloom 

had fallen, 
Two glow-worms in such nearness that they 

shared, 
As seemed, their soft self-satisfying light, 
Each with the other, on the dewy ground, 
Where He that made them blesses their 

repose. — 
When wandering among lakes and hills I 

note, 
Once more, those creatures thus by nature 

paired, 
And guarded in their tranquil state of life, 
Even, as your happy presence to my mind 
Their union brought, will they repay the 

debt, 
And send a thankful spirit back to you, 
With hope that we, dear Friends ! shall 
meet again. 



ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN 
THE FORM OF A HARP 

THE WORK OF E. M. S. 

1827. 1827 

Frowns are on every Muse's face, 
Reproaches from their lips are sent, 

That mimicry should thus disgrace 
The noble Instrument. 

A very Harp in all but size ! 

Needles for strings in apt gradation ! 
Minerva's self would stigmatize 

The unclassic profanation. 

Even her own needle that subdued 

Arachne's rival spirit, 10 



Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest 
mood, 
Such honour could not merit. 

And this, too, from the Laureate's Child, 

A living lord of melody ! 
How will her Sire be reconciled 

To the refined indignity ? 

I spake, when whispered a low voice, 

" Bard ! moderate your ire; 
Spirits of all degrees rejoice 

In presence of the lyre. 20 

The Minstrels of Pygmean bands, 
Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays, 

Have shells to fit their tiny hands 
And suit their slender lays. 

Some, still more delicate of ear, 
Have lutes (believe my words) 

Whose framework is of gossamer, 
While sunbeams are the chords. 

Gay Sylphs this miniature will court, 

Made vocal by their brushing wings, 30 

And sullen Gnomes will learn to sport 
Around its polished strings; 

Whence strains to love-sick maiden dear, 
While in her lonely bower she tries 

To cheat the thought she cannot cheer, 
By fanciful embroideries. 

Trust, angry Bard ! a knowing Sprite, 
Nor think the Harp her lot deplores ! 

Though 'mid the stars the Lyre shine bright, 
Love stoops as fondly as he soars." 4c 



TO 

1827. 1827 

In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one 
afternoon in 1801, my sister read to me the 
Sonnets of Milton. I had long been well ac- 
quainted with them, but I was particularly 
struck on that occasion by the dignified sim- 
plicity and majestic harmony that runs through 
most of them, — in character so totally differ- 
ent from the Italian, and still more so from 
Shakspeare's fine Sonnets. I took fire, if I 
may he allowed to say so, and produced three 
Sonnets the same afternoon, the first I ever 
wrote except an irregular one at school. Of 
these three, the only one I distinctly remember 



DECAY OF PIETY 



649 



is " I grieved for Buonaparte"." One was never 
■written clown : the third, which was, I believe, 
preserved, I cannot particularise. 

Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown 
In perfect shape (whose beauty Time shall 

spare 
Though a breath made it) bike a bubble blown 
For summer pastime into wanton air; 
Happy the thought best likened to a stone 
Of the sea-beach, when, polished with nice 

care, 
Veins it discovers exquisite and rare, 
Which for the loss of that moist gleam atone 
That tempted first to gather it. That here, 
O chief of Friends ! such feelings I present, 
To thy regard, with thoughts so fortunate, 
Were a vain notion; but the hope is dear, 
That thou, if not with partial joy elate, 
Wilt smile upon this gift with more than 

mild content ! 



"HER ONLY PILOT THE SOFT 
BREEZE " 

1827. 1827 

Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat 

Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied; 

With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at 

her side, 
And the glad Muse at liberty to note 
All that to each is precious, as we float 
Gently along; regardless who shall chide 
If the heavens smile, and leave us free to 

glide, _ 
Happy Associates breathing air remote 
From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the 

Muse, 
Why have I crowded this small bark with 

you 
And others of your kind, ideal crew ! 
While here sits One whose brightness owes 

its hues 
To flesh and blood; no Goddess from above, 
No fleeting Spirit, but my own true love ? 

"WHY, MINSTREL, THESE UN- 
TUNEFUL MURMURINGS" 

1827. 1827 

" Why, Minstrel, these untuneful mur- 

murings — 
Dull, flagging notes that with each other 

jar?" 



" Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far 
From its own country, and forgive the 

strings." 
A simple answer ! but even so forth springs, 
From the Castalian fountain of the heart, 
The Poetry of Life, and all that Art 
Divine of words quickening insensate things. 
From the submissive necks of guiltless men 
Stretched on the block, the glittering axe 

recoils ; 
Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the 

toils 
Of mortal sympathy ; what wonder then 
That the poor Harp distempered music 

yields 
To its sad Lord, far from his native fields ? 

TO S. H. 

1827. 1827 

Excuse is needless when with love sincere 

Of occupation, not by fashion led, 

Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with 

dust o'erspread; 
My nerves from no such murmur shrink, — 

tho' near, 
Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear, 
When twilight shades darken the moiui- 

tain's head. 
Even She who toils to spin our vital thread 
Might smile on work, O Lady, once so dear 
To household virtues. Venerable Art, 
Torn from the Poor ! yet shall kind Heaven 

protect 
Its own ; though Rulers, with undue respect, 
Trusting to crowded factory and mart 
And proud discoveries of the intellect, 
Heed not the pillage of man's ancient heart. 

DECAY OF PIETY 

1827. 1827 

Attendance at church on prayer-day3, 
Wednesdays and Fridays and Holidays, re- 
ceived a shock at the Revolution. It is now, 
however, happily reviving'. The ancient peo- 
ple described in this Sonnet were among the 
last of that pious class. May we hope that the 
practice, now in some degree renewed, will con- 
tinue to spread. 

Oft have I seen, ere Time had ploughed 

my cheek, 
Matrons and Sires — who, punctual to the 

call 



650 



"SCORN NOT THE SONNET 



Of their loved Church, on fast or festival 
Through the long year the house of Prayer 

would seek: 
By Christinas snows, by visitation bleak 
Of Easter winds, unscared, from hut or hall 
They came to lowly bench or sculptured 

stall, 
But with one fervour of devotion meek. 
I see the places where they once were known, 
And ask, surrounded even by kneeling 

crowds, 
Is ancient Piety for ever flown ? 
Alas ! even then they seemed like fleecy 

clouds 
That, struggling through the western sky, 

have won 
Their pensive light from a departed sun ! 



"SCORN NOT THE SONNET" 

1827. 1827 

Composed, almost extempore, in a short walk 
on the western side of Rydal Lake. 

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have 

frowned, 
Mindless of its just honours; with this key 
Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody 
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's 

wound ; 
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 
With it Cambens soothed an exile's grief; 
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
Amid h cypress with which Dante crowned 
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, 
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery- 
land 
To struggle through dark ways ; and, when 

a damp 
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he 

blew 
Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 



"FAIR PRIME OF LIFE! WERE 
IT ENOUGH TO GILD" 

1827. 1827 

Suggested by observation of the way in 
which a young friend, whom I do not choose to 
name, misspent his time and misapplied his 
talents. He took afterwards a better course, 
and became a useful member of society, re- 
spected, I believe, wherever he has been known. 



Fair Prime of life ! were it enough to gild 
With ready sunbeams every straggling 

shower; 
And, if an unexpected cloud should lower, 
Swiftly thereon a rainbow arch to build 
For Fancy's errands, — then, from fields 

half-tflled 
Gathering green weeds to mix with poppy 

flower, . 
Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant 

thy power, 
Unpitied by the wise, all censure stilled. 
Ah ! show that worthier honours are thy 

due ; 
Fair Prime of life ! arouse the deeper heart ; 
Confirm the Spirit glorying to pursue 
Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim; 
And, if there be a joy that slights the claim 
Of grateful memory, bid that joy depart. 

RETIREMENT 

1827. 1827 

If the whole weight of what we think and 

feel, 
Save only far as thought and feeling blend 
With action, were as nothing, patriot 

Friend ! 
From thy remonstrance would be no appeal; 
But to promote and fortify the weal 
Of our own Being is her paramount end; 
A truth which they alone shall comprehend 
Who shun the mischief which they cannot 

heal. 
Peace in these feverish times is sovereign 

bliss: 
Here, with no thirst but what the stream 

can slake, 
And startled only by the rustling brake, 
Cool air I breathe; while the unincumbered 

Mind 
By some weak aims at services assigned 
To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss. 



"THERE IS A PLEASURE IN 
POETIC PAINS" 

1827. 1827 

There is a pleasure in poetic pains 
Which only Poets know; — 't was rightly said; 
Whom could the Muses else allure to tread 
Their smoothest paths, to wear their light- 
est chains ? 



TO THE CUCKOO 



651 



When happiest Fancy has inspired the 

strains, 
How oft the malice of one luckless word 
Pursues the Enthusiast to the social hoard, 
Haunts him belated on the silent plains ! 
Yet he repines not, if his thought stand 

clear, 
At last, of hindrance and obscurity, 
Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of 

morn ; 
Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear 
The moment it has left the virgin's eye, 
Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn. 



RECOLLECTION OF THE POR- 
TRAIT OF KING HENRY 
EIGHTH, TRINITY LODGE, 
CAMBRIDGE 

1827. 1827 

The imperial Stature, the colossal stride, 

Are yet before me; yet do I behold 

The broad full visage, chest of amplest 

mould, 
The vestments 'broidered with barbaric 

pride : 
And lo ! a poniard, at the Monarch's side, 
Hangs ready to be grasped in sympathy 
With the keen threatenings of that fulgent 

eye, 
Below the white-rimmed bonnet, far-de- 
scried. 
Who trembles now at thy capricious mood ? 
'Mid those surrounding Worthies, haughty 

King, 
We rather think, with grateful mind sedate, 
How Providence edflceth, from the spring 
Of lawless will, unlooked-for streams of 

good, 
Which neither force shall check nor time 

abate ! 



"WHEN PHILOCTETES IN THE 
LEMNIAN ISLE" 

1827. 1827 

When Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle 
Like a form sculptured on a monument 
Lay couched; on him or his dread bow un- 
bent 
Some wild Bird oft might settle and be- 
guile 
The rigid features of a transient smile, 



Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent, 
Slackening the pains of ruthless banishment 
From his loved home, and from heroic toil. 
And trust that spiritual Creatures round us 

move, 
Griefs to allay which Reason cannot heal; 
Yea, veriest reptiles have sufficed to prove 
To fettered wretchedness, that no Bastile 
Is deep enough to exclude the light of love, 
Though man for brother man has ceased to 

feel. 



"WHILE ANNA'S PEERS AND 
EARLY PLAYMATES TREAD " 

1827. 1827 

This is taken from the account given by 
Miss Jewsbury of the pleasure she derived, 
when long confined to her bed by sickness, from 
the inanimate object on which this Sonnet 
turns. 

While Anna's peers and early playmates 

tread, 
In freedom, mountain-turf and river's 

marge ; 
Or float with music in the festal barge; 
Rein the proud steed, or through the dance 

are led; 
Her doom it is to press a weary bed — 
Till oft her guardian Angel, to some charge 
More urgent called, will stretch his wings 

at large, 
And friends too rarely prop the languid 

head. 
Yet, helped by Genius — untired comforter, 
The presence even of a stuffed Owl for her 
Can cheat the time; sending her fancy out 
To ivied castles and to moonlight skies, 
Though he can neither stir a plume, nor 

shout; 
Nor veil, with restless film, his staring eyes. 



TO THE CUCKOO 

1827. 1827 

Not the whole warbling grove in concert 

heard 
When sunshine follows shower, the breast 

can thrill 
Like the first summons, Cuckoo ! of thy 

bill, 
With its twin notes inseparably paired. 



652 



THE INFANT M- 



M- 



The captive 'mid damp vaults unsunned, 
unaired, 

Measuring the periods of his lonely doom, 

That cry can reach; and to the sick man's 
room 

Sends gladness, by no languid smile de- 
clared. 

The lordly eagle-race through hostile 
search 

May perish; time may come when never 
more 

The wilderness shall hear the lion roar; 

But, long as cock shall crow from house- 
hold perch 

To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed 
thy wing, 

And thy erratic voice be faithful to the 
Sprmg ! 



THE INFANT M- 



M- 



1827. 1827 

The infant was Mary Monkhouse, the only 
daughter of my friend and cousin Thomas 
Monkhouse. 

Unquiet Childhood here by special grace 
Forgets her nature, opening like a flower 
That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power 
In painful struggles. Months each other 

chase, 
And nought untunes that Infant's voice ; no 

trace 
Of fretfid temper sullies her pure cheek; 
Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek 
That one enrapt with gazing on her face 
(Which even the placid innocence of death 
Could scarcely make more placid, heaven 

more bright) 
Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith, 
The Virgin, as she shone with kindred 

light; 
A nursling couched upon her mother's knee, 
Beneath some shady palm of Galilee. 

TO ROTHA Q 

1827. 1827 

Rotha, the daughter of my son-in-law Mr. 
Quillinan. 

Botha, my Spiritual Child ! this head was 

grey 
When at the sacred font for thee I stood; 



Pledged till thou reach the verge of woman- 
hood, 
And shalt become thy own sufficient stay : 
Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan ! was the day 
For stedf ast hope the contract to fulfil ; 
Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, 
Embodied in the music of this Lay, 
Breathed forth beside the peaceful moun- 
tain Stream 
Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mo- 
ther's ear 
After her throes, this Stream of name more 

dear 
Since thou dost bear it, — a memorial 

theme 
For others; for thy future self, a spell 
To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell. 



TO , IN HER SEVENTIETH 

\/ YEAR 

1827. 1827 

Lady Fitzgerald, as described to me by Lady 
Beaumont. 

Such age how beautiful ! O Lady bright, 

Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined 

By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind 

To something purer and more exquisite 

Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou 
meet'st my sight, 

When I behold thy blanched un withe red 
cheek, 

Thy temples fringed with locks of gleam- 
ing white, 

And head that droops because the soul is 
meek, 

Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I com- 
pare; 

That child of winter, prompting thoughts 
that climb 

From desolation toward the genial prime ; 

Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty 
air, 

And filling more and more with crystal 
light 

As pensive Evening deepens into night. 

"IN MY MIND'S EYE A TEMPLE, 
# LIKE A CLOUD " 

1827. 1827 

In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud 
Slowly surmounting some invidious hill, 



A MORNING EXERCISE- 



653 



Rose out of darkness: the bright Work 

stood still: 
And might of its own beauty have been 

proud, 
But it was fashioned and to God was vowed 
By Virtues that diffused, in every part, 
Spirit divine through forms of human art: 
Faith had her arch — her arch, when winds 

blow loud, 
Into the consciousness of safety thrilled; 
And Love her towers of dread foundation 

laid 
Under the grave of things; Hope had her 

spire 
Star-high, and pointing still to something 

higher ; • 
Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice — it 

said, 
" Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when 

we build." 



'GO BACK TO ANTIQUE AGES, 
IF THINE EYES" 

1S27. 1827 

Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes 
The genuine mien and character would 

trace 
Of the rash Spirit that still holds her 

place, 
Prompting the world's audacious vanities ! 
Go back, and see the Tower of Babel rise; 
The pyramid extend its monstrous base, 
For some Aspirant of our short-lived race, 
Anxious an aery name to immortalize. 
There, too, ere wiles and politic dispute 
Gave specious colouring to aim and act, 
See the first mighty Hunter leave the 

brute — 
To chase mankind, with men in armies 

packed 
For his field-pastime high and absolute, 
While, to dislodge his game, cities are 

sacked ! 



IN 2 WOODS OF RYDAL 

1827. 1827 

Wlt.D Redbreast ! hadst thou at Jemima's 

lip 
Pecked, as ..t mine, thus boldly, Love might 



A half -blown rose had tempted thee to sip 
Its glistening dews ; but hallowed is the clay 
Which the Muse warms; and I, whose head 

is grey, 
Am not unworthy of thy fellowship; 
Nor could I let one thought — one notion 

— slip 
That might thy sylvan confidence betray. 
For are we not all His without whose care 
Vouchsafed no sparrow falleth to the 

ground ? 
Who gives his Angels wings to speed 

through air, 
And rolls the planets through the blue 

profound; 
Then peck or perch, fond Flutterer ! nor 

forbear 
To trust a Poet in still musings bound. 



CONCLUSION 



TO 



[827. 1827 

If these brief Records, by the Muses' art 
Produced as lonely Nature or the strife 
That animates the scenes of public life 
Inspired, may in thy leisure claim a part; 
And if these Transcripts of the private 

heart 
Have gained a sanction from thy falling 

tears; 
Then I repent not. But my soul hath fears 
Breathed from eternity; for, as a dart 
Cleaves the blank air, Life flies: now every 

day 
Is but a glimmering spoke in the swift 

wheel 
Of the revolving week. Away, away, 
All fitful cares, all transitory zeal ! 
So tiniely Grace the immortal wing may 

heal, 
And honour rest upon the senseless clay. 



A MORNING EXERCISE 

1828. 1832 

Written at Rydal Mount. I could wish the 
last five stanzas of this to be read with the 
poem addressed to the skylark. 

Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the glad, 
Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw; 



654 



THE TRIAD 



Sending sad shadows after things not sad, 
Peopling the harmless fields with signs of 

woe: 
Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry 
Becomes an echo of man's misery. 

Blithe ravens croak of death; and when 
the owl 
Tries his two voices for a favourite strain — 
Tu-whit — Tu-whoo ! the unsuspecting fowl 
Forebodes mishap or seems but to com- 
plain ; 10 
Fancy, intent to harass and annoy, 
Can thus pervert the evidence of joy. 

Through border wilds where naked In- 
dians stray, 

Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill; 

A feathered task-master cries, " Work 
away ! " 

And, in thv iteration, " Whip poor 
Will!"" 

Is heard the spirit of a toil-worn slave, 

Lashed out of life, not quiet in the grave. 

What wonder ? at her bidding, ancient 
lays 19 

Steeped in dire grief the voice of Philomel; 

And that fleet messenger of summer days, 

The Swallow, twittered subject to like spell; 

But ne'er could Fancy bend the buoyant 
Lark 

To melancholy service — hark ! O hark ! 

The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn, 
Not lifting yet the head that evening bowed; 
But He is risen, a later star of dawn, 
GUttering and twinkling near yon rosy 

cloud; 
Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark; 
The happiest bird that sprang out of the 

Ark ! 30 

Hail, blest above all kinds ! — Supremely 

skilled, 
Restless with fixed to balance, high with low, 
Thou leav'st the halcyon free her hopes to 

build 
On such forbearance as the deep may show; 
Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthly ties, i 
Leav'st to the wandering bird of paradise. 

Faithful, though swift as lightning, the 
meek dove ; 
Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee; 



So constant with thy downward eye of love, 
Yet, in aerial singleness, so free; 4 o 

So humble, yet so ready to rejoice 
In power of wing and never-wearied voice. 

To the last point of vision, and beyond, 
Mount, daring warbler ! — that love- 
prompted strain 
('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) 
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: 
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! 

to sing 
All independent of the leafy spring. 

How would it please old Ocean to partake, 
With sailors longing for a. breeze in vain, 50 
The harmony thy notes most gladly make 
Where earth resembles most his own do- 
main ! 
Urania's self might welcome with pleased 

ear 
These matins mounting towards her native 
sphere. 

Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no 

bars 
To day-light known deter from that pursuit, 
'T is well that some sage instinct, when the 

stars 
Come forth at evening, keeps Thee still and 

mute ; 
For not an eyelid could to sleep incline 
Wert thou among them, singing as they 

shine ! 60 

THE TRIAD 

1828. 1829 

Written at Rydal Mount. The Girls, Edith 
Southey, my daughter Dora, and Sara Cole- 
ridge. 

Show me the noblest Youth of present 

time, 
Whose trembling fancy would to love give 

birth; 
Some God or Hero, from the Olympian 

clime 
Returned, to seek a Consort upon earth; 
Or, in no doubtful prospect, let me see 
The brightest star of ages yet to be, 
And I will mate and match him blissfully. 
I will not fetch a Naiad from a flood 
Pure as herself — (song lacks not mightiei 

power) 



THE TRIAD 



655 



Nor leaf-crowned Dryad from a pathless 

wood, 10 

Nor Sea-nymph glistening from her coral 

bower; 
Mere Mortals bodied forth in vision still, 
Shall with Mount Ida's triple lustre fill 
The chaster coverts of a British hill. 

" Appear ! — obey my lyre's command ! 
Come, like the Graces, hand in hand ! 
For ye, though not by birth allied, 
Are Sisters in the bond of love; 
Nor shall the tongue of envious pride 
Presume those interweaviiigs to reprove 20 
In you, which that fair progeny of Jove, 
Learned from the tuneful spheres that 

glide 
In endless union, earth and sea above." 

— I sing in vain; — the pines have hushed 

their waving: 
A peerless Youth expectant at my side, 
Breathless as they, with unabated craving 
Looks to the earth, and to the vacant air; 
And, with a wandering eye that seems to 

chide, 
Asks of the clouds what occupants they 

hide : — 
But why solicit more than sight could bear, 
By casting on a moment all we dare ? 31 
Invoke we those bright Beings one by one; 
And what was boldly promised, truly shall 

be done. 
" Fear not a constraining measure ! 

— Yielding to this gentle spell, 
Lucida ! from domes of pleasure, 
Or from cottage-sprinkled dell, 
Come to regions solitary, 
Where the eagle builds her aery, 

Above the hermit's long-forsaken cell ! " 40 

— She comes ! - - behold 

That Figure, like a ship with snow-white 

sail ? 
Nearer she draws ; a breeze uplifts her veil ; 
Upon her coming wait 
As pure a sunshine and as soft a gale 
As e'er, on herbage covering earthly mould, 
Tempted the bird of Juno to unfold 
His richest splendour — when his veering 

gait 
And every motion of his starry train 
Seem governed by a strain 50 

Of music, audible to him alone. 

" O Lady, worthy of earth's proudest 

throne ! 
Norless, by excellence of nature, fit 
Beside an unambitious hearth to sit 



Domestic queen, where grandeur is un- 
known; 
What living man could fear 
The worst of Fortune's malice, wert Thou 

near, 
Humbling that lily-stem, thy sceptre meek, 
That its fair flowers may from his cheek 
Brush the too happy tear ? 60 

Queen, and handmaid lowly ! 

Whose skill can speed the day with lively 

cares, 
And banish melancholy 
By all that mind invents or hand prepares; 
O Thou, against whose lip, without its smile 
And in its silence even, no heart is proof; 
Whose goodness, sinking deep, would recon- 
cile 
The softest Nursling of a gorgeous palace 
To the bare life beneath the hawthorn-roof 
Of Sherwood's Archer, or hi caves of 
Wallace — 70 

Who that hath seen thy beauty could con- 
tent 
His soul with but a glimpse of heavenly 

day? 
Who that hath loved thee, but would lay 
His strong hand on the wind, if it were bent 
To take thee in thy majesty away ? 
Pass onward (even the glancing deer 
Till we depart intrude not here); 
That mossy slope, o'er which the woodbine 

throws 
A canopy, is smoothed for thy repose ! " 

— Glad moment is it when the throng 80 
Of warblers in full concert strong 
Strive, and not vainly strive, to rout 

The lagging shower, and force coy Phoebus 

out, 
Met by the rainbow's form divine, 
Issuing from her cloudy shrine ; — 
So may the thrillings of the lyre 
Prevail to further our desire, 
While to these shades a sister Nymph I 

call. 
" Come, if the notes thine ear may 

pierce, 
Come, youngest of the lovely Three, 
Submissive to the might of verse 
And the dear voice of harmony, 
By none more deeply felt than Thee ! " 

— I sang; and lo ! from pastimes virginal 
She hastens to the tents 

Of nature, and the lonely elements. 
Air sparkles round her with a dazzling 
sheen: 



6 5 6 



THE TRIAD 



But mark her glowing cheek, her vesture 
green ! 

And, as if wishful to disarm 

Or to repay the potent Charm, 100 

She bears the stringed lute of old romance, 

That cheered the trellised arbour's privacy, 

And soothed war-wearied knights in raft- 
ered hall. 

How vivid, yet how delicate, her glee ! 

So tripped the Muse, inventress of the 
dance ; 

So, truant in waste woods, the blithe Eu- 
phrosyne ! 

But the ringlets of that head 

Why are they ungarlanded ? 

Why bedeck her temples less 

Than the simplest shepherdess ? no 

Is it not a brow inviting 

Choicest flowers that ever breathed, 

Which the myrtle would delight in 

With Idalian rose enwreathed ? 

But her humility is well content 

With one wild floweret (call it not for- 
lorn), 

Flower of the winds, beneath her bosom 
worn — 

Yet more for love than ornament. 

Open, ye thickets ! let her fly, 

Swift as a Thracian Nymph o'er field and 
height ! 120 

For She, to all but those who love her, shy, 

Would gladly vanish from a Stranger's 
sight; 

Though where she is beloved and loves, 

Light as the wheeling butterfly she moves; 

Her happy spirit as a bird is free, 

That rifles blossoms on a tree, 

Turning them inside out with arch audacity. 

Alas ! how little can a moment show 

Of an eye where feeling plays 

In ten thousand dewy rays; 130 

A face o'er which a thousand shadows go ! 

— She stops — is fastened to that rivulet's 
side ; 

And there (while, with sedater mien, 

O'er timid waters that have scarcely left 

Their birthplace in the rocky cleft 

She bends) at leisure may be seen 

Features to old ideal grace allied, 

Amid their smiles and dimples dignified — 

Fit countenance for the soul of primal truth ; 

The bland composure of eternal youth ! 140 

What more changeful than the sea ? 

But over his great tides 

Fidelity presides; 



And this light-hearted Maiden constant is 

as he. 
High is her aim as heaven above, 
And wide as ether her good-will; 
And, like the lowly reed, her love 
Can drink its nurture from the scantiest 

rill: 
Insight as keen as frosty star 
Is to her charity no bar, 150 

Nor interrupts her frolic graces 
When she is, far from these wild places, 
Encircled by familiar faces. 
O the charm that manners draw, 
Nature, from thy genuine law ! 
If from what her hand would do, 
Her voice would utter, aught ensue 
Untoward or unfit; 
She, in benign affections pure, 
In self-forgetfulness secure, 160 

Sheds round the transient harm or vague 

mischance 
A light unknown to tutored elegance: 
Hers is not a cheek shame-stricken, 
But her blushes are joy-flushes; 
And the fault (if fault it be) 
Only ministers to quicken 
Laughter-loving gaiety, 
And kindle sportive wit — 
Leaving this Daughter of the mountains free 
As if she knew that Oberon king of Faery 
Had crossed her purpose with some quaint 
vagary, _ , 7 , 

And heard his viewless bands 
Over their mirthful triumph clapping hands. 
" Last of the Three, though eldest born, 
Reveal thyself, like pensive Morn 
Touched by the skylark's earliest note, 
Ere humbler gladness be afloat. 
But whether in the semblance drest 
Of Dawn — or Eve, fair vision of the west, 
Come with each anxious hope subdued 180 
By woman's gentle fortitude, 
Each grief, through meekness, settling into 

rest. 
— Or I would hail thee when some high- 
wrought page 
Of a closed volume lingering in thy hand 
Has raised thy spirit to a peaceful stand 
Among the glories of a happier age." 
Her brow hath opened on me — see it there, 
Brightening the umbrage of her hair; 
So gleams the crescent moon, that loves 
To be descried through shady groves. 190 
Tenderest bloom is on her cheek; 
Wish not for a richer streak; 



THE WISHING-GATE 



657 



Nor dread the depth of meditative eye ; 

But let thy love, upon that azure field 

Of thoughtfulness and heauty, yield 

Its homage offered up in purity. 

What would'st thou more ? In sunny glade, 

Or under leaves of thickest shade, 

Was such a stillness e'er diffused 

Since earth grew calm while angels 

mused ? 200 

Softly she treads, as if her foot were loth 
To crush the mountain dew-drops — soon 

to melt 
On the flower's breast; as if she felt 
That flowers themselves, whate'er their hue, 
With all their fragrance, all their glistening, 
Call to the heart for inward listening — 
And though for bridal wreaths and tokens 

true 
Welcomed wisely; though a growth 
Which the careless shepherd sleeps on, 
As fitly spring from turf the mourner weeps 

on — 210 

And without wrong are cropped the marble 

tomb to strew. 
The Charm is over; the mute Phantoms 

gone, 
Nor will return — but droop not, favoured 

Youth; 
The apparition that before thee shone 
Obeyed a summons covetous of truth. 
From these wild rocks thy footsteps I will 

guide 
To bowers in which thy fortune may be 

tried, 
And one of the bright Three become thy 

happy Bride. 



THE WISHING-GATE 

1828. 1S29 

Written at Rydal Mount. See also " Wish- 
ing-gate Destroyed." 

In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the 
old high-way leading to Ambleside, is a gate, 
which, time out of mind, has been called the 
Wishing-gate, from a belief that wishes formed 
or indulged there have a favourable issue. 

Hope rules a land for ever green: 
All powers that serve the bright-eyed 
Queen 

Are confident and gay; 
Clouds at her bidding disappear; 
Points she to aught ? — the bliss draws near, 

And Fancy smooths the way. 



Not such the land of Wishes — there 
Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer, 

And thoughts with things at strife; 
Yet how forlorn, should ye depart, 10 

Ye superstitions of the heart, 

How poor, were human life ! 

When magic lore abjured its might, 
Ye did not forfeit one dear right, 

One tender claim abate; 
Witness this symbol of your sway, 
Surviving near the public way, 

The rustic Wishing-gate ! 

Inquire not if the faery race 

Shed kindly influence on the place, 20 

Ere northward they retired; 
If here a warrior left a spell, 
Panting for glory as he fell; 

Or here a saint expired. 

Enough that all around is fair, 
Composed with Nature's finest care, 

And in her fondest love — 
Peace to embosom and content — 
To overawe the turbulent, 

The selfish to reprove. 30 

Yea ! even the Stranger from afar, 
Reclining on this moss-grown bar, 

Unknowing, and unknown, 
The infection of the ground partakes, 
Longing for his Beloved — who makes 

All happiness her own. 

Then why should conscious Spirits fear 
The mystic stirrings that are here, 

The ancient faith disclaim ? 
The local Genius ne'er befriends 40 

Desires whose course in folly ends, 

Whose just reward is shame. 

Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn, 
If some, by ceaseless pains outworn, 

Here crave an easier lot; 
If some have thirsted to renew 
A broken vow, or bind a true, 

With firmer, holier knot. 

And not in vain, when thoughts are cast 
Upon the irrevocable past, 5a 

Some Penitent sincere 
May for a worthier future sigh, 
While trickles from his downcast eye 

No unavailing tear. 



6 S 8 



THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED 



The Worldling, pining to be freed 
From turmoil, who would turn or speed 

The current of his fate, 
Might stop before this favoured scene, 
At Nature's call, nor blush to lean 

Upon the Wishing-gate. 60 

The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak 
Is man, though loth such help to seek, 

Yet, passing, here might pause, 
And thirst for insight to allay 
Misgiving, while the crimson day 

In quietness withdraws; 

Or when the church-clock's knell pro- 
found 
To Tune's first step across the bound 

Of midnight makes reply; 
Time pressing on with starry crest, 70 

To filial sleep upon the breast 

Of dread eternity. 



THE WISHING-GATE 
DESTROYED 

1828. 1842 

'T IS gone — with old belief and dream 
That round it clung, and tempting scheme 

Released from fear and doubt; 
And the bright landscape too must lie, 
By this blank wall, from every eye, 

Relentlessly shut out. 

Bear witness ye who seldom passed 
That opening — but a look ye cast 

Upon the lake below, 
What spirit-stirring power it gained 10 

From faith which here was entertained, 

Though reason might say no. 

Blest is that ground, where, o'er the 

springs 
Of history, Glory claps her wings, 

Fame sheds the exulting tear; 
Yet earth is wide, and many a nook 
Unheard of is, like this, a book 

For modest meanings dear. 

It was in sooth a happy thought 

That grafted, on so fab' a spot, 20 

So confident a token 
Of coming good; — the charm is fled, 
Indulgent centuries spun a thread, 

Which one harsh day has broken. 



Alas ! for him who gave the word; 
Could he no sympathy afford, 

Derived from earth or heaven, 
To hearts so oft by hope betrayed; 
Their very wishes wanted aid 

Which here was freely given ? 30 

Where, for the love-lorn maiden's wound, 
Will now so readily be found 

A balm of expectation ? 
Anxious for far-off children, where 
Shall mothers breathe a like sweet air 

Of home-felt consolation ? 

And not unfelt will prove the loss 
'Mid trivial care and petty cross 

And each day's shallow grief; 
Though the most easily beguiled 40 

Were oft among the first that smiled 

At their own fond belief. 

If still the reckless change we mourn, 
A reconciling thought may turn 

To harm that might lurk here, 
Ere judgment prompted from within 
Fit aims, with courage to begin, 

And strength to persevere. 

Not Fortune's slave is Man: our state 
Enjoins, while firm resolves await 5c 

On wishes just and wise. 
That strenuous action follow both, 
And life be one perpetual growth 

Of heaven-ward enterprise. 

So taught, so trained, we boldly face 
All accidents of time and place; 

Whatever props may fail, 
Trust in that sovereign law can spread 
New glory o'er the mountain's head, 

Fresh beauty through the vale. 60 

That truth informing mind and heart, 
The simplest cottager may part, 

Ungrieved, with charm and spell; 
And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee 
The voice of grateful memory 

Shall bid a kind farewell ! 



A JEWISH FAMILY 

IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR, 
UPON THE RHINE 

1828. 1835 

Coleridge, my daughter, and I. in 1 828, passed 
a fortnight upon the banks of the Rhine, prin- 



THE GLEANER 



6 59 



cipally under the hospitable roof of Mr. Aders 
of Gotesburg, but two days of the time we 
spent at St. Goar in rambles among' the neigh- 
bouring' valleys. It was at St. Goar that I saw 
the Jewish family here described. Though 
exceedingly poor, and in rags, they were not 
less beautiful than I bave endeavoured to make 
them appear. We had taken a little dinner 
with us in a basket, and invited them to par- 
take of it, which the mother refused to do, 
both for herself and children, saying it was 
with them a fast-day ; adding diffidently, that 
whether such observances were right or wrong, 
she felt it her duty to keep them strictly. 
The Jews, who are numerous on this part of 
the Rhine, greatly surpass the German peas- 
antry in the beauty of their features and in 
the intelligence of their countenances. But 
the lower classes of the German peasantry 
have, here at least, the air of people grievously 
opprest. Nursing mothers, at the age of seven 
or eight and twenty, often look haggard and 
far more decayed and withered than women 
of Cumberland and Westmoreland twice their 
age. This comes from being underfed and 
overworked in their vineyards in a hot and 
glaring sun. 

Genius of Raphael ! if thy wings 

Might bear thee to this glen, 
With faithful memory left of things 

To pencil dear and pen, 
Thou would'st forego the neighbouring 
Rhine, 

And all his majesty — ■ 
A studious forehead to incline 

O'er this poor family. » 

The Mother — her thou must have seen, 

In spirit, ere she came 10 

To dwell these rifted rocks between, 

Or found on earth a name; 
An image, too, of that sweet Boy, 

Thy inspirations give — 
Of playfulness, and love, and joy, 

Predestined here to live. 

Downcast, or shooting glances far, 

How beautiful his eyes, 
That blend the nature of the star 

With that of summer skies ! 20 

I speak as if of sense beguiled; 

Uncounted months are gone, 
Yet am I with the Jewish Child, 

That exquisite Saint John. 

I see the dark-brown curls, the brow, 
The smooth transparent skin, 



Refined, as with intent to show 

The holiness within; 
The grace of parting Infancy 

By blushes yet untamed; 
Age faithful to the mother's knee, 

Nor of her arms ashamed. 

Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet 

As flowers, stand side by side; 
Their soul-subduing looks might cheat 

The Christian of his pride: 
Such beauty hath the Eternal poured 

Upon them not forlorn, 
Though of a lineage once abhorred, 

Nor yet redeemed from scorn. 

Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite 

Of poverty and wrong. 
Doth here preserve a living light, 

From Hebrew fountains sprung; 
That gives this ragged group to cast 

Around the dell a gleam 
Of Palestine, of glory past, 

And proud Jerusalem ! 



THE GLEANER 

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE 

1828. 1829 

This poem was first printed in the Annual 
called the Keepsake. The painter's name I am 
not sure of, but I think it was Holmes. 

That happy gleam of vernal eyes, 
Those locks from summer's golden skies, 

That o'er thy brow are shed; 
That cheek — a kindling of the morn, 
That lip — a rose-bud from the thorn, 

I saw; and Fancy sped 
To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through 

soft air, 
Of bliss that grows without a care, 
And happiness that never flies — 
(How can it where love never dies ?) 10 
Whispering of promise, where no blight 
Can reach the innocent delight; 
Where pity, to the mind conveyed 
In pleasure, is the darkest shade 
That Tune, unwrinkled grandsire, flings 
From his smoothly gliding wings. 

What mortal form, what earthly face 
Inspired the pencil, lines to trace, 
And mingle colours, that should breed 
Such rapture, nor want power to feed; 20 



66o 



ON THE POWER OF SOUND 



For had thy charge been idle flowers, 
Fair Damsel ! o'er my captive mind, 
To truth and sober reason blind, 
'Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers, 
The sweet illusion might have hung, for 
hours. 
Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of corn, 
That touchingly bespeaks thee born 
Life's daily tasks with them to share 
Who, whether from their lowly bed 
They rise, or rest the weary head, 30 

Ponder the blessing they entreat 
From Heaven, and feel what they repeat, 
While they give utterance to the prayer 
That asks for daily bread. 



ON THE POWER OF SOUND 

1828. 1S35 

Written at Rydal Mount. I have often 
regretted that my tour in Ireland, chiefly 
performed in the short days of October in a 
Carriage-and-four (I was with Mr. Marshall), 
supplied ray memory with so few images that 
were new, and with so little motive to write. 
The lines however in this poem, " Thou too 
be heard, lone eagle ! " were suggested near 
the Giant's Causeway, or rather at the pro- 
montory of Fairhead, where a pair of eagles 
wheeled above our heads and darted off as if to 
hide themselves in a blaze of sky made by the 
setting sun. 

ARGUMENT 

The Ear addressed, as occupied by a spiritual 
functionary, in communion with sounds, indi- 
vidual, or combined in studied harmony — 
Sources and effects of those sounds (to the 
close of 6th Stanza) — The power of music, 
whence proceeding, exemplified in the idiot — 
Origin of music, and its effect in early ages — 
How produced (to the middle of 10th Stanza) 
— The mind recalled to sounds acting casually 
and severally — Wish uttered (11th Stanza) 
that these could be united into a scheme or 
system for moral interests and intellectual 
contemplation — (Stanza 12th) The Pytha- 
gorean theory of numbers and music, with 
their supposed power over the motions of the 
universe — Imaginations consonant with such a 
theory — Wish expressed (in 11th Stanza) real- 
ised, in some degree, by the representation of all 
sounds under the form of thanksgiving to the 
Creator — (Last Stanza) The destruction of 
earth and the planetary system — The survival 
of audible harmony, and its support in the 
Divine Nature, as revealed in Holy Writ. 



Thy functions are ethereal, 

As if within thee dwelt a glancing mina, 

Organ of vision ! And a Spirit aerial 

Informs the cell of Hearing, dark and blind; 

Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought 

To enter than oracular cave; 

Strict passage, through which sighs are 

brought, 
And whispers for the heart, their slave; 
And shrieks, that revel in abuse 
Of shivering flesh; and warbled air, 10 

Whose piercing sweetness can unloose 
The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile 
Into the ambush of despair; 
Hosannas, pealing down the long-drawn 

aisle, 
And requiems answered by the pulse that 

beats 
Devoutly, in life's last retreats ! 



The headlong streams and fountains 

Serve Thee, invisible Spirit, with untired 
powers ; 

Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian moun- 
tains, 

They lull perchance ten thousand thousand 
flowers. 20 

That roar, the prowling lion's Here I am, 

How fearful to the desert wide ! 

That bleat, how tender ! of the dam 

Calling a straggler to her side. 

Shout, cuckoo ! — let the vernal soul 

Go with thee to the frozen zone; 

Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone bell-bird, 
toll! 

At the still hour to Mercy dear, 

Mercy from her twilight throne 

Listening to nun's faint throb of holy fear, 

To sailor's prayer breathed from a darken- 
ing sea, 31 

Or widow's cottage-lullaby. 



Ye Voices, and ye Shadows 

And Images of voice — to hound and horn 

From rocky steep and rock-bestudded mea- 
dows 

Flung back, and, in the sky's blue caves, 
reborn — 

On with your pastime ! till the church-tower 
bells 

A greeting give of measured glee; 

And milder echoes from their cells 



ON THE POWER OF SOUND 



661 



Repeat the bridal symphony. 
Then, or far earlier, let us rove 
Where mists are breaking up or gone s 
And from aloft look down into a cove 
Besprinkled with a careless quire, 
Happy milk-maids, one by one 
Scattering a ditty each to her desire, 
A liquid concert matchless by nice Art, 
A stream as if from one full heart. 



Blest be the song that brightens 

The blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's 

mirth; 50 

Unscorned the peasant's whistling breath, 

that lightens 
His duteous toil of furrowing the green 

earth. 
For the tired slave, Song lifts the languid 

oar, 
And bids it aptly fall, with chime 
That beautifies the fairest shore, 
And mitigates the harshest clime. 
Yon pilgrims see — hi lagging file 
They move; but soon the appointed way 
A choral Ave Marie shall beguile, 
And to their hope the distant shrine 60 

Glisten with a livelier ray: 
Nor friendless he, the prisoner of the 

mine, 
Who from the well-spring of his own clear 

breast 
Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest. 



When civic renovation 

Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste 
Best eloquence avails not, Inspiration 
Mounts with a tune, that travels like a 

blast 
Piping through cave and battlemented 

tower; 
Then starts the sluggard, pleased to meet 
That voice of Freedom, in its power 71 

Of promises, shrill, wild, and sweet ! 
Who, from a martial pageant, spreads 
Incitements of a battle-day, 
Thrilling the unweaponed crowd with 

plumeless heads ? — 
Even She whose Lydian airs inspire 
Peaceful striving, gentle play 
Of timid hope and innocent desire 
Shot from the dancing Graces, as they 

move, 
Fanned by the plausive wings of Love. 80 



How oft along thy mazes, 

Regent of sound, have dangerous Passions 

trod ! 
O Thou, through whom the temple rings 

with praises, 
And blackening clouds in thunder speak of 

God, 
Betray not by the cozenage of sense 
Thy votaries, wooingly resigned 
To a voluptuous influence 
That tamts the purer, better, mind; 
But lead sick Fancy to a harp 
That hath in noble tasks been tried; 90 

And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp, 
Soothe it into patience, — stay 
The uplifted arm of Suicide; 
And let some mood of thine in firm array 
Knit every thought the impending issue 

needs, 
Ere martyr burns, or patriot bleeds ! 



As Conscience, to the centre 

Of being, smites with irresistible pain 

So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter 

The mouldy vaults of the dull idiot's brain, 

Transmute him to a wretch from quiet 

hurled — 101 

Convulsed as by a jarring din; 
And then aghast, as at the world 
Of reason partially let in 
By concords winding with a sway 
Terrible for sense and soid ! 
Or, awed he weeps, struggling to quell 

dismay. 
Point not these mysteries to an Art 
Lodged above the starry pole ; 
Pure modulations flowing from the heart 
Of divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, 

Truth m 

With Order dwell, hi endless youth? 



Oblivion may not cover 
All treasures hoarded by the miser, Time, 
Orphean Insight ! truth's undaunted lover, 
To the first leagues of tutored passion climb, 
When Music deigned within this grosser 

sphere 
Her subtle essence to enfold, 
And voice and shell drew forth a tear 
Softer than Nature's self could mould. 120 
Yet strenuous was the infant Age: 
Art, daring because souls could feel, 



662 



ON THE POWER OF SOUND 



Stirred nowhere but an urgent equipage 
Of rapt imagination sped her march 
Through the realms of woe and weal: 
Hell to the lyre bowed low ; the upper 

arch 
Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic 

verse 
Her wan disasters could disperse. 

IX 

The Gift to king Amphion 

That walled a city with its melody 130 

Was for belief no dream : — thy skill, 

Arion ! 
Could humanise the creatures of the sea, 
Where men were monsters. A last grace 

he craves, 
Leave for one chant; — the dulcet sound 
Steals from the deck o'er willing waves, 
And listening dolphins gather round. 
Self-cast, as with a desperate course, 
'Mid that strange audience, he bestrides 
A proud One docile as a managed horse ; 
And singing, while the accordant hand 140 
Sweeps his harp, the Master rides; 
So shall he touch at length a friendly 

strand, 
And he, with his preserver, shine star- 
bright 
In memory, through silent night. 

x 

The pipe of Pan, to shepherds 

Couched in the shadow of Msenalian pines, 

Was passing sweet; the eyeballs of the 

leopards, 
That in high triumph drew the Lord of 

vines, 
How did they sparkle to the cymbal's 

clang ! 
While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground 150 
In cadence, — and Silenus swang 
This way and that, with wild-flowers 

crowned. 
To life, to life give back thine ear: 
Ye who are longing to be rid 
Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear 
The little sprinkling of cold earth that 

fell 
Echoed from the coffin-lid; 
The convict's summons in the steeple's 

knell; 
" The vain distress-gun," from a leeward 

shore, 
Repeated — heard, and heard no more ! 16c 



XI 
For terror, joy, or pity, 
Vast is the compass and the swell of notes: 
From the babe's first cry to voice of regal 

city, 
Rolling a solemn sea-like bass, that floats 
Far as the woodlands — with the trill to 

blend 
Of that shy songstress, whose love-tale 
Might tempt an angel to descend, 
While hovering o'er the moonlight vale. 
Ye wandering Utterances, has earth no 

scheme, 
No scale of moral music — to unite 170 

Powers that survive but hi the faintest 

dream 
Of memory ? — O that ye might stoop to 

bear 
Chains, such precious chains of sight 
As laboured minstrelsies through ages 

wear ! 
O for a balance fit the truth to tell 
Of the Unsubstantial, pondered well ! 



By one pervading spirit 

Of tones and numbers all things are con- 
trolled, 

As sages taught, where faith was found to 
merit 

Initiation in that mystery old. 180 

The heavens, whose aspect makes our minds 
as still 

As they themselves appear to be, 

Innumerable voices fill 

With everlasting harmony; 

The towering headlands, crowned with mist, 

Their feet among the billows, know 

That Ocean is a mighty harmonist; 

Thy pinions, universal Air, 

Ever waving to and fro, 

Are delegates of harmony, and bear 190 

Strains that support the Seasons in their 
round; 

Stern Whiter loves a dirge-like sound. 

XIII 

Break forth into thanksgiving, 

Ye banded instruments of wind and chords 

Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, 

Your inarticulate notes with the voice of 

words ! 
Nor hushed be service from the lowing 

mead, 
Nor mute the forest hum of noon; 



GOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN A VASE 



663 



Thou too be heard, lone eagle ! freed 

From snowy peak and cloud, attune 200 

Thy hungry barkings to the hymn 

Of joy, that from her utmost walls 

The six-days' Work, by flaming Seraphim 

Transmits to Heaven ! As Deep to Deep 

Shouting through one valley calls, 

All worlds, all natures, mood and measure 

keep 
For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured 
Into the ear of God, their Lord ! 



A Voice to Light gave Being; 

To Time, and Man, his earth-born chroni- 
cler; 210 

A Voice shall finish doubt and dim fore- 
seeing, 

And sweep away life's visionary stir; 

The trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride, 

Arm at its blast for deadly wars) 

To archangelic lips applied, 

The grave shall open, quench the stars. 

O Silence ! are Man's noisy years 

No more than moments of thy life ? 

Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and 
tears, 

With her smooth tones and discords just, 220 

Tempered into rapturous strife, 

Thy destined bond-slave ? No ! though 
earth be dust 

And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, 
her stay 

Is in the Word, that shall not pass away. 



INCIDENT AT BRUGES 

1S2S. 1835 

This occurred at Bruges in 1S2S. Mr. Cole- 
ridge, my Daughter, and I made a tour together 
in Flanders, upon the Rhine, and returned by 
Holland. Dora and I, while taking a walk 
along a retired part of the town, heard the 
voice as here described, and were afterwards 
informed it was a Convent in which were many 
English. We were both much touched, I might 
say affected, and Dora moved as appears in 
the verses. 

In Bruges town is many a street 

Whence busy life hath fled; 
Where, without hurry, noiseless feet 

The grass-grown pavement tread. 
There heard we, halting in the shade 

Flung from a Convent-tower, 



A harp that tuneful prelude made 
To a voice of thrilling power. 



The measure, simple truth to tell, 

Was fit for some gay throng; 10 

Though from the same grim turret fell 

The shadow and the song. 
When silent were both voice and chords, 

The strain seemed doubly dear, 
Yet sad as sweet, — for English words 

Had fallen upon the ear. 

It was a breezy hour of eve; 

And pinnacle and spire 
Quivered and seemed almost to heave, 

Clothed with innocuous fire; 20 

But, where we stood, the setting sun 

Showed little of his state; 
And, if the glory reached the Nun, 

'T was through an iron grate. 

Not always is the heart unwise, 

Nor pity idly born, 
If even a passing Stranger sighs 

For them who do not mourn. 
Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove, 

Captive, whoe'er thou be ! 30 

Oh ! what is beauty, what is love, 

And opening life to thee ? 

Such feeling pressed upon my soul, 

A feeling sanctified 
By one soft trickling tear that stole 

From the Maiden at my side; 
Less tribute could she pay than this, 

Borne gaily o'er the sea, 
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss 

Of English liberty '? 40 



GOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN 
A VASE 

1829. 1S35 

They were a present from Miss Jewsbury, of 
whom mention is made in the note at the end 
of the next poem. The fish were healthy to 
all appearance in their confinement for a long 
time, but at last, for some cause we could not 
make out, they languished, and, one of them 
being all but dead, they were taken to the pool 
under the old Pollard oak. The apparently 
dying one lay on its side unable to move. I 
used to watch it, and about the tenth day it be- 
gan to right itself , and in a few days more was 
able to swim about with its companions. For 



66 4 



LIBERTY 



many months they continued to prosper in their 
new place of abode ; but one night by an un- 
usually great flood they were swept out of the 
pool, and perished to our great regret. 

The soaring lark is blest as proud 

When at heaven's gate she sings; 
The roving bee proclaims aloud 

Her flight by vocal wings; 
While Ye, in lasting durance pent, 

Your silent lives employ 
For something more than dull content, 

Though haply less than joy. 

Yet might your glassy prison seem 

A place where joy is known, IO 

Where golden flash and silver gleam 

Have meanings of their own; 
While, high and low, and all about, 

Your motions, glittering Elves ! 
Ye weave — no danger from without, 

And peace among yourselves. 

Type of a sunny human breast 

Is your transparent cell; 
Where Fear is but a transient guest, 

No sullen Humours dwell; 20 

Where, sensitive of every ray 

That smites this tiny sea, 
Your scaly panoplies repay 

The loan with usury. 

How beautiful ! — Yet none knows why. 

This ever-graceful change, 
Renewed — renewed incessantly — 

Within your quiet range. 
Is it that ye with conscious skill 

For mutual pleasure glide ; 30 

And sometimes, not without your will, 

Are dwarfed, or magnified ? 

Fays, Genii of gigantic size ! 

And now, in twilight dim, 
Clustering like constellated eyes, 

In wings of Cherubim, 
When the fierce orbs abate their glare; — 

Whate'er your forms express, 
Whate'er ye seem, whate'er ye are — 

All leads to gentleness. 40 

Cold though your nature be, 'tis pure; 

Your birthright is a fence 
From all that haughtier kinds endure 

Through tyranny of sense. 
Ah ! not alone by colours bright 

Are ye to heaven allied, 



When, like essential Forms of light, 
Ye mingle, or divide. 

For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled 

Day-thoughts while limbs repose; 50 

For moonlight fascinations mild, 

Your gift, ere shutters close — 
Accept, mute Captives ! thanks and praise; 

And may this tribute prove 
That gentle admirations raise 

Delight resembling love. 



LIBERTY 
(sequel to the above) 

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ; THE GOLD AND SILVER 
FISHES HAVING BEEN REMOVED TO A POOL IN 
THE PLEASURE-GROUND OF RYDAL MOUNT 

I829. I835 

" The liberty of a people consists in being 
governed by laws which they have made for 
themselves, under whatever form it be of gov- 
ernment. The liberty of a private man, in 
being master of his own time and actions, as 
far as may consist with the laws of God and of 
his country. Of this latter we are here to dis- 
course." — Cowley. 

Those breathing Tokens of your kind re- 
gard, 
(Suspect not, Anna, that their fate is hard; 
Not soon does aught to which mild fancies 

cling 
In lonely spots, become a slighted thing;) 
Those silent Inmates now no longer share, 
Nor do they need, our hospitable care, 
Removed in kindness from their glassy Cell 
To the fresh waters of a living Well — 
An elfin pool so sheltered that its rest 
No winds disturb; the mirror of whose 
breast 10 

Is smooth as clear, save where with dim- 
ples small 
A fly may settle, or a blossom fall. 
— There swims, of blazing sun and beating 

shower 
Fearless (but how obscured !) the golden 

Power, 
That from his bauble prison used to cast 
Gleams by the richest jewel unsurpast; 
And near him, darkling like a sullen 

Gnome, 
The silver Tenant of the crystal dome ; 
Dissevered both from all the mysteries 



LIBERTY 



665 



Of hue and altering shape that charmed all 

eyes. 20 

Alas ! they pined, they languished while 

they shone; 
And, if not so, what matters beauty gone 
And admiration lost, by change of place 
That brings to the inward creature no dis- 
grace ? 
But if the change restore his birthright, 

then, 
Whate'er the difference, boundless is the 

gain. _ 
Who can divine what impulses from God 
Reach the caged lark, within a town-abode, 
From his poor inch or two of daisied sod ? 

yield him back his privilege ! — No sea 
Swells like the bosom of a man set free; 31 
A wilderness is rich with liberty. 

Roll on, ye spouting whales, who die or keep 
Your independence in the fathomless Deep ! 
Spread, tiny nautilus, the living sail; 
Dive, at thy choice, or brave the freshening 

gale ! 
If unreproved the ambitious eagle mount 
Sunward to seek the daylight in its fount, 
Bays, gulfs, and ocean's Indian width, shall 

be, 
Till the world perishes, a field for thee ! 40 
While musing here I sit in shadow cool, 
And watch these mute Companions, in the 

pool, 
(Among reflected boughs of leafy trees) 
By glimpses caught — disporting at their 

ease, 
Enlivened, braced, by hardy luxuries, 

1 ask what warrant fixed them (like a spell 
Of witchcraft fixed them) in the crystal 

cell; 
To wheel with languid motion round and 

round, 
Beautiful, yet in mournful durance bound. 
Their peace, perhaps, our lightest footfall 

marred ; 50 

On their quick sense our sweetest music 

jarred; 
And whither could they dart, if seized with 

fear? 
No sheltering stone, no tangled root was 

near. 
When fire or taper ceased to cheer the 

room, 
They wore away the night in starless 

gloom ; 
And, when the sun first dawned upon the 

streams, 



How faint their portion of his vital beams ! 
Thus, and unable to complain, they fared, 
While not one joy of ours by them was 
shared. 
Is there a cherished bird (I venture now 
To snatch a sprig from Chaucer's reverend 
brow) — 61 

Is there a brilliant fondling of the cage, 
Though sure of plaudits on his costly stage, 
Though fed with dainties from the snow- 
white hand 
Of a kind mistress, fairest of the land, 
But gladly would escape; and, if need were, 
Scatter the colours from the plumes that 

bear 
The emancipated captive through blithe air 
Into strange woods, where he at large may 

live 
On best or worst which they and Nature 
give ? 70 

The beetle loves his unpretending track, 
The snail the house he carries on his back ; 
The far-fetched worm with pleasure would 

disown 
The bed we give him, though of softest 

down; 
A noble instinct; in all kinds the same, 
All ranks ! What Sovereign, worthy of 

the name, 
If doomed to breathe against his lawful will 
An element that flatters him — to kill, 
But woidd rejoice to barter outward show 
For the least boon that freedom can be- 
stow ? 80 
But most the Bard is true to inborn 
right, 
Lark of the dawn, and Philomel of night, 
Exults in freedom, can with rapture vouch 
For the dear blessings of a lowly couch, 
A natural meal — days, months, from Na- 
ture's hand; 
Time, place, and business, all at his com- 
mand ! — 
Who bends to happier duties, who more wise 
Than the industrious Poet, taught to prize, 
Above all grandeur, a pure life uncrossed 
By cares in which simplicity is lost ? 90 
That life — the flowery path that winds by 

stealth — 
Which Horace needed for his spirit's health; 
Sighed for, in heart and genius, overcome 
By noise and strife, and questions weari- 
some, 
And the vain splendours of Imperial 
Rome ? — 



666 



HUMANITY 



Let easy mirth his social hours inspire 
And fiction animate his sportive lyre, 
Attuned to verse that, crowning light Dis- 
tress 
With garlands, cheats her into happiness; 
Give me the humblest note of those sad 

strains ioo 

Drawn forth by pressure of his gilded 

chains, 
As a chance-sunbeam from his memory 

fell 
Upon the Sabine farm he loved so well; 
Or when the prattle of Blandusia's spring 
Haunted his ear — he only listening — 
He, proud to please, above all rivals, fit 
To win the palm of gaiety and wit; 
He, doubt not, with involuntary dread, 
Shrinking from each new favour to be 

shed, 
By the world's Ruler, on his honoured 

head ! no 

In a deep vision's intellectual scene, 
Such earnest longings and regrets as keen 
Depressed the melancholy Cowley, laid 
Under a fancied yew-tree's luckless shade; 
A doleful bower for penitential song, 
Where Man and Muse complained of mu- 
tual wrong; 
While Cam's ideal current glided by, 
And antique towers nodded their foreheads 

high, 
Citadels dear to studious privacy. 
But Fortune, who had long been used to 

sport 1 20 

With this tried Servant of a thankless Court, 
Relenting met his wishes; and to you 
The remnant of his days at least was true; 
You, whom, though long deserted, he loved 

best; 
You, Muses, books, fields, liberty, and rest ! 
Far happier they who, fixing hope and 

aim 
On the humanities of peaceful fame, 
Enter betimes with more than martial fire 
The generous course, aspire, and still aspire ; 
Upheld by warnings heeded not too late 130 
Stifle the contradictions of their fate, 
And to one purpose cleave, their Being's 

godlike mate ! 
Thus, gifted Friend, but with the placid 

brow 
That woman ne'er should forfeit, keep thy 

vow; 
With modest scorn reject whate'er would 

blind 



The ethereal eyesight, cramp the winged 

mind ! 
Then, with a blessing granted from above 
To every act, word, thought, and look of 

love, 
Life's book for Thee may lie unclosed, till 

age 
Shall with a thankful tear bedrop its latest 

page. r 4 o 

HUMANITY 

1829. 1835 

These verses and those entitled " Liberty " 
were composed as one piece, which Mrs. Words- 
worth complained of as unwieldy and ill-pro- 
portioned ; and accordingly it was divided into 
two on her judicious recommendation. 

The Rocking-stones, alluded to in the begin- 
ning of the following verses, are supposed to 
have been used, by our British ancestors, both 
for judicial and religious purposes. Such 
stones are not uncommonly found, at this day, 
both in Great Britain and in Ireland. 

What though the Accused, upon his own 

appeal 
To righteous Gods when man has ceased to 

feel, 
Or at a doubting Judge's stern command, 
Before the Stone of Power no longer 

stand — 
To take his sentence from the balanced 

Block, 
As, at his touch, it rocks, or seems to rock; 
Though, in the depths of sunless groves, no 

more 
The Druid-priest the hallowed Oak adore; 
Yet, for the Initiate, rocks and whispering 

trees 
Do still perform mysterious offices ! 10 

And functions dwell hi beast and bird that 

sway 
The reasoning mind, or with the fancy play, 
Inviting, at all seasons, ears and eyes 
To watch for undelusive auguries : — 
Not uninspired appear their simplest ways; 
Their voices mount symbolical of praise — 
To mix with hymns that Spirits make and 

hear ; 
And to fallen man their innocence is dear. 
Enraptured Art draws from those sacred 

springs 
Streams that reflect the poetry of things ! 
Where christian Martyrs stand hi hues 

portrayed, 21 



HUMANITY 



667 



That, might a wish avail, would never fade ; 
Borne iii their hands the lily and the palm 
Shed round the altar a celestial calm; 
There, too, behold the lamb and guileless 

dove 
Prest in the tenderness of virgin love 
To saintly bosoms ! — Glorious is the blend- 
ing 
Of right affections climbing or descending 
Along a scale of light and life, with cares 
Alternate; carrying holy thoughts and 
prayers 30 

Up to the sovereign seat of the Most High; 
Descending to the worm in charity; 
Like those good Angels whom a dream of 

night 
Gave, in the field of Luz, to Jacob's sight, 
All, while he slept, treading the pendent 

stairs 
Earthward or heavenward, radiant mes- 
sengers, 
That, with a perfect will in one accord 
Of strict obedience, serve the Almighty 

Lord ; 
And with untired humility forbore 
To speed their errand by the wings they 
wore. 40 

What a fair world were ours for verse to 
paint, 
If Power could live at ease with self-re- 
straint ! 
Opinion bow before the naked sense 
Of the great Vision, — faith in Providence ; 
Merciful over all his creatures, just 
To the least particle of sentient dust: 
But, fixing by immutable decrees, 
Seedtime and harvest for his purposes ! 
Then would be closed the restless oblique 

eye 
That looks for evil like a treacherous spy ; 50 
Disputes would then relax, like stormy winds 
That into breezes sink; impetuous minds 
By discipline endeavour to grow meek 
As Truth herself, whom they profess to seek. 
Then Genius, shunning fellowship with 

Pride, 
Would braid his golden locks at Wisdom's 

side; 
Love ebb and flow untroubled by caprice; 
And not alone harsh tyranny would cease, 
But unoffending creatures find release 
From qualified oppression, whose defence 60 
Rests on a hollow plea of recompence; 
Thought-tempered wrongs, for each humane 
respect 



Oft worse to bear, or deadlier in effect. 
Witness those glances of indignant scorn 
From some high-minded Slave, impelled to 

spurn 
The kindness that would make him less 

forlorn; 
Or, if the soiil to bondage be subdued, 
His look of pitiable gratitude ! 

Alas for thee, bright Galaxy of Isles, 
Whose day departs in pomp, returns with 

smiles — 70 

To greet the flowers and fruitage of aland, 
As the sun mounts, by sea-born breezes 

fanned ; 
A land whose azure mountain-tops are seats 
For Gods in council, whose green vales, 

retreats 
Fit for the shades of heroes, mingling there 
To breathe Elysian peace in upper air. 
Though cold as winter, gloomy as the 

grave, 
Stone-walls a prisoner make, but not a 

slave. 
Shall man assume a property in man ? 
Lay on the moral will a withering ban ? 80 
Shame that our laws at distance still protect 
Enormities, which they at home reject ! 
" Slaves cannot breathe in England " — yet 

that boast 
Is but a mockery ! when from coast to coast, 
Though fettered slave be none, her floors 

and soil 
Groan underneath a weight of slavish toil, 
For the poor Many, measured out by rules 
Fetched with cupidity from heartless 

schools, 
That to an Idol, falsely called " the Wealth 
Of Nations," sacrifice a People's health, go 
Body and mind and soul; a thirst so keen 
Is ever urging on the vast machine 
Of sleepless Labour, 'mid whose dizzy 

wheels 
The Power least prized is that which thinks 

and feels. 
Then, for the pastimes of this delicate age, 
And all the heavy or light vassalage 
Which for their sakes we fasten, as may 

suit 
Our varying moods, on human kind or 

brute, 
'T were well in little, as in great, to pause, 
Lest Fancy trifle with eternal laws. 10a 

Not from his fellows onlv man may learn 
Rights to compare and duties to discern ' 
All creatures and all objects, in degree, 



668 



THIS LAWN, A CARPET ALL ALIVE" 



Are friends and patrons of humanity. 
There are to whom the garden, grove, and 

field, 
Perpetual lessons of forbearance yield; 
Who would not lightly violate the grace 
The lowliest flower possesses in its place; 
Nor shorten the sweet life, too fugitive, 
Which nothing less than Infinite Power 

could give. no 



"THIS LAWN, A CARPET ALL 
ALIVE" 

1829. 1835 

This Lawn is the sloping one approaching' the 
kitchen-garden, and was made out of it. Hun- 
dreds of times have I watched the dancing of 
shadows amid a press of sunshine, and other 
beautiful appearances of light and shade, flow- 
ers and shrubs. What a contrast between this 
and the cabbages and onions and carrots that 
used to grow there on a piece of ugly-shaped 
unsightly ground ! No reflection, however, 
either upon cabbages or onions ; the latter we 
know were worshipped by the Egyptians, and 
he must have a poor eye for beauty who has 
not observed how much of it there is in the 
form and colour which cabbages and plants of 
that genus exhibit through the various stages 
of their growth and decay. A richer display of 
colour in vegetable nature can scarcely be con- 
ceived than Coleridge, my Sister, and I saw in a 
bed of potato-plants in blossom near a hut upon 
the moor between Inversneyd and Loch Ka- 
trine. These blossoms were of such extraordi- 
nary beauty and richness that no one could have 
passed them without notice. But the sense 
must be cultivated through the mind before 
we can perceive these inexhaustible treasures 
of Nature, for such they really are, without 
the least necessary reference to the utility of 
her productions, or even to the laws whereupon, 
as we learn by research, they are dependent. 
Some are of opinion that the habit of analysing, 
decomposing, and anatomising is inevitably 
unfavourable to the perception of beauty. Peo- 
ple are led into this mistake by overlooking 
the fact that,such processes being to a certain 
extent within the reach of a limited intellect, 
we are apt to ascribe to them that insensibility 
of which they are in truth the effect and not 
the cause. Admiration and love, to which all 
knowledge truly vital must tend, are felt by 
men of real genius in proportion as their dis- 
coveries in natural Philosophy are enlarged ; 
and the beauty in form of a plant or an animal 
is not made less but more apparent as a whole 
by more accurate insight into its constituent 



properties and powers. A Savant who is not 
also a poet in soul and a religionist in heart is 
a feeble and unhappy creature. 

This Lawn, a carpet all alive 

With shadows fhmg from leaves — to strive 

In dance, amid a press 
Of sunshine, an apt emblem yields 
Of Worldlings revelling in the fields 

Of strenuous idleness; 

Less quick the stir when tide and breeze 
Encounter, and to narrow seas 

Forbid a moment's rest; 
The medley less when boreal Lights 
Glance to and fro, like aery Sprites 

To feats of arms addrest ! 

Yet, spite of all this eager strife, 
This ceaseless play, the genuine life 

That serves the stedfast hours, 
Is in the grass beneath, that grows 
Unheeded, and the mute repose 

Of sweetly-breathing flowers. 



THOUGHT ON THE SEASONS 

1829. 1835 

Written at Kydal Mount. 

Flattered with promise of escape 

From every hurtful blast, 
Spring takes, O sprightly May ! thy shape r 

Her loveliest and her last. 

Less fair is summer riding high 

In fierce solstitial power, 
Less fair than when a lenient sky 

Brings on her parting hour. 

When earth repays with golden sheaves 

The labours of the plough, 
And ripening fruits and forest leaves 

All brighten on the bough; 

What pensive beauty autumn shows, 

Before she hears the sound 
Of winter rushing in, to close 

The emblematic round ! 

Such be our Spring, our Summer such; 

So may our Autumn blend 
With hoary Winter, and Life touch, 

Through heaven-born hope, her end f 



THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE 



669 



A GRAVESTONE UPON THE 
FLOOR IN THE CLOISTERS 
OF WORCESTER CATHEDRAL 

1S29. 1829 

" Miserrimus. " Many conjectures have been 
formed as to the person who lies under this 
stone. Nothing appears to be known for a 
certainty. Query — The Rev. Mr. Morris, a 
nonconformist, a sufferer for conscience-sake ; 
a worthy man who, having been deprived of 
his benefice after the accession of William III., 
lived to an old age in extreme destitution, on 
the alms of charitable Jacobites. 

" MlSERRIMUS," and neither name nor 

date, 
Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the 

stone; 
Nought but that word assigned to the un- 
known, 
That solitary word — to separate 
From all, and cast a cloud around the fate 
Of him who lies beneath. Most wretched 

one, 
Who chose his epitaph ? — Himself alone 
Could thus have dared the grave to agitate, 
And claim, among the dead, this awful 

crown; 
Nor doubt that He marked also for bis own 
(_ lose to these cloistral steps a burial-place, 
'lhat every foot might fall with heavier 

tread, 
Trampling upon his vileness. Stranger, 

pass 
Softly ! — To save the contrite, Jesus bled. 



A TRADITION OF OKER HILL 
IN DARLEY DALE, DERBY- 
SHIRE 

1829. 1829 

This pleasing tradition was told me by the 
coachman at whose side I sate while he drove 
down the dale, he pointing to the trees on the 
hill as he related the story. 

'T IS said that to the brow of yon fair bill 
Two Brothers clomb, and, turning face 

from face, 
Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still 
Or feed, each planted on that lofty place 
A chosen Tree ; then, eager to fulfil 
Their courses, like two new-born rivers, 

they 
In opposite directions urged their way 



Down from the far-seen mount. No blast 

might kill 
Or blight that fond memorial; — the trees 

grew, 
And now entwine their arms; but ne'er 

again 
Embraced those Brothers upon earth's wide 

plain; 
Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew 
Until their spirits mingled in the sea 
That to itself takes all, Eternity. 



THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE 

1830. 1835 

Written at Rydal Mount. 

The subject of the following poem is from 
the Orlandus of the author's friend, Kenelm 
Henry Digby : and the liberty is taken of in- 
scribing it to him a$ an acknowledgment, how- 
ever unworthy, of pleasure and instruction 
derived from his numerous and valuable writ- 
ings, illustrative of the piety and chivalry of 
the olden time. 



You have heard " a Spanish Lady 

How she wooed an English man;" 
Hear now of a fair Armenian, 
Daughter of the proud Soldan; 
How she loved a Christian slave, and told 

her pain 
By word, look, deed, with hope that he 
might love again. 



" Pluck that rose, it moves my liking," 

Said she, lifting up her veil; 
" Pluck it for me, gentle gardener, 

Ere it wither and grow pale." 10 

" Princess fair, I till the ground, but may 

not take 
From twig or bed an humbler flower, even 
for your sake ! " 

Hi 

" Grieved am I, submissive Christian I 

To behold thy captive state; 
Women, in your land, may pity 
(May they not ?) the unfortunate." 
" Yes, kind Lady ! otherwise man could 

not bear 
Life, which to every one that breathes ia 
full of care." 



670 



THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE 



" Worse than idle is compassion 

If it end in tears and sighs; 20 

Thee from bondage would I rescue 
And from vile indignities; 
Nurtured, as thy mien bespeaks, in high 

degree, 
Look up — and help a hand that longs to 
set thee free." 



" Lady ! dread the wish, nor venture 

In such peril to engage; 
Think how it would stir against you 
Your most loving father's rage: 
Sad deliverance would it be, and yoked 

with shame, 
Should troubles overflow on her from whom 



it came. 



VI 



" Generous Frank ! the just in effort 

Are of inward peace secure: 
Hardships for the brave encountered, 
Even the feeblest may endure: 
If almighty grace through me thy chains 

unbind, 
My father for slave's work may seek a slave 
in mind." 



" Princess, at this burst of goodness, 

My long-frozen heart grows warm ! " 
" Yet you make all courage fruitless, 
Me to save from chance of harm: 40 
Leading such companion I that gilded dome, 
Yon minarets, would gladly leave for his 
worst home." 



" Feeling tunes your voice, fair Princess, 

And your brow is free from scorn, 
Else these words would come like 
mockery, 
Sharper than the pointed thorn." 
" Whence the undeserved mistrust ? Too 

wide apart 
Our faith hath been, — O would that eyes 
could see the heart ! " 

IX 

" Tempt me not, I pray ; my doom is 
These base implements to wield; 50 

Rusty lance, I ne'er shall grasp thee, 
Ne'er assoil my cobwebbed shield ! 



Never see my native land, nor castle tow- 
ers, 

Nor Her who thinking of me there counts 
widowed hours." 



"Prisoner ! pardon youthful fancies; 

Wedded ? If you can, say no ! 
Blessed is and be your consort; 
Hopes I cherished — let them go ! 
Handmaid's privilege would leave my pur- 
pose free, 
Without another link to my felicity." be 



" Wedded love with loyal Christians, 

Lady, is a mystery rare; 
Body, heart, and soul hi union, 
Make one being of a pair." 
" Humble love hi me would look for no re- 
turn. 
Soft as a guiding star that cheers, but can- 
not burn." 



" Gracious Allah ! by such title 

Do I dare to thank the God, 
Him who thus exalts thy spirit, 
Flower of an unchristian sod ! 70 

Or hast thou put off wings which thou hi 

heaven dost wear ? 
What have I seen, and heard, or dreamt ? 
where am I ? where ? " 

XIII 

Here broke off the dangerous converse: 

Less impassioned words might tell 
How the pair escaped together, 
Tears not wanting, nor a knell 
Of sorrow hi her heart while through her 

father's door, 
And from her narrow world, she passed for 
evermore. 



But affections higher, holier, 
Urged her steps; she shrunk from 
trust 80 

In a sensual creed that trampled 
Woman's birthright into dust. 
Little be the wonder then, the blame be 

none, 
If she, a timid Maid, hath put such bold- 
ness on. 



THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE 



671 



Judge both Fugitives with knowledge: 

In those old romantic days 
Mighty were the soul's commandments 
To support, restrain, or raise. 
Foes might hang upon their path, snakes 

rustle near, 
But nothing from their inward selves had 
they to fear. 9° 

XVI 

Thought infirm ne'er came between 
them, 
Whether printing desert sands 
With accordant steps, or gathering 
Forest-fruit with social hands; 
Or whispering like two reeds that in the 

cold moonbeam 
Bend with the breeze their heads, beside a 
crystal stream. 

xvn 

On a friendly deck reposing 

They at length for Venice steer; 
There, when they had closed their 
voyage 
One, who daily on the pier 100 

Watched for tidings from the East, beheld 

his Lord, 
Fell down and clasped his knees for joy, 
not uttering word. 



Mutual was the sudden transport; 

Breathless questions followed fast, 
Years contracting to a moment, 
Each word greedier than the last; 
" Hie thee to the Countess, friend ! return 

with speed, 
And of this Stranger speak, by whom her 
lord was freed 

XIX 

Say that I, who might have languished, 
Drooped and pined till life was spent, 
Now before the gates of Stolberg m 
My Deliverer would present 
For a crowning recompence, the precious 

grace 
Of her who in my heart still holds her an- 
cient place. 

XX 

Make it known that my Companion 
Is of royal eastern blood, 



Thirsting after all perfection, 
Innocent, and meek, and good, 
Though with misbelievers bred; but that 

dark night 
Will holy Church disperse by means of 
gospel-light." 12c 

XXI 

Swiftly went that grey-haired Servant, 

Soon returned a trusty Page 
Charged with greetings, benedictions, 
Thanks and praises, each a gage 
For a sunny thought to cheer the Stranger's 

way, 
Her virtuous scruples to remove, her fears 
allay. 



And how blest the Reunited, 

While beneath their castle-walls, 
Runs a deafening noise of welcome ! — 
Blest, though every tear that falls 13a 
Doth in its silence of past sorrow tell, 
And makes a meeting seem most like a 
dear farewell. 

XXIII 

Through a haze of human nature, 

Glorified by heavenly light, 
Looked the beautiful Deliverer 
On that overpowering sight, 
While across her virgin cheek pure blushes 

strayed, 
For every tender sacrifice her heart had 
made. 

XXIV 

On the ground the weeping Countess 

Knelt, and kissed the Stranger's hand; 
Act of soul-devoted homage, 141 

Pledge of an eternal band: 
Nor did aught of future days that kiss 

belie, 
Which, with a generous shout, the crowd 
did ratify. 

XXV 

Constant to the fair Armenian, 

Gentle pleasures round her moved, 
Like a tutelary spirit 

Reverenced, like a sister, loved, 
Christian meekness smoothed for all the 

path of life, 
Who, loving most, should wiseliest love, 
their only strife. 150 



672 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE 



Mute memento of that union 

In a Saxon church survives, 
Where a cross-legged Knight lies sculp- 
tured 
As between two wedded wives — 
Figures with armorial signs of race and 

birth, 
And the vain rank the pilgrims bore while 
yet on earth. 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE 

1830. 1835 

Early in life this story had interested me, 
and I often thought it would make a pleasing 
subject for an opera or musical drama. 

PART I 

Enough of rose-bud lips, and eyes 

Like harebells bathed in dew, 
Of cheek that with carnation vies, 

And veins of violet hue ; 
Earth wants not beauty that may scorn 

A likening to frail flowers; 
Yea, to the stars, if they were born 

For seasons and for hours. 

Through Moscow's gates, with gold un- 
barred, 

Stepped One at dead of night, 10 

Whom such high beauty could not guard 

From meditated blight; 
By stealth she passed, and fled as fast 

As doth the hunted fawn, 
Nor stopped, till in the dappling east 

Appeared unwelcome dawn. 

Seven days she lurked in brake and field, 

Seven nights her course renewed, 
Sustained by what her scrip might yield, 

Or berries of the wood; 20 

At length, in darkness travelling on, 

When lowly doors were shut, 
The haven of her hope she won, 

Her Foster-mother's hut. 

" To put your love to dangerous proof 

I come," said she, "from far; 
For I have left my Father's roof, 

In terror of the Czar." 
No answer did the Matron give, 

No second look she cast, 3c 



But hung upon the Fugitive, 
Embracing and embraced. 

She led the Lady to a seat 

Beside the glimmering fire. 
Bathed duteously her wayworn feet, 

Prevented each desire : — 
The cricket chirped, the house-dog dozed, 

And on that simple bed, 
Where she in childhood had reposed, 

Now rests her weary head 4 < 

When she, whose couch had been the sod, 

Whose curtain, pine or thorn, 
Had breathed a sigh of thanks to God, 

Who comforts the forlorn; 
While over her the Matron bent 

Sleep sealed her eyes, and stole 
Feeling from limbs with travel spent, 

And trouble from the soul. 

Refreshed, the Wanderer rose at morn, 

And soon again was dight 5c 

In those unworthy vestments worn 

Through long and perilous flight; 
And " O beloved Nurse," she said, 

" My thanks with silent tears 
Have unto Heaven and You been paid: 

Now listen to my fears ! 



forgot 



and here she 



" Have you 
smiled 

" The babbling flatteries 
You lavished on me when a child 

Disporting round your knees ? 6c 

I was your lambkin, and your bird, 

Your star, your gem, your flower; 
Light words, that were more lightly heard 

In many a cloudless hour ! 

The blossom you so fondly praised 

Is come to bitter fruit; 
A mighty One upon me gazed; 

I spurned his lawless suit, 
And must be hidden from his wrath: 

You, Foster-father dear, 70 

Will guide me in my forward path; 

I may not tarry here ! 

I cannot bring to utter woe 

Your proved fidelity." — 
" Dear Child, sweet Mistress, say not so ! 

For you we both would die." 
" Nay, nay, I come with semblance feigned 

And cheek embrowned by art; 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE 



673 



Yet, being inwardly unstained, 

With courage will depart." 8c 

" But whither would you, could you, flee ? 

A poor Man's counsel take; 
The Holy Virgin gives to me 

A thought for your dear sake; 
Rest, shielded by our Lady's grace, 

And soon shall you be led 
Forth to a safe abiding-place, 

Where never foot doth tread." 



PART II 

The dwelling of this faithful pair 

In a straggling village stood, 
For One who breathed unquiet air 

A dangerous neighbourhood; 
But wide around lay forest groimd 

With thickets rough and blind; 
And pine-trees made a heavy shade 

Impervious to the wind. 

And there, sequestered from the sight, 

Was spread a treacherous swamp, 1 

On which the noonday sun shed light 

As from a lonely lamp; 
And midway in the unsafe morass, 

A single Island rose 
Of firm dry groimd, with healthful grass 

Adorned, and shady boughs. 

The Woodman knew, for such the craft 

This Russian vassal plied, 
That never fowler's gun, nor shaft 

Of archer, there was tried; : 

A sanctuary seemed the spot 

From all intrusion free; 
And there he planned an artful Cot 

For perfect secrecy. 

With earnest pains unchecked by dread 

Of Power's far-stretching hand, 
The bold good Man his labour sped 

At nature's pure command; 
Heart-soothed, and busy as a wren, 

While, in a hollow nook, 
She moulds her sight-eluding den 

Above a murmuring brook. 

His task accomplished to his mind, 

The twain ere break of day 
Creep forth, and through the forest wind 

Their solitary way; 



Few words they speak, nor dare to slack 

Their pace from mile to mile, 
Till they have crossed the quaking marsh 

And leached the lonely Isle. 4a 

The sun above the pine-trees showed 

A bright and cheerful face; 
And Ina looked for her abode, 

The promised hiding-place, 
She sought hi vain,, the VVoodman smiled; 

No threshold could be seen, 
Nor roof, nor window ; — all seemed wild 

As it had ever been. 

Advancing, you might guess an hour, 

The front with such nice care 5c 

Is masked, " if house it be or bower," 

But in they entered are; 
As shaggy as were wall and roof 

With branches intertwined, 
So smooth was all within, air-proof, 

And delicately lined: 

And hearth was there, and maple dish 

And cups in seemly rows, 
And couch — all ready to a wish 

For nurture or repose; 6c 

And Heaven doth to her virtue grant 

That here she may abide 
In solitude, with every want 

By cautious love supplied. 

No queen, before a shouting crowd, 

Led on in bridal state, 
E'er struggled with a heart so proud, 

Entering her palace gate: 
Rejoiced to bid the world farewell, 

No saintly anchoress yc 

E'er took possession of her cell 

With deeper thankfulness. 

" Father of all, upon thy care 

And mercy am I thrown; 
Be thou my safeguard ! " — such her 
prayer 

When she was left alone, 
Kneeling amid the wilderness 

When joy had passed away, 
And smiles, fond efforts of distress 

To hide what they betray ! 80 

The prayer is heard, the Saints have seen, 
Diffused through form and face 

Resolves devotedly serene; 
That monumental grace 



674 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE 



Of Faith, which doth all passions tanie 
That Reason should control; 

And shows in the untrembling frame 
A statue of the soul. 



PART III 

T is sung in ancient minstrelsy 

That Phoebus wont to wear 
The leaves of any pleasant tree 

Around his golden hair; 
Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit 

Of his imperious love, 
At her own prayer transformed, took root, 

A laurel in the grove. 

Then did the Penitent adorn 

His brow with laurel green; 10 

And 'mid his bright locks never shorn 

No meaner leaf was seen; 
And poets sage, through every age, 

About their temples wound 
The bay ; and conquerors thanked the Gods, 

With laurel chaplets crowned. 

Tnto the mists of fabling Time 

So far runs back the praise 
Of Beauty, that disdains to climb 

Along forbidden ways; *o 

That scorns temptation; power defies 

Where mutual love is not; 
And to the tomb for rescue flies 

When life would be a blot. 

To this fair Votaress, a fate 

More mild doth Heaven ordain 
Upon her Island desolate; 

And words, not breathed in vain, 
Might tell what intercourse she found* 

Her silence to endear; 30 

What birds she tamed, what flowers the 
ground 

Sent forth her peace to cheer. 

To one mute Presence, above all, 

Her soothed affections clung, 
A picture on the cabin Avail 

By Russian usage hung — 
The Mother-maid, whose countenance 
bright 

With love abridged the day; 
And, communed with by taper light, 

Chased spectral fears away. 40 



And oft, as either Guardian came, 

The joy in that retreat 
Might any common friendship shame, 

!So high their hearts would beat; 
And to the lone Recluse, whate'er 

They brought, each visiting 
Was like the crowding of the year 

With a new burst of spring. 

But, when she of her Parents thought, 

The pang was hard to bear; 50 

And, if with all things not enwrought, 

That trouble still is near. 
Before her flight she had not dared 

Their constancy to prove, 
Too much the heroic Daughter feared 

The weakness of their love. 

Dark is the past to them, and dark 

The future still must be, 
Till pitying Saints conduct her bark 

Into a safer sea — 60 

Or gentle Nature close her eyes, 

And set her Spirit free 
From the altar of this sacrifice, 

In vestal purity. 

Yet, when above the forest-glooms 

The white swans southward passed, 
High as the pitch of their swift plumes 

Her fancy rode the blast; 
And bore her toward the fields of France 

Her Father's native land, 70 

To mingle in the rustic dance, 

The happiest of the band ! 

Of those beloved fields she oft 

Had heard her Father tell 
In praise that now with echoes soft 

Haunted her lonely cell; 
She saw the hereditary bowers, 

She heard the ancestral stream; 
The Kremlin and its haughty towers 

Forgotten like a dream ! 



PART IV 

The ever-changing Moon had traced 
Twelve times her monthly round, 

When through the unfrequented Waste 
Was heard a startling sound; 

A shout thrice sent from one who chased 
At speed a wounded deer, 



THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE 



675 



Bounding through branches interlaced, 
And where the wood was clear. 

The fainting creature took the marsh, 

And toward the Island fled, 10 

While plovers screamed with tumult harsh 

Above his antlered head: 
This, Ina saw; and, pale with fear, 

Shrunk to her citadel; 
The desperate deer rushed on, and near 

The tangled covert fell. 

Across the marsh, the game in view, 

The Hunter f ollowed fast, 
Nor paused, till o'er the stag he blew 

A death-proclaiming blast; 20 

Then, resting on her upright mind, 

Came forth the Maid — " In me 
Behold," she said, " a stricken Hind 

Pursued by destiny ! 

From your deportment, Sir ! I deem 

That you have worn a sword, 
And will not hold hi light esteem 

A suffering woman's word; 
There is my covert, there perchance 

I might have lain concealed, 30 

My fortunes hid, my countenance 

Not even to you revealed. 

Tears might be shed, and I might pray, 

Crouching and terrified, 
That what has been unveiled to-day, 

You would in mystery hide; 
But I will not defile with dust 

The knee that bends to adore 
The God hi heaven; — attend, be just; 

This ask I, and no more ! 40 

I speak not of the winter's cold, 

For summer's heat exchanged, 
While I have lodged in this rough hold, 

From social life estranged; 
Nor yet of trouble and alarms: 

High Heaven is my defence ; 
And every season has soft arms 

For injured Innocence. 



From Moscow to the Wilderness 
It was my choice to come, 

Lest virtue should be harbourless, 
And honour want a home; 

And happy were I, if the Czar 
Retain his lawless will, 



s° 



To end life here like this poor deer, 
Or a lamb on a green hill." 

" Are you the Maid," the Stranger cried, 

" From Gallic parents spnuig, 
Whose vanishing was rumoured wide, 

Sad theme for every tongue; 6c 

Who foiled an Emperor's eager quest ? 

You, Lady, forced to wear 
These rude habiliments, and rest 

Your head in this dark lair ! " 

But wonder, pity, soon were quelled; 

And hi her face and mien 
The soul's pure brightness he beheld 

Without a veil between: 
He loved, he hoped, — a holy flame 

Kindled 'mid rapturous tears; 70 

The passion of a moment came 

As on the wings of years. 

" Such bounty is no gift of chance," 

Exclaimed he; " righteous Heaven, 
Preparing your deliverance, 

To me the charge hath given. 
The Czar full oft in words and deeds 

Is stormy and self-willed; 
But, when the Lady Catherine pleads, 

His violence is stilled. 80 

Leave open to my wish the course, 

And I to her will go; 
From that humane and heavenly source, 

Good, only good, can flow." 
Faint sanction given, the Cavalier 

Was eager to depart, 
Though question followed question, dear, 

To the Maiden's filial heart. 

Light was his step, — his hopes, more light, 

Kept pace with his desires; 90 

And the fifth morning gave him sight 

Of Moscow's glittering spires. 
He sued: — heart-smitten by the wrong, 

To the lorn Fugitive 
The Emperor sent a pledge as strong 

As sovereign power could give. 

O more than mighty change ! If e'er 

Amazement rose to pain, 
And joy's excess produced a fear 

Of something void and vain; 100 

'T was when the Parents, who had mourned 

So long the lost as dead, 



676 



THE EGYPTIAN MAID 



ginning that the poem would have gone to 
such a length. 

While Merlin paced the Cornish sands, 
Forth-looking toward the rocks of Scilly, 
The pleased Enchanter was aware 
Of a bright Ship that seemed to hang in air, 
Yet was she work of mortal hands, 
And took from men her name — The 
Water Lily. 



Soft was the wind, that landward blew; 
And, as the Moon, o'er some dark hill 

ascendant, 
Grows from a little edge of light 
To a full orb, this Pinnace bright 10 

Became, as nearer to the coast she drew, 
More glorious, with spread sail and stream- 
ing pendant. 

Upon this winged Shape so fair 
Sage Merlin gazed with admiration: 
Her lineaments, thought he, surpass 
Aught that was ever shown in magic 

glass ; 
Was ever built with patient care; 
Or, at a touch, produced by happiest trans- 
formation. 

Now, though a Mechanist, whose skill 
Shames the degenerate grasp of modern 

science, 20 

Grave Merlin (and belike the more 
For practising occult and perilous lore) 
Was subject to a freakish will 
That sapped good thoughts, or scared them 

with defiance. 

Provoked to envious spleen, he cast 

An altered look upon the advancing 

Stranger 
Whom he had hailed with joy, and cried, 
" My Art shall help to tame her pride — " 
Anon the breeze became a blast, 
And the waves rose, and sky portended 

danger. 30 

With thrilling word, and potent sign 
Traced on the beach, his work the Sor- 
cerer urges; 
The clouds in blacker clouds are lost, 
Like spiteful Fiends that vanish, crossed 
By Fiends of aspect more malign; 
And the winds roused the Deep with fiercer 
scourges. 



Beheld their only Child returned, 
The household floor to tread. 

Soon gratitude gave way to love 

Within the Maiden's breast; 
Delivered and Deliverer move 

In bridal garments drest; 
Meek Catherine had her own reward; 

The Czar bestowed a dower; no 

And universal Moscow shared 

The triumph of that hour. 

Flowers strewed the ground; the nuptial 
feast 

Was held with costly state; 
And there, 'mid many a noble guest, 

The Foster-parents sate; 
Encouraged by the imperial eye, 

They shrank not into shade; 
Great was their bliss, the honour high 

To them and nature paid ! 



THE EGYPTIAN MAID 

OR, THE ROMANCE OF THE WATER 
LILY 

1830. 1835 

For the names and persons in the following 
poem, see the History of the renowned Prince 
Arthur and his Knights of the Bound Table ; 
for the rest the Author is answerable ; only it 
may be proper to add, that the Lotus, with the 
bust of the Goddess appearing to rise out of 
the full-blown flower, was suggested by the 
beautiful work of ancient art, once included 
among the Townley Marbles, and now in the 
British Museum. 

In addition to the short notice prefixed to 
this poem it may be worth while here to say 
that it rose out of a few words casually xised in 
conversation by my nephew Henry Hutchinson. 
He was describing with great spirit the ap- 
pearance and movement of a vessel which 
he seemed to admire more than any other lie 
had ever seen, and said her name was the 
Water Lily. This plant has been my delight 
from my boyhood, as I have seen it floating on 
the lake ; and that conversation put me upon 
constructing and composing the poem. Had I 
not heard those words it would never have been 
written. The form of the stanza is new, and is 
nothing but a repetition of the first five lines as 
they were thrown off, and is not perhaps well 
suited to narrative, and certainly would not 
have been trusted to had I thought at the be- 



THE EGYPTIAN MAID 



677 



But worthy of the name she bore 
Was this Sea-flower, this buoyant Gal- 
ley; 
Supreme in loveliness and grace 
Of motion, whether hi the embrace 40 
Of trusty anchorage, or scudding o'er 
The mam flood roughened into hill and 
valley. 

Behold, how wantonly she laves 
Her sides, the Wizard's craft confound- 
ing; 
Like something out of Ocean sprung 
To be for ever fresh and young, 
Breasts the sea-flashes, and huge waves 
Top-gallant high, rebounding and rebound- 
ing ! 

But Ocean under magic heaves, 
And cannot spare the Thing he cherished : 
Ah ! what avails that she was fair, 51 
Luminous, blithe, and debonair ? 
The storm has stripped her of her leaves ; 
The Lily floats no longer ! — She hath 
perished. 

Grieve for her, — she deserves no less; 
So like, yet so unlike, a living Creature ! 
No heart had she, no busy brain; 
Though loved, she could not love again; 
Though pitied, feel her own distress; 
Nor aught that troubles us, the fools of 
Nature. 60 

Yet is there cause for gushing tears; 
So richly was this Galley laden, 
A fairer than herself she bore, 
And, in her struggles, cast ashore; 
A lovely One, who nothing hears 
Of wind or wave — a meek and guileless 
Maiden. 

Into a cave had Merlin fled 

From mischief, caused by spells himself 

had muttered; 
And while, repentant all too late, 
In moody posture there he sate, 70 

He heard a voice, and saw, with half- 
raised head, 
A Visitant by whom these words were 
uttered ; 

"On Christian service this frail Bark 
Sailed " (hear me, Merlin !) " under 
high protection, 



Though on her prow a sign of heathen 

power 
Was carved — a Goddess with a Lily 

flower, 
The old Egyptian's emblematic mark 
Of joy immortal and of pure affection. 

Her course was for the British strand; 
Her freight, it was a Damsel peerless ; 80 
God reigns above, and Spirits strong 
May gather to avenge this wrong 
Done to the Princess, and her Land 
Which she in duty left, sad but not cheer- 
less. 

And to Caerleon's loftiest tower 
Soon will the Knights of Arthur's Table 
A cry of lamentation send; 
And all will weep who there attend, 
To grace that Stranger's bridal hour, 
For whom the sea was made unnavigable. 

Shame ! should a Child of royal line 91 
Die through the blindness of thy 

malice ? " 
Thus to the Necromancer spake 
Nina, the Lady of the Lake, 
A gentle Sorceress, and benign, 
Who ne'er embittered any good man's 

chalice. 



to 



" What boots," continued she, 

mourn ? 
To expiate thy sin endeavour: 
From the bleak isle where she is laid, 
Fetched by our art, the Egyptian Maid 
May yet to Arthur's court be borne iot 
Cold as she is, ere life be fled for ever. 

My pearly Boat, a shining Light, 

That brought me down that sunless 

river, 
Will bear me on from wave to wave, 
And back with her to this sea-cave ; — 
Then Merlin ! for a rapid flight 
Through air, to thee my Charge will I 

deliver. 

The very swiftest of thy cars 
Must, when my part is done, be ready; 
Meanwhile, for further guidance, look m 
Into thy own prophetic book; 
And, if that fail, consult the Stars 
To learn thy course ; farewell ! be prompt 
and steady." 



678 



THE EGYPTIAN MAID 



This scarcely spoken, she again 
Was seated in her gleaming shallop, 
That, o'er the yet-distempered Deep, 
Pursued its way with hird-like sweep, 
Or like a steed, without a rein, 
Urged o'er the wilderness in sportive 
gallop. 120 

Soon did the gentle Nina reach 
That Isle without a house or haven; 
Landing, she found not what she sought, 
Nor saw of wreck or ruin aught 
But a carved Lotus cast upon the beach 
By the fierce waves, a flower in marble 
graven. 

Sad relitpie, but how fair the while ! 
For gently each from each retreating 
With backward curve, the leaves revealed 
The bosom half, and half concealed, 130 
Of a Divinity, that seemed to smile 
On Nina, as she passed, with hopefid 
greeting. 

No quest was hers of vague desire, 
Of tortured hope and purpose shaken; 
Following the margin of a bay, 
She spied the lonely Castaway, 
Unmarred, unstripped of her attire, 
But with closed eyes, — of breath and bloom 
forsaken. 

Then Nina, stooping down, embraced, 
With tenderness and mild emotion, 140 
The Damsel, in that trance embound; 
And, while she raised her from the 

ground, 
And in the pearly shallop placed, 
Sleep fell upon the air, and stilled the ocean. 

The turmoil hushed, celestial springs 
Of music opened, and there came a 

blending 
Of fragrance, underived from earth, 
With gleams that owed not to the sun 

their birth, 
And that soft rustling of invisible wings 
Which Angels make, on works of love de- 
scending. 150 

And Nina heard a sweeter voice 

Than if the Goddess of the flower had 

spoken: 
" Thou hast achieved, fair Dame ! what 

none 



Less pure in spirit could have done; 
Go, in thy enterprise rejoice ! 
Air, earth, sea, sky, and heaven, success 
betoken." 

So cheered, she left that Island bleak, 
A bare rock of the Scilly cluster; 
And, as they traversed the smooth brine, 
The self-illumined Brigantine 160 

Shed, on the Slumberer's cold wan cheek 
And pallid brow, a melancholy lustre. 

Fleet was their course, and when they 

came 
To the dim cavern, whence the river 
Issued into the salt-sea flood, 
Merlin, as fixed hi thought he stood, 
Was thus accosted by the Dame; 
" Behold to thee my Charge I now deliver ! 

But where attends thy chariot — 

where?" — 
Quoth Merlin, " Even as I was bidden, 170 
So have I done; as trusty as thy barge 
My vehicle shall prove — O precious 

Charge ! 
li this be sleep, how soft ! if death, how 

fair ! 
Much have my books disclosed, but the end 

is hidden." 

He spake ; and gliding into view 

Forth from the grotto's dimmest chamber 

Came two mute Swans, whose plumes of 

dusky white 
Changed, as the pair approached the 

light, 
Drawing an ebon car, their hue 
(Like clouds of sunset) into lucid amber. 

Once more did gentle Nina lift 181 

The Princess, passive to all changes: 
The car received her: — then up- went 
Into the ethereal element 
The Birds with progress smooth and swift 
As thought, when through bright regions 
memory ranges. 

Sage Merlin, at the Slumberer's side, 
Instructs the Swans their way to measure; 
And soon Caerleon's towers appeared, 
And notes of minstrelsy were heard 190 
From rich pavilions spreading wide, 
For some high day of long-expected plea- 
sure. 



THE EGYPTIAN MAID 



679 



Awe-stricken stood both Knights and 

Dames 
Ere on firm ground the car alighted; 
Eftsoons astonishment was past, 
For in that face they saw the last, 
Last lingering look of clay, that tames 
All pride; by which all happiness is blighted. 

Said Merlin, " Mighty King, fair Lords, 
Away with feast and tilt and tourney ! 200 
Ye saw, throughout this royal House, 
Ye heard, a rocking marvellous 
Of turrets, and a clash of swords 
Self-shaken, as I closed my airy journey. 

Lo ! by a destiny well known 
To mortals, joy is turned to sorrow; 
This is the wished-for Bride, the Maid 
Of Egypt, from a rock conveyed 
Where she by shipwreck had been thrown, 
III sight ! but grief may vanish ere the 
morrow." 210 

" Though vast thy power, thy words are 
weak," 

Exclaimed the King, " a mockery hateful; 

Dutiful Child, her lot how hard ! 

Is this her piety's reward ? 

Those watery locks, that bloodless cheek! 
O winds without remorse ! O shore un- 
grateful ! 

Rich robes are fretted by the moth; 
Towers, temples, fall by stroke of thun- 
der; 
Will that, or deeper thoughts, abate 
A Father's sorrow for her fate ? 220 

He will repent him of his troth; 
His brain will burn, his stout heart split 
asunder. 

Alas ! and I have caused this woe ; 

For, when my prowess from invading 

Neighbours 
Had freed his Realm, he plighted word 
That he would turn to Christ our Lord, 
And his dear Daughter on a Knight be- 
stow 
Whom I should choose for love and match- 
less labours. 

Her birth was heathen; but a fence 
Of holy Angels round her hovered: 230 
A Lady added to my court 
So fair, of such divine report 



And worship, seemed a recompence 
For fifty kingdoms by my sword recovered 

Ask not for whom, O Champions true ! 
She was reserved by me her life's be- 
trayer; 
She who was meant to be a bride 
Is now a corse : then put aside 
Vain thoughts, and speed ye, with observ- 
ance due 
Of Christian rites, in Christian ground to 
lay her." 240 

" The tomb," said Merlin, " may not close 
Upon her yet, earth hide her beauty; 
Not froward to thy sovereign will 
Esteem me, Liege ! if I, whose skill 
Wafted her hither, hiterpose 
To check this pious haste of erring duty. 

My books command me to lay bare 
The secret thou art bent on keeping: 
Here must a high attest be given, 
What Bridegroom was for her ordained 

by Heaven. 250 

And in my glass significants there are 
Of things that may to gladness turn thi8 

weeping. 

For this, approaching, One by One, 
Thy Knights must touch the cold hand 

of the Virgin; 
So, for the favoured One, the Flower 

may bloom 
Once more; but, if unchangeable her 

doom, 
If life departed be for ever gone, 
Some blest assurance, from this cloud 

emerging, 

May teach him to bewail his loss; 

Not with a grief that, like a vapour, rises 

And melts; but grief devout that shall 
endure, 261 

And a perpetual growth secure. 

Of purposes which no false thought shall 
cross, 
A harvest of high hopes and noble enter- 
prises." 

"So be it," said the King; — "anon, 
Here, where the Princess lies, begin the 

trial ; 
Knights each in order as ye stand 
Step forth." — To touch the pallid hand 



68o 



THE EGYPTIAN MAID 



Sir Agravaine advanced; no sign he won 

From Heaven or earth ; — Sir Kaye had like 

denial. 270 

Abashed, Sir Dinas turned away; 

Even for Sir Percival was no disclosure; 

Though he, devoutest of all Champions, 

ere 
He reached that ebon car, the bier 
Whereon diffused like snow the Damsel 

lay, 

Full thrice had crossed himself in meek 
composure. 

Imagine (but ye Saints ! who can ?) 
How in still air the balance trembled — 
The wishes, peradventure the despites 
That overcame some not ungenerous 
Knights ; 280 

And all the thoughts that lengthened out 
a span 
Of time to Lords and Ladies thus assem- 
bled. 

What patient confidence was here ! 
And there how many bosoms panted ! 
While drawing toward the car Sir Ga- 

waine, mailed 
For tournament, his beaver vailed, 
And softly touched; but, to his princely 

cheer 
And high expectancy, no sign was granted. 

Next, disencumbered of his harp, 

Sir Tristram, dear to thousands as a 

brother, 290 

Came to the proof, nor grieved that there 

ensued 
No change ; — the fair Izonda he had 

wooed 
With love too true, a love with pangs too 

sharp, 
From hope too distant, not to dread another. 

Not so Sir Launcelot; — from Heaven's 
grace 

A sign he craved, tired slave of vain con- 
trition; 

The royal Guinever looked passing glad 

When his touch failed. — Next came Sir 
Galahad ; 

He paused, and stood entranced by that 
still face 
Whose features he had seen in noontide 



For late, as near a murmuring stream 
He rested 'mid an arbour green and shady, 
Nina, the good Enchantress, shed 
A light around his mossy bed; 
And, at her call, a waking dream 
Prefigured to his sense the Egyptian Lady. 

Now, while his bright-haired front he 

bowed, 
And stood, far-kenned by mantle furred 

with ermine, 
As o'er the insensate Body hung 
The enrapt, the beautiful, the young, 310 
Belief sank deep into the crowd 
That he the solemn issue would determine. 

Nor deem it strange ; the Youth had worn 
That very mantle on a day of glory, 
The day when he achieved that matchless 

feat, 
The marvel of the Perilous Seat, 
Which whosoe'er approached of strength 

was shorn, 
Though King or Knight the most renowned 

in story. 

He touched with hesitating hand — 
And lo ! those Birds, far-famed through 

Love's dominions, 320 

The Swans, in triumph clap their wings; 
And their necks play, involved in rings, 
Like sinless snakes in Eden's happy 

land ; — 
"Mine is she," cried the Knight; — again 

they clapped their pinions. 

" Mine was she — mine she is, though 

dead, 
And to her name my soul shall cleave in 

sorrow ; " 
Whereat, a tender twilight streak 
Of colour dawned upon the Damsel's 

cheek; 
And her lips, quickening with uncertain 

red, 
Seemed from each other a faint warmth to 

borrow. 33 o 

Deep was the awe, the rapture high, 
Of love emboldened, hope with dread 

entwining, 
When, to the mouth, relenting Death 
Allowed a soft and flower-like breath, 
Precursor to a timid sigh, 
To lifted eyelids, and a doubtful shining. 



THE POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOVE 



681 



In silence did King Arthur gaze 
Upon the signs that pass away or tarry; 
In silence watched the gentle strife 
Of Nature leading hack to life; 340 

Then eased his soul at length by praise 
Of God, and Heaven's pure Queen — the 
blissful Mary. 

Then said he, " Take her to thy heart, 
Sir Galahad ! a treasure, that God giv- 

eth, 
Bound by indissoluble ties to thee 
Through mortal change and immortal- 

Be happy and unenvied, thou who art 
A goodly Knight that hath no peer that liv- 
eth ! " 

Not long the Nuptials were delayed; 
And sage tradition still rehearses 350 

The pomp, the glory of that hour 
When toward the altar from her bower 
King Arthur led the Egyptian Maid, 
And Angels carolled these far-echoed 
verses ; — 

Who shrinks not from alliance 
Of evil with good Powers, 
To God proclaims defiance, 
And mocks whom he adores. 

A Ship to Christ devoted 

From the Land of Nile did go; 360 

Alas ! the bright Ship floated, 

An Idol at her prow. 

By magic domination, 
The Heaven-permitted vent 
Of purblind mortal passion, 
Was wrought her punishment. 

The Flower the Form within it, 
What served they hi her need? 
Her port she could not win it, 
Nor from mishap be freed. 370 

The tempest overcame her, 
And she was seen no more; 
But gently, gently blame her — 
She cast a Pearl ashore. 

The Maid to Jesu hearkened, 
And kept to him her faith, 
Till sense in death was darkened, 
Or sleep akin to death. 



But Angels round her pillow 

Kept watch, a viewless band; 380 

And, billow favouring billow, 

She reached the destined strand. 

Blest Pair ! whate'er befall you, 
Your faith in Him approve 
Who from frail earth can call you 
To bowers of endless love ! 



THE POET AND THE CAGED 
TURTLEDOVE 

1830. 1S35 

Written at Rydal Mount. This dove was 
one of a pair that had been given to my 
daughter by our excellent friend, Miss Jews- 
bury, who went to India with her husband, Mr. 
Fletcher, where she died of cholera. The dove 
survived its mate many years, and was killed, 
to our great sorrow, by a neighbour's cat that 
got in at the window and dragged it partly out 
of the cage. These verses were composed ex- 
tempore, to the letter, in the Terrace Summer- 
house before spoken of. It was the habit of 
the bird to begin cooing and murmuring when- 
ever it heard me making my verses. 

As often as I murmur here 

My half-formed melodies, 
Straight from her osier mansion near, 

The Turtledove replies: 
Though silent as a leaf before, 

The captive promptly coos; 
Is it to teach her own soft lore, 

Or second my weak Muse ? 

I rather think, the gentle Dove 

Is murmuring a reproof, 
Displeased that I from lays of love 

Have dared to keep aloof; 
That I, a Bard of hill and dale, 

Have carolled, fancy free, 
As if nor dove nor nightingale, 

Had heart or voice for me. 

If such thy meaning, O forbear, 

Sweet Bird ! to do me wrong; 
Love, blessed Love, is everywhere 

The spirit of my song: 
'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside, 

Love animates my lyre — 
That coo again ! — 't is not to chide. 

I feel, but to inspire. 



682 



PRESENTIMENTS 



PRESENTIMENTS 

1S30. 1835 

Written at Rydal Mount. 

Presentiments ! they judge not right 
Who deem that ye from open light 

Retire hi fear of shame; 
All heaven-bom Instincts shun the touch 
Of vulgar sense, — and, being such, 

Such privilege ye claim. 

The tear whose source I could not guess, 
The deep sigh that seemed fatherless, 

Were mine in early days; 
And now, unforced by time to part 10 

With fancy, I obey my heart. 

And venture on your praise. 

What though some busy foes to good, 
Too potent over nerve and blood, 

Lurk near you — and combine 
To taint the health which ye infuse ; 
This hides not from the moral Muse 

Your origin divine. 

How oft from you, derided Powers ! 
Comes Faith that in auspicious hours 20 

Builds castles, not of air: 
Bodings unsanctioned by the will 
Flow from your visionary skill, 

And teach us to beware. 

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, 
That no philosophy can lift, 

Shall vanish, if ye please, 
Like morning mist: and, where it lay, 
The spirits at your bidding play 

In gaiety and ease. 30 

Star-guided contemplations move 
Through space, though calm, not raised above 

Prognostics that ye rule ; 
The naked Indian of the wild, 
And haply, too, the cradled Child, 

Are pupils of your school. 

But who can fathom your intents, 
Number their signs or instruments ? 

A rainbow, a sunbeam, 
A subtle smell that Spring unbinds, 40 

Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds, 

An echo, or a dream. 

The laughter of the Christmas hearth 
W'ith sighs of self -exhausted mirth 
Ye feelingly reprove; 



And daily, in the conscious breast, 
Your visitations are a test 
And exercise of love. 

When some great change gives boundless 

scope 
To an exulting Nation's hope, 50 

Oft, startled and made wise 
By your low-breathed interpretings, 
The simply-meek foretaste the springs 

Of bitter contraries. 

Ye daunt the proud array of war, 
Pervade the lonely ocean far 

As sail hath been unfurled ; 
For dancers in the festive hall 
What ghastly partners hath your call 

Fetched from the shadowy world. 60 

'T is said, that warnings ye dispense, 
Emboldened by a keener sense; 

That men have lived for whom, 
With dread precision, ye made clear 
The hour that in a distant year 

Should knell them to the tomb. 

Unwelcome insight ! Yet there are, 
Blest times when mystery is laid bare, 

Truth shows a glorious face, 
W T hile on that isthmus which commands 70 
The councils of both worlds, she stands, 

Sage Spirits ! by your grace. 

God, who instructs the brutes to scent 
All changes of the element, 

Whose wisdom fixed the scale 
Of natures, for our wants provides 
By higher, sometimes humbler, guides, 

When lights of reason fail. 



"IN THESE FAIR VALES HATH 

MANY A TREE" 

1830. 1835 

Engraven, during 1 my absence in Italy, upon 
a brass plate inserted in the Stone. 

In these fair vales hath many a Tree 

At Wordsworth's suit been spared; 
And from the builder's hand this Stone, 
For some rude beauty of its own, 

Was rescued by the Bard: 
So let it rest; and time will come 

When here the tender-hearted 
May heave a gentle sigh for him, 

As one of the departed. 



ELEGIAC MUSINGS 



68- 



ELEGIAC MUSINGS 

IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON HALL, 
THE SEAT OF THE LATE SIR G. H. 
BEAUMONT, BART. 

1830. 1835 

These verses were in part composed on horse- 
back during a storm, while I was on my way 
from Coleorton to Cambridge : they are alluded 
to elsewhere. 

In these grounds stands the Parish Church, 
wherein is a mural monument bearing an In- 
scription which, in deference to the earnest 
request of the deceased, is confined to name, 
dates, and these words : — " Enter not into 
judgment with thy servant, LoitD ! " 

With copious eulogy in prose or rhyme 

Graven on the tomb we struggle against 
Time, 

Alas, how feebly ! but our feelings rise 

And still we struggle when a good man 
dies: 

Such offering Beaumont dreaded and for- 
bade, 

A spirit meek in self-abasement clad. 

Yet here at least — though few have num- 
bered days 

That shunned so modestly the light of 
praise — 

His graceful manners, and the temperate ray 

Of that arch fancy which would round him 
play, 10 

Brightening a converse never known to 
swerve 

From courtesy and delicate reserve; 

That sense, the bland philosophy of life, 

Which checked discussion ere it warmed to 
strife — 

Those rare accomplishments, and varied 
powers, 

Might have their record among sylvan 
bowers. 

Oh, fled for ever ! vanished like a blast 

That shook the leaves in myriads as it 
passed; — 

Gone from this world of earth, air, sea, and 

sky, 

From all its spirit-moving imagery, 20 

Intensely studied with a painter's eye, 
A poet's heart; and, for congenial view, 
Portrayed with happiest pencil, not untrue 
To common recognitions while the line 
Flowed in a course of sympathy divine, — 
Oh ! severed, too abruptly, from delights 



That all the seasons shared with equal 

rights ; — 
Rapt in the grace of undismantled age, 
From soul-felt music, and the treasured 

page 
Lit by that evening lamp which loved to 

shed 30 

Its mellow lustre round thy honoured head ; 
While Friends beheld thee give with eye, 

voice, mien, 
More than theatric force to Shakspeare's 

scene ; — 
If thou hast heard me — if thy Spirit know 
Aught of these bowers and whence their 

pleasures flow; 
If things in our remembrance held so dear, 
And thoughts and projects fondly cherished 

here, 
To thy exalted nature only seem 
Time's vanities, light fragments of earth's 

dream — 
Rebuke us not ! — The mandate is obeyed 
That said, "Let praise be mute where I 

am laid;" 41 

The holier deprecation, given in trust 
To the cold marble, waits upon thy dust; 
Yet have we found how slowly genuine 

grief 
From silent admiration wins relief. 
Too long abashed, thy Name is like a rose 
That doth " within itself its sweetness 

close; " 
A drooping daisy changed into a cup 
In which her bright-eyed beauty is shut up. 
Within these groves, where still are flitting 

by 50 

Shades of the Past, oft noticed with a sigh, 
Shall stand a votive Tablet, haply free, 
When towers and temples fall, to speak of 

Thee ! 
If sculptured emblems of our mortal doom 
Recall not there the wisdom of the Tomb, 
Green ivy risen from out the cheerful earth, 
Will fringe the lettered stone; and herbs 

spring forth, 
Whose fragrance, by soft dews and rain 

unbound, 
Shall penetrate the heart without a wound ; 
While truth and love their purposes fulfil, 
Commemorating genius, talent, skill, 61 
That could not lie concealed where Thou 

wert known; 
Thy virtues He must judge, and He alone, 
The God upon whose mercy they are 

thrown. 



684 



"CHATSWORTH! THY STATELY MANSION" 



"CHATSWORTH! THY STATELY 

MANSION, AND THE PRIDE" 

1830. 1835 

I have reason to remember the day that gave 
rise to this Sonnet, the 6th of November 1830. 
Having- undertaken, a great feat for me, to ride 
my daughter's pony from Westmoreland to 
Cambridge, that she might have the use of it 
while on a visit to her uncle at Trinity Lodge, 
on my way from Bakewell to Matlock I turned 
aside to Chatsworth, and had scarcely gratified 
my curiosity by the sight of that celebrated 
place before there came on a severe storm of 
wind and rain which continued till I reached 
Derby, both man and pony in a pitiable plight. 
For myself, I went to bed at noon-day. In the 
course of that journey I had to encounter a 
storm, worse if possible, in which the pony 
could (or would) only make his way slantwise. 
I mention this merely to add that notwithstand- 
ing this battering I composed, on horseback, 
the lines to the memory of Sir George Beau- 
mont, suggested during my recent visit to 
Coleorton. 

Chatsworth ! thy stately mansion, and the 

pride 
Of thy domain, strange contrast do present 
To house and home in many a craggy rent 
Of the wild Peak; where new-born waters 

. glide 
Through fields whose thrifty occupants 

abide 
As in a dear and chosen banishment, 
With every semblance of entire content; 
So kind is simple Nature, fairly tried ! 
Yet He whose heart in childhood gave her 

troth 
To pastoral dales, thin-set with modest 

farms, 
May learn, if judgment strengthen with his 

growth, 
That, not for Fancy only, pomp hath 

charms ; 
And, strenuous to protect from lawless 

harms 
The extremes of favoured life, may honour 

both. 



THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK 

1831. 1835 

Written at Rydal Mount. The Rock stands 
on the right hand a little way leading up the 
middle road from Rydal to Grasmere. We 
have been in the habit of calling it the glow- 



worm rock from the number of glow-worms 
we have often seen hanging on it as described. 
The tuft of primrose has, I fear, been washed 
away by the heavy rains. 

A Rock there is whose homely front 

The passing traveller slights; 
Yet there the glow-worms hang their 
lamps, 

Like stars, at various heights; 
And one coy Primrose to that Rock 

The vernal breeze invites. 

What hideous warfare hath been waged, 

What kingdoms overthrown, 
Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft 

And marked it for my own; I0 

A lasting link in Nature's chain 

From highest heaven let down ! 

The flowers, still faithful to the stems, 

Their fellowship renew; 
The stems are faithful to the root, 

That worketh out of view; 
And to the rock the root adheres 

In every fibre true. 

Close clings to earth the living rock, 

Though threatening still to fall; 20 

The earth is constant to her sphere; 
And God upholds them all: 

So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads 
Her annual funeral. 



Here closed the meditative strain; 

But air breathed soft that day, 
The hoary mountain-heights were cheered, 

The sunny vale looked gay; 
And to the Primrose of the Rock 

I gave this after-lay. 30 

I sang — Let myriads of bright flowers, 

Like Thee, in field and grove 
Revive unenvied ; — mightier far, 

Than tremblings that reprove 
Our vernal tendencies to hope, 

Is God's redeeming love ; 

That love which changed — for wan disease, 

For sorrow that had bent 
O'er hopeless dust, for withered age — 

Their moral element, 40 

And turned the thistles of a curse 

To types beneficent. 



YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS 



685 



Siii-blighted though we are, we too, 
The reasoning Sons of Men, 

From one oblivious winter called 
Shall rise, and breathe again; 

And in eternal summer lose 
Our threescore years and ten. 



To humbleness of heart descends 
This prescience from on high, 

The faith that elevates the just, 
Before and when they die; 

And makes each soul a separate heaven, 
A court for Deity. 



YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS 

COMPOSED (TWO EXCEPTED) DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 
AND ON THE ENGLISH BORDER, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1831 

In the autumn of 1831, my daughter and I set off from Rydal to visit Sir Walter Scott before 
his departure for Italy. This journey had been delayed by an inflammation in my eyes till we 
found that the time appointed for his leaving 1 home would be too near for him to receive us with- 
out considerable inconvenience. Nevertheless we proceeded and reached Abbotsford on Monday. 
I was then scarcely able to lift up my eyes to the light. How sadly changed did I find him from 
the man I had seen so healthy, gay, and hopeful, a few years before, when he said at the inn at 
Paterdale, in ray presence, his daughter Anne also being there, with Mr. Lockhart, ray own wife 
and daughter, and Mr. Quillinan, — " I mean to live till I ameighty, and shall write as long as I live." 
But to return to Abbotsford, the inmates and guests we found there were Sir Walter, Major Scott, 
Anne Scott, and Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart, Mr. Liddell, his Lady and Brother, and Mr. Allan the 
painter, and Mr. Laidlow, a very old friend of Sir Walter's. One of Burns's sons, an officer in the 
Indian service, had left the house a day or two before, and had kindly expressed his regret that 
he could not await my arrival, a regret that I may truly say was mutual. In the evening, Mr. and 
Mrs. Liddell sang, and Mrs. Lockhart chanted old ballads to her harp ; and Mr. Allan, hanging 
over the back of a chair, told and acted odd stories in a humorous way. With this exhibition and 
his daughter's singing. Sir Walter was much amused, as indeed were we all as far as circumstances 
would allow. But what is most worthy of mention is the admirable demeanour of Major Scott 
during the following evening, when the Liddells were gone and only ourselves and Mr. Allan 
were present. He had much to suffer from the sight of his father's infirmities and from the great 
change that was about to take place at the residence he had built, and where he had long lived 
in so much prosperity and happiness. But what struck me most was the patient kindness with 
which he supported himself under the many fretful expressions that his sister Anne addressed to 
him or uttered in his hearing. She, poor thing, as mistress of that house, had been subject, after 
her mother's death, to a heavier load of care and responsibility and greater sacrifices of time than 
one of such a constitution of body and mind was able to bear. Of this, Dora and I were made 
so sensible, that, as soon as we had crossed the Tweed on our departure, we gave vent at the same 
moment to our apprehensions that her brain would fail and she would go out of her mind, or that 
she would sink under the trials she had passed and those which awaited her. On Tuesday morning 
Sir Walter Scott accompanied us and most of the party to Newark Castle on the Yarrow. When we 
alighted from the carriages he walked pretty stoutly, and had great pleasure in revisiting those 
his favourite haunts. Of that excursion the verses " Yarrow revisited " are a memorial. Notwith- 
standing the romance that pervades Sir Walter's works and attaches to many of his habits, there 
is too much pressure of fact for these verses to harmonise as much as I could wish with other 
poems. On our return in the afternoon we had to cross the Tweed directly opposite Abbotsford. 
The wheels of our carriage grated upon the pebbles in the bed of the stream, that there flows 
somewhat rapidly ; a rich but sad light of rather a purple than a golden hue was spread over the 
Eildon hills at that moment ; and. thinking it probable that it might be the last time Sir Walter 
would cross the stream, I was not a little moved, and expressed some of my feelings in the sonnet 
beginning — "A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain." At noon on Thursday we left Abbots- 
ford, and in the morning of that day Sir Walter and I had a serious conversation tete-a-tete, when 
he spoke with gratitude of the happy life which upon the whole he had led. He had written in 
my daughter's Album, before he came into the breakfast-room that morning, a few stanzas ad- 
dressed to her, and, while putting the book into her hand, in his own study, standing by his desk, 
he said to her in my presence — "I should not have done anything of this kind but for your 
father's sake : they are probably the last verses I shall ever write." They show how much his 
mind was impaired, not by the strain of thought but by the execution, some of the lines being 



686 



YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS 



imperfect, and one stanza wanting corresponding' rhymes : one letter, the initial S, had heen 
omitted in the spelling 1 of his own name. In this interview also it was that, upon my expressing 
a hope of his health being benefited by the climate of the country to which he was going, and by 
the interest he woidd take in the classic remembrances of Italy, he made use of the quotation 
from " Yarrow unvisited " as recorded by me in the " Musings at Aquapendente " six years after- 
wards. Mr. Lockhart has mentioned in his Life of him what I heard from several quarters while 
abroad, both at Rome and elsewhere, that little seemed to interest hirn but what he could collect 
or heard of the fugitive Stuarts and their adherents who had followed them into exile. Both the 
" Yarrow revisited " and the " Sonnet " were sent him before his departure from England. Some 
further particulars of the conversations which occurred during this visit I should have set down 
had they not been already accurately recorded by Mr. Lockhart. I first became acquainted with 
this great and amiable man — Sir Walter Scott — in the year 1808, when my sister and I, making 
a tour in Scotland, were hospitably received by him in Lasswade upon the banks of the Esk, 
where he was then living. We saw a good deal of him in the course of the following week : the 
particulars are given in my sister's Journal of that tour. 



SAMUEL ROGERS, Esq., 



A3 A TESTIMONY OF FRIENDSHIP, 
AND ACKNOWLEDGMENT 
OF INTELLECTUAL OBLIGATIONS, 
THESE MEMORIALS ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED 

Rydal Mount, Dec. n, 1834. 



I 
183I. 1835 

The following Stanzas are a memorial of a 
day passed with Sir Walter Scott and other 
Friends visiting the Banks of the Yarrow under 
his guidance, immediately before his departure 
from Abbotsford, for Naples. 

The title " Yarrow Revisited " will stand in 
no need of explanation for Readers acquainted 
with the Author's previous poems suggested by 
that celebrated Stream. 

The gallant Youth, who may have gained, 

Or seeks, a " winsome Marrow," 
Was but an Infant in the lap 

When first I looked on Yarrow; 
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate 

Long left without a warder, 
I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, 

Great Minstrel of the Border ! 

Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, 

Their dignity installing 10 

In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 

Were on the bough, or falling; 
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed — 

The forest to embolden; 
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot 

Transparence through the golden. 

For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on 
In foamy agitation; 



And slept in many a crystal pool 

For quiet contemplation: 10 

No public and no private care 
The freeborn mind enthralling, 

We made a day of happy hours, 
Our happy days recalling. 

Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth, 

With freaks of graceful folly, — 
Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 

Her Night not melancholy; 
Past, present, future, all appeared 

In harmony united, 30 

Like guests that meet, and some from 
far, 

By cordial love invited. 

And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 
. And down the meadow ranging, 
Did meet us with unaltered face, 

Though we were changed and changing; 
If, then, some natural shadows spread 

Our inward prospect over, 
The soul's deep valley was not slow 

Its brightness to recover. 40 

Eternal blessings on the Muse, 

And her divine employment ! 
The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons 

For hope and calm enjoyment; 
Albeit sickness, lingering yet, 

Has o'er their pillow brooded; 



YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS 



687 



And Care waylays their steps — a Sprite 
Not easily eluded. 

For thee, O Scott ! compelled to change 

Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot 50 

For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes; 

And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot 
For mild Sorento's breezy waves; 

May classic Fancy, linking 
With native Fancy her fresh aid, 

Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 

Oh ! while they minister to thee, 

Each vying with the other, 
May Health return to mellow Age 

With Strength, her venturous brother ; 60 
And Tiber, and each brook and rill 

Renowned in song and story, 
With unimagined beauty shine, 

Nor lose one ray of glory ! 

For Thou, upon a hundred streams, 

By tales of love and sorrow, 
Of faithful love, undaunted truth, 

Hast shed the power of Yarrow; 
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, 

Wherever they invite Thee, 70 

At parent Nature's grateful call, 

With gladness must requite Thee. 

A gracious welcome shall be thine, 

Such looks of love and honour 
As thy own Yarrow gave to me 

When first I gazed upon her; 
Beheld what I had feared to see, 

Unwilling to surrender 
Dreams treasured up from early days, 

The holy and the tender. 80 

And what, for this frail world, were all 

That mortals do or suffer, 
Did no responsive harp, no pen, 

Memorial tribute offer ? 
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self ? 

Her features, could they win us, 
Unhelped by the poetic voice 

That hourly speaks within us ? 

Nor deem that localised Romance 

Plays false with our affections; 90 

Unsanctifies our tears — made sport 

For fanciful dejections: 
Ah, no ! the visions of the past 

Sustain the heart in feeling 
Life as she is — our changeful Life, 

With friends and kindred dealing. 



Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day 

In Yarrow's groves were centred; 
Who through the silent portal arch 

Of mouldering Newark entered; 100 

And clomb the winding stair that once 

Too timidly was mounted 
By the " last Minstrel," (not the last !) 

Ere he his Tale recounted. 

Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream ! 

Fulfil thy pensive duty, 
Well pleased that future Bards should chant 

For simple hearts thy beauty; 
To dream-light dear while yet unseen, 

Dear to the common sunshine, no 

And dearer still, as now I feel, 

To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 

II 

ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR 
WALTER SCOTT FROM AB- 
BOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES 

1831. 1835 

A trouble, not of cloiids, or weeping rain, 
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light 
Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple 

height: 
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain 
For kindred Power departing from their 

sight; 
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a 

blithe strain, 
Saddens his voice again, and yet again. 
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the 

might 
Of the whole world's good wishes with him 

_ goes; 
Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue 
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror 

knows 
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, 
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, 
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope ! 

Ill 

A PLACE OF BURIAL IN THE 
SOUTH OF SCOTLAND 

1831. 1835 

Similar places for burial are not unfrequent 
in Scotland. The one that suggested this Son- 
net lies on the banks of a small stream called 



688 



YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS 



the Wanchope that flows into the Esk near 
Langholme. Mickle, who, as it appears from 
his poem on Sir Martin, was not without genuine 
poetic feeling's, was born and passed his boy- 
hood in this neighbourhood, under his father, 
who was a minister of the Scotch Kirk. The 
Esk, botli above and below Langholme, flows 
through a beautiful country, and the two 
streams of the Wauchope and the Ewes, which 
join it near that place, are such as a pastoral 
poet would delight in. 

Part fenced by man, part by a rugged 

steep 
That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard 

lies; 
The hare's best couching-place for fearless 

sleep ; 
Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous 

eyes, 
Enter in dance. Of church, or sabbath ties, 
No vestige now remains; yet thither creep 
Bereft Ones, and in lowly anguish weep 
Their prayers out to the wind and naked 

skies. 
Proud tomb is none; but rudely-sculptured 

knights, 
By humble choice of plain old times, are 

seen 
Level with earth, among the hillocks green : 
Union not sad, when sunny daybreak 

smites 
The spangled turf, and neighbouring thick- 
ets ring 
With jubilate from the choirs of spring ! 



IV 

ON THE SIGHT OF A MANSE IN 
THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND 

1831. 1S35 

The manses in Scotland and the gardens and 
grounds about them have seldom that attrac- 
tive appearance which is common about our 
English parsonages, even when the clergyman's 
income falls below the average of the Scotch 
minister's. This is not merely owing to the 
one country being poor in comparison with the 
other, but arises rather out of the equality of 
their benefices, so that no one has enough to 
spare for decorations that might serve as an 
example for others ; whereas, with us, the taste 
of the richer incumbent extends its influence 
more or less to the poorest. After all, in these 
observations the surface only of the matter is 



touched. I once heard a conversation in which 
the Roman Catholic Religion was decried on 
account of its abuses. " You cannot deny, 
however," said a lady of the party, repeating 
an expression used by Charles II., " that it is 
the religion of a gentleman." It may be left 
to the Scotch themselves to determine how far 
this observation applies to their Kirk, while it 
cannot be denied, if it is wanting in that char- 
acteristic quality, the aspect of common life, 
so far as concerns its beauty, must suffer. Sin- 
cere christian piety may he thought not to 
stand in need of refinement or studied orna- 
ment ; but assuredly it is ever ready to adopt 
them, when they fall within its notice, as means 
allow ; and this observation applies not only to 
manners, but to everything a christian (truly 
so in spirit) cultivates and gathers round him, 
however humble his social condition. 

Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing 

hills — 
Among the happiest-looking homes of men 
Scattered all Britain over, through deep 

glen, 
On airy upland, and by forest rills, 
And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark 

that trills 
His sky-born warblings — does aught meet 

your ken 
More fit to animate the Poet's pen, 
Aught that more surely by its aspect fills 
Pure minds with sinless envy, than the 

Abode 
Of the good Priest: who, faithful through 

all hours 
To his high charge, and truly serving God, 
Has yet a heart and hand for trees and 

flowers, 
Enjoys the walks his predecessors trod, 
Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers. 



COMPOSED IN ROSLIN CHAPEL 
DURING A STORM 

iS 3 r. 1835 

We were detained by incessant rain and 
storm at the small inn near Roslin Chapel, and I 
passed a great part of the day pacing to and 
fro in this beautiful structure, which, though 
not used for public service, is not allowed to 
go to ruin. Here this Sonnet was composed, and 
I shall be fully satisfied if it has at all done jus- 
tice to the feeling which the place and the storm 
raging without inspired. I was as a prisoner : a 



YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS 



689 



painter delineating the interior of the chapel and 
its minute features under such circumstances 
would have, no doubt, found his time agreeably 
shortened. But the movements of the mind 
must be more free while dealing with words 
than with lines and colours ; such at least was 
then and has been on many other occasions my 
belief, and, as it is allotted to few to follow 
both arts with success, I am grateful to my 
own calling for this and a thousand other 
recommendations which are denied to that of 
the painter. 

The wind is now thy organist ; — a clank 
(We know not whence) ministers for a bell 
To mark some change of service. As the 

swell 
Of inusic reached its height, and even when 

sank 
The notes, in prelude, Roslin ! to a blank 
Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous 

roof, 
Pillars, and arches, — not in vain time- 
proof, 
Though Christian rites be wanting ! From 

what bank 
Came those live herbs ? by what hand were 

they sown 
Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem 

unknown ? 
Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche 
Share with their sculptured fellows, that, 

green-grown, 
Copy their beauty more and more, and 

preach, 
Though mute, of all things blending into 

one. 

VI 

THE TROSACHS 

1831. 1835 

As recorded in my sister's Journal, I had first 
seen the Trosachs in her and Coleridge's com- 
pany. The sentiment that runs through this 
Sonnet was natural to the season in which I 
again saw this beautiful spot ; but this and 
some other sonnets that follow were coloured 
by the remembrance of my recent visit to Sir 
Walter Scott, and the melancholy errand on 
which he was going. 

There 's not a nook within this solemn Pass, 
But were an apt confessional for One 
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn 

gone, 
That Life is but a tale of morning grass 



Withered at eve. From scenes of art which 

chase 
That thought away, turn, and with watchful 

eyes 
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, 
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear 

than glass 
Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice 

happy quest, 
If from a golden perch of aspen spray 
(October's workmanship to rival May) 
The pensive' warbler of the ruddy breast 
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught 

lay, 
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest ! 



VII 
1831. 1835 

The pibroch's note, discountenanced or 

mute ; 
The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy 
Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy; 
The target mouldering like ungathered 

f nut ; 
The smoking steam-boat eager in pursuit, 
As eagerly pursued; the umbrella spread 
To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's 

head — ■ 
All speak of manners withering to the 

root, 
And of old honours, too, and passions high: 
Then may we ask, though pleased that 

thought should range 
Among the conquests of civility, 
Survives imagination — to the change 
Superior ? Help to virtue does she give ? 
If not, O Mortals, better cease to live ! 



VIII 

COMPOSED AFTER READING A 
NEWSPAPER OF THE DAY 

1831. 1835 

" People ! your chains are severing link 

by link; 
Soon shall the Rich be levelled down — the 

Poor 
Meet them half way." Vain boast ! for 

These, the more 
They thus would rise, must low and lower 

sink 



690 



YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS 



Till, by repentance stung, they fear to 
think ; 

While all lie prostrate, save the tyrant 
few 

Bent in quick turns each other to undo, 

And mix the poison, they themselves must 
drink. 

Mistrust thyself, vain Country ! cease to 
cry, 

" Knowledge will save me from the threat- 
ened woe." 

For, if than other rash ones more thou know, 

Yet on presumptuous whig as far would 

fly 

Above thy knowledge as they dared to 

go, 
Thou wilt provoke a heavier penalty. 



IX 

COMPOSED IN THE GLEN OF 
LOCH ETIVE 

1831. 1835 

" That make the Patriot-spirit." It was mor- 
tifying' to have frequent occasions to observe the 
hitter hatred of the lower orders of the High- 
landers to their superiors ; love of country 
seemed to have passed into its opposite. Emi- 
gration was the only relief looked to with 
hope. 

" This Land of Rainbows spanning glens 

whose walls, 
Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-coloured 

mists — 
Of far-stretched Meres whose salt flood 

never rests — 
Of tuneful Caves and playful Waterfalls — 
Of Mountains varying momently their 

crests — 
Proud be this Land ! whose poorest huts 

are halls 
Where Fancy entertains becoming guests ; 
While native song the heroic Past re- 
calls." 
Thus, in the net of her own wishes caught, 
The Muse exclaimed; but Story now must 

hide 
Her trophies, Fancy crouch; the course of 

pride 
Has been diverted, other lessons taught, 
That make the Patriot-spirit bow her head 
Where the all-conquering Roman feared to 

tread. 



X 

EAGLES 

COMPOSED AT DUNOLLIE CASTLE IN THE 
BAY OF OBAN 

183I. 1835 

"The last I saw was 011 the wing," off the 
promontory of Fairhead, county of Antrim. I 
mention this because, though my tour in Ire- 
land with Mr. Marshall and his sou was made 
many years ago, this allusion to the eagle is the 
only image supplied by it to the poetry I have 
since written. VYe travelled through that coun- 
try in October, and to the shortness of the days 
and the speed with which we travelled (in a 
carriage and four) may be ascribed this want 
of notices, in my verse, of a country so interest- 
ing. The deficiency I am somewhat ashamed 
of, and it is the more remarkable as contrasted 
with my Scotch and Continental tours, of which 
are to be found in this volume so many memo- 
rials. 

Dishonoured Rock and Rum ! that, by 

law 
Tyrannic, keep the Bird of Jove embarred 
Like a lone criminal whose life is spared. 
Vexed is he, and screams loud. The last 

I saw 
Was on the wing; stooping, he struck with 

awe 
Man, bird, and beast; then, with a consort 

paired, 
From a bold headland, their loved aery's 

guard, 
Flew high above Atlantic waves, to draw 
Light from the fountain of the setting sun. 
Such was this Prisoner once ; and, when his 

plumes 
The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes 

on, 
Then, for a moment, he, in spirit, resumes 
His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that live 

free, 
His power, his beauty, and his majesty. 



XI 

IN THE SOUND OF MULL 

1831. 1835 

Touring late in the season in Scotland is an 
uncertain speculation. We were detained a 
week by rain at Bunaw on Loch Etive in a vaiu 



YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS 



691 



hope that the weather would clear up and al- 
low me to show my daughter the beauties of 
Gleneoe. Two days we were at the isle of Mull, 
on a visit to Major Campbell ; but it rained 
incessantly, and we were obliged to give up 
our intention of going to Staffa. The rain pur- 
sued us to Tyndrum, where the Twelfth Son- 
net was composed in a storm. 

Tradition, be thou mute ! Oblivion, throw 
Thy veil in mercy o'er the records, hung 
Round strath and mountain., stamped by 

the ancient tongue 
On rock and ruin darkening as we go, — 
Spots where a word, ghostlike, survives to 

show 
What crimes from hate, or desperate love, 

have sprung; 
From honour misconceived, or fancied 

wrong, 
What feuds, not quenched but fed by mu- 
tual woe. 
Yet, though a wild vindictive Race, un- 
tamed 
By civil arts and labours of the pen, 
Could gentleness be scorned by those fierce 

Men, 
Who, to spread wide the reverence they 

claimed 
For patriarchal occupations, named 
Yon towering Peaks, " Shepherds of Etive 
Glen ? " 



XII 

SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM IN 
A STORM 

1831. 1S35 

Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook, 
And all that Greece and Italy have sung 
Of Swains reposing myrtle groves among ! 
Ours couch on naked rocks, — will cross a 

brook 
Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look 
This way or that, or give it even a thought 
More than by smoothest pathway may be 

brought 
Into a vacant mind. Can written book 
Teach what they learn ? Up, hardy Moun- 
taineer ! 
And guide the Bard, ambitious to be One 
Of Nature's privy council, as thou art, 
On cloud-sequestered heights, that see and 
hear 



To what dread Powers He delegates his part 
On earth, who works in the heaven of 
heavens, alone. 

XIII 

THE EARL OF BREADALBANE'S 
RUINED MANSION AND FAM- 
ILY BURIAL-PLACE, NEAR KIL- 
LIN 

1831. 1835 

Well sang the Bard who called the grave, 

in strains 
Thoughtful and sad, the " narrow house." 

No style 
Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile 
Grief of her sting; nor cheat, where be 

detains 
The sleeping dust, stern Death. How 

reconcile 
With truth, or with each other, decked re- 
mains 
Of a once warm Abode, and that new Pile, 
For the departed, built with curious pains 
And mausolean pomp ? Yet here they stand 
Together, — 'mid trim walks and artful 

bowers, 
To be looked down upon by ancient hills, 
That, for the living and the dead, demand 
And prompt a harmony of genuine powers; 
Concord that elevates the niind, and stills. 

XIV 
"REST AND BE THANKFUL!" 

AT THE HEAD OF GLENCROE 
183L 1835 

Doubling and doubling with laborious walk, 
Who, that has gained at length the wished- 

for Height, 
This brief, this simple wayside Call can slight, 
And rests not thankful ? Whether cheered 

by talk 
With some loved friend, or by the unseen 

hawk 
Whistling to clouds and sky-born streams 

that shine, 
At the sun's outbreak, as with light divine, 
Ere they descend to nourish root and stalk 
Of valley flowers. Nor, while the limbs 

repose, 
Will we forget that, as the fowl can keep 



6g2 



YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS 



Absolute stillness, poised aloft in air, 
And fishes front, unmoved, the torrent's 

sweep, — 
So may the Soul, through powers that 

Faith bestows, 
Win rest, and ease, and peace, with bliss 

that Angels share. 

XV 

HIGHLAND HUT 

1831. 1835 

See what gay wild flowers deck this earth- 
built Cot, 
Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and 

how it may, 
Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray 
Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot. 
The limpid mountain rill avoids it not; 
And why shouldst thou ? — If rightly trained 

and bred, 
Humanity is humble, finds no spot 
Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to 

tread. 
The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery 

roof, 
Undressed the pathway leading to the door; 
But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor; 
Search, for their worth, some gentle heart 

wrong-proof, 
Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials 

fewer, 
Belike less happy. — Stand no more aloof ! 

XVI 

THE BROWNIE 

1831. 1835 

Upon a small island, not far from the head 
of Loch Lomond, are some remains of an an- 
cient building', which was for several years the 
abode of a solitary Individual, one of the last 
survivors of the clan of Macf arlane, once power- 
ful in that neighbourhood. Passing along the 
shore opposite this island in the year 1814, 
the Author learned these particulars, and that 
this person then living there had acquired the 
appellation of "The Brownie." See "The 
Brownie's Cell," p. 529, to which the following 
is a sequel. 
" How disappeared he ? " Ask the newt 

and toad; 
Ask of his fellow-men, and they will tell 



How he was found, cold as an icicle, 
Under an arch of that forlorn abode ; 
Where he, unpropped, and by the gathering 

flood 
Of years hemmed round, had dwelt, pre- 
pared to try 
Privation's worst extremities, and die 
With no one near save the omnipresent God. 
Verily so to live was an awful choice — 
A choice that wears the aspect of a doom; 
But in the mould of mercy all is cast 
For Souls familiar with the eternal Voice; 
And this forgotten Taper to the last 
Drove from itself, we trust, all frightful 
gloom. 

XVII 

TO THE PLANET VENUS, AN 
EVENING STAR 

COMPOSED AT LOCH LOMOND 

183I. 1835 

Though joy attend Thee orient at the birth 
Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most 
To watch thy course when Day-light, fled 

from earth, 
In the grey sky hath left his lingering Ghost, 
Perplexed as if between a splendour lost 
And splendour slowly mustering. Since 

the Sun, 
The absolute, the world-absorbing One, 
Relinquished half his empire to the host 
Emboldened by thy guidance, holy Star, 
Holy as princely — who that looks on thee, 
Touching, as now, in thy humility 
The mountain borders of this seat of care, 
Can question that thy countenance is bright, 
Celestial Power, as much with love as 

light ? 

' XVIII 
BOTHWELL CASTLE 

PASSED UNSEEN, ON ACCOUNT OF 
STORMY WEATHER 

183L 1835 

In my Sister's Journal is an account of Both- 
well Castle as it appeared to us at that time. 

Immured in Bothwell's towers, at tunes the 

Brave 
(So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn 



YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS 



693 



The liberty they lost at Bannockburn. 
Ouce on those steeps / roamed at large, 

and have 
In mind the landscape, as if still in sight; 
The river glides, the woods before me wave ; 
Then why repine that now in vain I crave 
Needless renewal of an old delight ? 
Better to thank a dear and long-past day 
For joy its sunny' hours were free to give 
Than blame the present, that our wish hath 

crost. 
Memory, like sleep, hath powers which 

dreams obey, 
Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive: 
How little that she cherishes is lost ! 



XIX 

PICTURE OF DANIEL IN THE 
LIONS' DEN, AT HAMILTON 
PALACE 

1831. 1835 

Amid a fertile region green with wood 
And fresh with rivers, well did it become 
The ducal Owner, in his palace-home 
To naturalise this tawny Lion brood; 
Children of Art, that claim strange brother- 
hood 
(Couched in their den) with those that 

roam at large 
Over the burning wilderness, and charge 
The wind with terror while they roar for 

food. 
Satiate are these; and stilled to eye and ear ; 
Hence, while we gaze, a more enduring 

fear ! 
Yet is the Prophet calm, nor would the cave 
Daunt him — if his Companions, now be- 

drowsed, 
Outstretched and listless, were by hunger 

roused : 
Man placed him here, and God, he knows. 

can save. 



XX 

THE AVON 

A FEEDER OF THE ANNAN 

1831. 1835 

" Yet is it one that other rivulets bear." 
There is the Shakspeare Avon, the Bristol 
Avon ; the one that flows by Salisbury, and a 



small river in Wales, I believe, bear the name ; 
Avon being in the ancient tongue the general 
name for river. 

Avon — a precious, an immortal name ! 
Yet is it one that other rivulets bear 
Like this unheard-of, and their channels 

wear 
Like this contented, though unknown to 

Fame : 
For great and sacred is the modest claim 
Of Streams to Nature's love, where'er they 

flow; 
And ne'er did Genius slight them, as they 

go, 
Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding with- 
out blame. 
But Praise can waste her voice on work of 

tears, 
Anguish, and death: full oft where innocent 

blood 
Has mixed its current with the limpid 

flood, 
Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears: 
Never for like distinction may the good 
Shrink from thy name, pure Rill, with un- 

pleased ears. 



XXI 

SUGGESTED BY A VIEW FROM 
AN EMINENCE IN INGLEWOOD 
FOREST 

1831. 1835 

The extensive forest of Inp.-lewood has been 
enclosed within my memory. I was well ac- 
quainted with it in its ancient state. The 
Hart's-horn tree mentioned in the next Sonnet 
was one of its remarkable objects, as well as 
another tree that grew upon an eminence not 
far from Penrith: it was single and conspicuous; 
and being of a round shape, though it was uni- 
versally known to be a Sycamore, it was always 
called the " Round Thorn,' 1 '' so difficult is it to 
chain fancy down to fact. 

The forest huge of ancient Caledon 
Is but a name, no more is Inglewood, 
That swejit from hill to hill, from flood to 

flood: 
On her last thorn the nightly moon has 

shone ; 
Yet still, though unappropriate Wild be 



694 



YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS 



Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell 

might deign 
With Clym o' the Clough, were they alive 

again, 
To kill for merry feast their venison. 
Nor wants the holy Abbot's gliding Shade 
His church with monumental wreck be- 

strown ; 
The feudal Warrior-chief, a Ghost tmlaid, 
Hath still his castle, though a skeleton, 
That he may watch by night, and lessons con 
Of power that perishes, and rights that 

fade. 

XXII 

HART'S-HORN TREE, NEAR PEN- 
RITH 

1831. 1S35 

Here stood an Oak, that long had borne 

affixed 
To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art, 
Among its withering topmost branches 

mixed, 
The palmy antlers of a hunted Hart, 
Whom the Dog Hercules pursued — his 

part 
Each desperately sustaining, till at last 
Both sank and died, the life-veins of the 

chased 
And chaser bursting here with one dire 

smart. 
Mutual the victory, mutual the defeat ! 
High was the trophy hung with pitiless 

pride ; 
Say, rather, with that generous sympathy 
That wants not, even in rudest breasts, a 

seat; 
And, for this feeling's sake, let no one 

chide 
Verse that would guard thy memory, 

Hart's-horn Tree ! 



XXIII 

FANCY AND TRADITION 

1831. 1835 

The Lovers took within this ancient grove 
Their last embrace; beside those crystal 

springs 
The Hermit saw the Angel spread his 

wings 



For instant flight; the Sage in yon alcove 
Sate inusing; on that hill the Bard would 

rove, 
Not mute, where now the linnet only sings: 
Thus everywhere to truth Tradition clings, 
Or Fancy localises Powers we love. 
Were only History licensed to take note 
Of things gone by, her meagre monu- 
ments 
Would ill suffice for persons and events: 
There is an ampler page for man to quote, 
A readier book of manifold contents, 
Studied alike in palace and in cot. 



XXIV 
COUNTESS'S PILLAR 

1831. 1835 

Suggested by the recollection of Julian's 
Bower and other traditions connected with this 
ancient forest. 

On the roadside between Penrith and 
Appleby, there stands a pillar with the follow- 
ing inscription : — 

" This Pillar was erected, in the year 1656, hy 
Anne Countess Dowager of Pembroke. &e., for 
a memorial of her last parting with her pious 
mother, Margaret Countess Dowager of Cum- 
berland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory 
whereof she hath left an annuity of 4/. to be dis- 
tributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, 
every 2d day of April for ever, upon the stone 
table placed hard by. Laus Deo ! " 

While the Poor gather round, till the end 

of time 
May this bright flower of Charity display 
Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day; 
Flower than the loveliest of the vernal 

prime 
Lovelier — transplanted from heaven's 

purest clime ! 
" Charity never faileth: " on that creed, 
More than on written testament or deed, 
The pious Lady built with hope sublime. 
Alms on this stone to be dealt out, for ever ! 
" Laus Deo." Many a Stranger passing by 
Has with that Parting mixed a filial sigh, 
Blest its humane Memorial's fond en- 
deavour ; 
And, fastening on those lines an eye tear- 
glazed, 
Has ended, though no Clerk, with " God 
be praised ! " 



YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS 



695 



XXV 
ROMAN ANTIQUITIES 

FROM THE ROMAN STATION AT OLD 
PENRITH 

1S31. 1835 

How profitless the relics that we cull, 

Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome, 

Unless they chasten fancies that presume 

Too high, or idle agitations lull ! 

Of the world's flatteries if the brain be 
full, 

To have no seat for thought were better 
doom, 

Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull 

Of him who gloried in its nodding plume. 

Heaven out of view, our wishes what are 
they? 

Our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp ? 

The Sage's theory ?' the Poet's lay ? 

Mere Fibula? without a robe to clasp; 

Obsolete lamps, whose light no time re- 
calls; 

Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals ! 



XXVI 

APOLOGY FOR THE FOREGOING 
POEMS 

1831. 1835 

No more: the end is sudden and abrupt, 
Abrupt — as without preconceived design 
Was the beginning; yet the several Lays 
Have moved in order, .to each other bound 
By a continuous and acknowledged tie 
Though unapparent — like those Shapes 

distinct 
That yet survive ensculptured on the 

walls 
Of palaces, or temples, 'mid the wreck 
Of famed Persepolis; each following each, 
As might beseem a stately embassy, 10 

In set array ; these bearing in their hands 
Ensign of civil power, weapon of war, 
Or gift to be presented at the throne 
Of the Great King; and others, as they go 
In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged, 
Or leading victims drest for sacrifice. 
Nor will the Power we serve, that sacred 

Power, 
The Spirit of humanity, disdain 
A ministration humble but sincere, 19 



That from a threshold loved by every Muse 
Its impulse took — that sorrow-stricken 

door, 
Whence, as a current from its fountain- 
head, 
Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings 

flowed, 
Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength 
From kindred sources; while around us 

sighed 
(Life's three first seasons having passed 

away) 
Leaf-scattering winds; and hoar-frost 

sprinklings fell 
(Foretaste of winter) on the moorland 

heights ; 
And every day brought with it tidings new 
Of rash change, ominous for the public 

weal. 30 

Hence, if dejection has too oft encroached 
Upon that sweet and tender melancholy 
Which may itself be cherished and caressed 
More than enough; a fault so natural 
(Even with the young, the hopeful, or the 

s a y) . . . . 

For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain. 



XXVII 
THE HIGHLAND BROACH 

1831. 1835 

On ascending 1 a hill that leads from Loch Awo 
towards Inverary, I fell into conversation with a 
woman of the humhler class who wore one of 
those Highland Broaches. I talked with her 
ahout it ; and upon parting' with her, when I 
said with a kindness I truly felt — " May that 
Broach continue in your family through many 
generations to come, as you have already pos- 
sessed it " — she thanked' me most becomingly, 
and seemed not a little moved. 

The exact resemblance which the old Broach 
(still in use, though rarely met with, among the 
Highlanders) bears to the Roman Fibula must 
strike every one, and concurs, with the plaid 
and kilt, to recall to mind the communication 
which the ancient Romans had with this remote 
country. 

If to Tradition faith be due, 

And echoes from old verse speak true, 

Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore 

Glad tidings to Iona's shore, 

No common light of nature blessed 

The mountain region of the west, 



6 9 6 



DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS 



A land where gentle manners ruled 

O'er men in dauntless virtues schooled, 

That raised, for centuries, a bar 

Impervious to the tide of war: 10 

Yet peaceful Arts did entrance gain 

Where haughty Force had striven in vain; 

And, 'mid the works of skilful hands, 

By wanderers brought from foreign lands 

And various climes, was not unknown 

The clasp that fixed the Roman Gown; 

The Fibula, whose shape, I ween, 

Still in the Highland Broach is seen, 

The silver Broach of massy frame, 

Worn at the breast of some grave Dame 20 

On road or path, or at the door 

Of fern-thatched hut on heathy moor: 

But delicate of yore its mould, 

And the material finest gold; 

As might beseem the fairest Fair, 

Whether she graced a royal chair, 

Or shed, within a vaulted hall, 

No fancied lustre on the wall 

Where shields of mighty heroes hung, 

While Fingal heard what Ossian sung. 30 

The heroic Age expired — it slept 
Deep in its tomb: — the bramble crept 
O'er Fingal's hearth; the grassy sod 
Grew on the floors his sons had trod: 
Malvina ! where art thou ? Their state 
The noblest-born must abdicate ; 
The fairest, while with fire and sword 
Come Spoilers — horde impelling horde, 
Must walk the sorrowing mountains, drest 
By ruder hands in homelier vest. 40 

Yet still the female bosom lent, 
And loved to borrow, ornament; 
Still was its inner world a place 
Reached by the dews of heavenly grace; 
Still pity to this last retreat 
Clove fondly; to his favourite seat 
Love wound his way by soft approach, 
Beneath a massier Highland Broach. 



When alternations came of rage 
Yet fiercer, hi a darker age; 50 

And feuds, where, clan encountering clan, 
The weaker perished to a man; 
For maid and mother, when despair 
Might else have triumphed, baffling prayer, 
One small possession lacked not power, 
Provided in a calmer hour, 
To meet such need as might befall — 
Roof, raiment, bread, or burial: 
For woman, even of tears bereft, 
The hidden silver Broach was left. <x: 

As generations come and go 
Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; 
Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, 
And feeble, of themselves, decay; 
What poor abodes the heir-loom hide, 
In which the castle once took pride ! 
Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth, 
If saved at all, are saved by stealth. 
Lo ! ships, from seas by nature barred, 
Mount along ways by man prepared; 70 
And in far-stretching vales, whose streams 
Seek other seas, their canvas gleams. 
Lo ! busy towns spring up, on coasts 
Thronged yesterday by airy ghosts; 
Soon, like a lingering star forlorn 
Among the novelties of morn, 
While young delights on old encroach, 
Will vanish the last Highland Broach. 

But when, from out their viewless bed, 
Like vapours, years have rolled and spread ; 
And this poor verse, and worthier lays, 81 
Shall yield no light of love or praise ; 
Then, by the spade, or cleaving plough, 
Or torrent from the mountain's brow, 
Or whirlwind, reckless what his might 
Entombs, or forces into light; 
Blind Chance, a volunteer ally, 
That oft befriends Antiquity, 
And clears Oblivion from reproach, 
May render back the Highland Broach. 90 



DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS 

1832. 1835 

Written at Rydal Mount. 

" Not to the earth confined, 
Ascend to heaven." 

Where will they stop, those breathing 

Powers, 
The Spirits of the new-born flowers ? 



They wander with the breeze, they wind 

Where'er the streams a passage find; 

Up from their native ground they rise 

In mute aerial harmonies; 

From humble violet — modest thyme — 

Exhaled, the essential odours climb, 

As if no space below the sky 

Their subtle flight could satisfy: 10 

Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride 

If like ambition be their guide. 



"CALM IS THE FRAGRANT AIR" 



697 



Roused by this kindliest of May-show- 
ers, 
The spmt-quickener of the flowers, 
That with moist virtue softly cleaves 
The buds, and freshens the .young leaves, 
The birds pour forth their souls in notes 
Of rapture from a thousand throats — 
Here checked by too impetuous haste, 
While there the music runs to waste, 20 
With bounty more and more enlarged, 
Till the whole air is overcharged; 
Give ear, O Man ! to their appeal 
And thirst for no inferior zeal, 
Thou, who canst think, as well as feel. 

Mount from the earth; aspire ! aspire ! 
So pleads the town's cathedral quire, 
In strains that from their solemn height 
Sink, to attain a loftier flight; 
While incense from the altar breathes 30 
Rich fragrance in embodied wreaths; 
Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds 
The taper-lights, and curls in clouds 
Around angelic Forms, the still 
Creation of the painter's skill, 
That on the service wait concealed 
One moment, and the next revealed. 
— Cast off your bonds, awake, arise, 
And for no transient ecstasies ! 
What else can mean the visual plea 40 

Of still or moving imagery — 
The iterated summons loud, 
Not wasted on the attendant crowd, 
Nor wholly lost upon the throng 
Hurrying the busy streets along ? 

Alas ! the sanctities combined 
By art to unsensualise the mind, 
Decay and languish; or, as creeds 
And humours change, are spurned like 

weeds: 
The priests are from their altars thrust; 50 
Temples are levelled with the dust; 
And solemn rites and awful forms 
Founder amid fanatic storms. 
Yet evermore, through years renewed 
In undisturbed vicissitude 
Of seasons balancing their flight 
On the swift wings of day and night, 
Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door 
Wide open for the scattered Poor. 
Where flower-breathed incense to the skies 
Is wafted in mute harmonies; 61 

And ground fresh-cloven by the plough 
Is fragrant with a humbler vow; 
Where birds and brooks from leafy dells 
Chime forth unwearied canticles, 



And vapours magnify and spread 
The glory of the sun's bright head — 
Still constant in her worship, still 
Conforming to the eternal Will, 
Whether men sow or reap the fields, 
Divine monition Nature yields, 
That not by bread alone we live, 
Or what a hand of flesh can give; 
That every day should leave some part 
Free for a sabbath of the heart: 
So shall the seventh be truly blest, 
From morn to eve, with hallowed rest. 



"CALM IS THE FRAGRANT AIR" 
1832. 1835 

Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to 

lose 
Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with fall- 
ing dews. 
Look for the stars, you '11 say that there are 

none; 
Look up a second time, and, one by one, 
You mark them twinkling out with silvery 

light, 
And wonder how they could elude the 

sight ! 
The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers, 
Warbled a while with faint and fainter 

powers, 
But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers : 
Nor does the village Church-clock's iron 

tone 10 

The time's and season's influence disown; 
Nine beats distinctly to each other bound 
In drowsy sequence — how unlike the sound 
That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear 
On fireside listeners, doubting what they 

hear ! 
The shepherd, bent on rising with the 

sun, 
Had closed his door before the day was 

done, 
And now with thankful heart to bed doth 

creep, 
And joins his little children in their sleep. 
The bat, lured forth where trees the lane 

o'ershade, 20 

Flits and reflits along the close arcade ; 
The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth 
With burring note, which Industry and 

Sloth 
Might both be pleased with, for it suits 

them both. 



698 TO B. R. HAYDON, ON SEEING HIS PICTURE OF NAPOLEON 



A stream is heard — I see it not, but know 
By its soft music whence the waters flow: 
Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no 

more; 
One boat there was, but it will touch the 

shore 
With the next dipping of its slackened oar; 
Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the 

gay, _ 30 

Might give to serious thought a moment s 

sway, 
As a last token of man's toilsome day ! 



TO B. R. HAYDON, ON SEEING 
HIS PICTURE OF NAPOLEON 
BUONAPARTE ON THE ISLAND 
OF ST. HELENA 

1832 (?). 1832 

This Sonnet, though said to be -written on see- 
ing the Portrait of Napoleon, was, in fact, com- 
posed some time after, extempore, in the wood 
at Rydal Mount. 

Haydon ! let worthier judges praise the 

skill 
Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines 
And charm of colours; / applaud those 

signs 
Of thought, that give the true poetic thrill; 
That unencumbered whole of blank and still 
Sky without cloud — ocean without a wave ; 
And the one Man that laboured to enslave 
The World, sole-standing high on the bare 

hill — 
Back turned, arms folded, the unapparent 

face 
Tinged, we may fancy, in this dreary place, 
With light reflected from the invisible sun 
Set, like his fortunes; but not set for aye 
Like them. The unguilty Power pursues 

his way, 
And before him doth dawn perpetual run. 



RURAL ILLUSIONS 

1832. 1835 

Written at Rydal Mount. Observed a hun- 
dred times in the grounds there. 

Sylph was it ? or a Bird more bright 
Than those of fabulous stock ? 

A second darted by; — and lo J 
Another of the flock, 



Through sunshine flitting from the bough 

To nestle in the rock. 
Transient deception ! a gay freak 

Of April's mimicries ! 
Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy 

Among the budding trees, 10 

Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the 
spray 

To frolic on the breeze. 

Maternal Flora ! show thy face, 

And let thy hand be seen, 
Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers, 

That, as they touch the green, 
Take root (so seems it) and look up 

In honour of their Queen. 
Yet, sooth, those little starry specks, 

That not in vain aspired 20 

To be confounded with live growths, 

Most dainty, most admired, 
Were only blossoms dropt from twigs 

Of their own offspring tired. 

Not such the World's illusive shows ; 

Her wingless flutterings, 
Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave 

The floweret as it springs, 
For the undeceived, smile as they may, 

Are melancholy things: 30 

But gentle Nature plays her part 

With ever-varying wiles, 
And transient feignings with plain truth 

So well she reconciles,' 
That those fond Idlers most are pleased 

Whom oftenest she beguiles. 



LOVING AND LIKING 

IRREGULAR VERSES 

ADDRESSED TO A CHILD 

(by my sister) 

1832. 1835 

Written at Rydal Mount. It arose, I be' 
lieve, out of a casual expression of one of Mr. 
Swinburne's children. 

There 's more in words than I can teach: 
Yet listen, Child ! — I would not preach; 
But only give some plain directions 
To guide your speech and your affections. 
Say not you love a roasted fowl, 
But you may love a screaming owl. 



FILIAL PIETY 



699 



And, if you can, the unwieldy toad 

That crawls from his secure abode 

Within the mossy garden wall 

When evening dews begin to fall. 10 

Oh mark the beauty of his eye: 

What wonders in that circle lie ! 

So clear, so bright, our fathers said 

He wears a jewel in his head ! 

And when, upon some showery day, 

Into a path or public way 

A frog leaps out from bordering grass, 

Startling the timid as they pass, 

Do you observe him, and endeavour 

To take the intruder into favour; 20 

Learning from him to find a reason 

For a light heart hi a dull season. 

And you may love him in the pool, 

That is for him a happy school, 

In which he swims as taught by nature, 

Fit pattern for a human creature, 

Glancing amid the water bright, 

And sending upward sparkling light. 

Nor blush if o'er your heart be stealing 
A love for things that have no feeling: 30 
The spring's first rose by you espied, 
May fill your breast with joyful pride; 
And you may love the strawberry-flower, 
And love the strawberry in its bower; 
But when the fruit, so often praised 
For beauty, to your lip is raised, 
Say not you love the delicate treat, 
But like it, enjoy it, and thankfully eat. 

Long may you love your pensioner mouse, 
Though one of a tribe that torment the 
house : 40 

Nor dislike for her cruel sport the cat, 
Deadly foe both of mouse and rat; 
Remember she follows the law of her kind, 
And Instinct is neither wayward nor blind. 
Then think of her beautiful gliding form, 
Her tread that would scarcely crush a 

worm, 
And her soothing song by the winter fire, 
Soft as the dying throb of the lyre. 

I would not circumscribe your love: 
It may soar with the eagle and brood with 
the dove, 50 

May pierce the earth with the patient 

mole, 
Or track the hedgehog to his hole. 
Loving and liking are the solace of life, 
Rock the cradle of joy, smooth the death- 
bed of strife. 
You love your father and your mother, 
Your grown-up and your baby brother; 



You love your sister, and your friends, 
And countless blessings which God sends: 
And while these right affections play, 
You live each moment of your day; 60 

They lead you on to full content, 
And likings fresh and innocent, 
That store the mind, the memory feed, 
And prompt to many a gentle deed: 
But likings come, and pass away; 
'T is love that remains till our latest day: 
Our heavenward guide is holy love, 
And will be our bliss with saints above. 



UPON THE LATE GENERAL FAST 

MARCH 1832 

1832. 1832 

Reluctant call it was; the rite delayed; 
And in the Senate some there were who 

doffed 
The last of their humanity, and scoffed 
At providential judgments, undismayed 
By their own daring. But the People 

prayed 
As with one voice; their flinty heart grew 

soft 
With penitential sorrow, and aloft 
Their spirit mounted, crying, " God us 

aid ! " 
Oh that with aspirations more intense, 
Chastised by self-abasement more pro- 
found, 
This People, once so happy, so renowned 
For liberty, would seek from God defence 
Against far heavier ill, the pestilence 
Of revolution, impiously unbound ! 



FILIAL PIETY 

ON THE WAYSIDE BETWEEN PRESTON 
AND LIVERPOOL 

1832(F). 1832 

This was communicated to me by a coach- 
man at whose side I sat while he was driving - . 
In the course of my many coach rambles and 
journeys, which, during- the daytime always 
and often in the night, were taken on the out- 
side of the coach, I had good and frequent op- 
portunities of learning the characteristics of 
this class of men. One remark I made that, is 
worth recording ; that whenever I had occasion 
especially to notice their well-ordered, respect- 



700 " IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY LIGHT FROM HEAVEN " 



ful, and kind behaviour to women, of whatever 
age, I found them, I may say almost always, 
to be married men. 

Untouched through all severity of cold; 
Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth 
Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth; 
That Pile of Turf is half a century old: 
Yes, Traveller ! fifty winters have been told 
Since suddenly the dart of death went forth 
'Gainst him who raised it, — his last work 

on earth: 
Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a 

hold 
Upon his Father's memory, that his hands, 
Through reverence, touch it only to repair 
Its waste. — Though crumbling with each 

breath of air, 
In annual renovation thus it stands — 
Rude Mausoleum ! but wrens nestle there, 
And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds 

are rare. 



"IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY 
LIGHT FROM HEAVEN" 

1832. 1836 

These verses were written some time after 
we had become residents at Rydal Mount, and 
I will take occasion from them to observe upon 
the beauty of that situation, as being backed 
and flanked by lofty fells, which bring the 
heavenly bodies to touch, as it were, the earth 
upon the mountain-tops, while the prospect in 
front lies open to a length of level valley, the 
extended lake, and a terminating ridge of low 
hills ; so that it gives an opportunity to the in- 
habitants of the place of noticing the stars in 
both the positions here alluded to, namely, on 
the tops of the mountains, and as winter-lamps 
at a distance among the leafless trees. 

If thoti indeed derive thy light from 

Heaven, 
Then, to the measure of that heaven-born 

light, _ 
Shine, Poet ! in thy place, and be content: — 
The stars pre-eminent in magnitude, 
And they that from the zenith dart their 

beams, 
(Visible though they be to half the earth, 
Though half a sphere be conscious of their 

brightness) 
Are yet of no diviner origin, 
No purer essence, than the one that burns, 



Like an untended watch-fire on the ridge 

Of some dark mountain; or than those 
which seem 

Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter 
lamps, 

Among the branches of the leafless trees. 

All are the undying offspring of one Sire: 

Then, to the measure of the light vouch- 
safed, 

Shine, Poet ! in thy place, and be content. 



TO THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT 

Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, 
Esq., for St. John's College, Cambridge. 

1832.. 1835 

The six last lines of this Sonnet are not 
written for poetical effect, but as a matter of 
fact, which, in more than one instance, could 
not escape my notice in the servants of the 
house. 

Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath 
knelt 

Margaret, the Saintly Foundress, take thy 
place ; 

And, if Time spare the colours for the grace 

Which to the work surpassing skill hath 
dealt, 

Thou, on thy rock reclined, though king- 
doms melt 

And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem 

To breathe in rural peace, to hear the 
stream, 

And think and feel as once the Poet felt. 

Whate'er thy fate, those features have not 
grown 

Unrecognised through many a household 
tear 

More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops 
of dew 

By morning shed around a flower half- 
blown; 

Tears of delight, that testified how true 

To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how 
dear! 



A WREN'S NEST 

1833. 1835 

Written at Rydal Mount. This nest was 
built, as described, in a tree that grows near 
the pool in Dora's field next the Rydal Mount 



TO 



701 



Among the dwellings framed by birds 
In field or forest with nice care, 

Is none that with the little Wren's 
In snugness may compare. 

No door the tenement requires, 
And seldom needs a laboured roof: 

Yet is it to the fiercest sun 
Impervious, and storm-proof. 

So warm, so beautiful withal, 

In perfect fitness for its aim, 10 

That to the Kind by special grace 

Their instinct surely came. 

And when for their abodes they seek 

An opportune recess, 
The hermit has no finer eye 

For shadowy quietness. 

These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls, 

A canopy in some still nook; 
Others are pent-housed by a brae 

That overhangs a brook. 20 

There to the brooding bird her mate 
Warbles by fits his low clear song; 

And by the busy streamlet both 
Are sung to all day long. 

Or in sequestered lanes they build, 
Where, till the flitting bird's return, 

Her eggs within the nest repose, 
Like relics in an urn. 

But still, where general choice is good, 
There is a better and a best; 30 

And; among fairest objects, some 
Are fairer than the rest; 

This, one of those small builders proved 
In a green covert, where, from out 

The forehead of a pollard oak, 
The leafy antlers sprout; 

For She who planned the mossy lodge, 

Mistrusting her evasive skill, 
Had to a Primrose looked for aid 

Her wishes to fulfil. 40 

High on the trunk's projecting brow, 
And fixed an infant's span above 

The budding flowers, peeped forth the 
nest 
The prettiest of the grove I 



The treasure proudly did I show 

To some whose minds without disdain 

Can turn to little things; but once 
Looked up for it in vain: 

'T is gone — a ruthless spoiler's prey, 
Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 5a 

'Tis gone ! (so seemed it) and we grieved 
Indignant at the wrong. 

Just three days after, passing by 
In clearer light the moss-built cell 

I saw, espied its shaded mouth; 
And felt that all was well. 

The Primrose for a veil had spread 
The largest of her upright leaves; 

And thus, for purposes benign, 

A simple flower deceives. 6a 

Concealed from friends who might disturb 

Thy quiet with no ill intent, 
Secure from evil eyes and hands 

On barbarous plunder bent, 

Rest, Mother-bird ! and when thy young 
Take flight, and thou art free to roam, 

When withered is the guardian Flower, 
And empty thy late home, 

Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, 
Amid the unviolated grove, 7c 

Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft 
In foresight, or in love. 



TO 



UPON THE BIRTH OF HER FIRST-BORN 
CHILD, MARCH 1833 

I833- 1835 

Written at Moresby near Whitehaven, when 
I was on a visit to my son, then Incumbent of 
that small living-. While I am dictating these 
notes to my friend, Miss Fenwick, January 24, 
1S4.'>, the child upon whose birth these verses 
were written is under my roof, and is of a dispo- 
sition so promising' that the wishes and prayers 
and prophecies which I then breathed forth in 
verse are, through God's mercy, likely to be 
realised. 

" Turn porro puer, ut ssevls projectus ab undis 
Navita, nudus liumi jacet, etc.'' — Lucretius. 



702 



THE WARNING 



Like a shipwrecked Sailor tost 
By rough waves on a perilous coast, 
Lies the Babe, in helplessness 
And in tenderest nakedness, 
Flung by labouring nature forth 
Upon the mercies of the earth. 
Can its eyes beseech ? — no more 
Than the hands are free to implore: 
Voice but serves for one brief cry; 
Plaint was it ? or prophecy 
Of sorrow that will surely come ? 
Omen of man's grievous doom ! 

But, O Mother ! by the close 
Duly granted to thy throes; 
By the silent thanks, now tending 
Incense-like to Heaven, descending 
Now to mingle and to move 
With the gush of earthly love, 
As a debt to that frail Creature, 
Instrument of struggling Nature 
For the blissful calm, the peace 
Known but to this one release — 
Can the pitying spirit doubt 
That for human-kind springs out 
From the penalty a sense 
Of more than mortal recompence ? 

As a floating summer cloud, 
Though of gorgeous drapery proud, 
To the sun-burnt traveller, 
Or the stooping labourer, 
Oft-times makes its bounty known 
By its shadow round him thrown; 
So, by chequerings of sad cheer, 
Heavenly Guardians, brooding near, 
Of their presence tell — too bright 
Haply for corporeal sight ! 
Ministers of grace divine 
Feelingly their brows incline 
O'er this seeming Castaway 
Breathing, in the light of day, 
Something like the faintest breath 
That has power to baffle death — 
Beautiful, while very weakness 
Captivates like passive meekness. 

And, sweet Mother ! under warrant 
Of the universal Parent, 
Who repays in season due 
Them who have, like thee, been true 
To the filial chain let down 
From his everlasting throne, 
Angels hovering round thy couch, 
With their softest whispers vouch, 
That — whatever griefs may fret, 
Cares entangle, sins beset, 
This thy First-born, and with tears 



Stain her cheek in future years — 
Heavenly succour, not denied 
To the babe, whate'er betide, 
Will to the woman be supplied ! 

Mother ! blest be thy calm ease; 60 

Blest the starry promises, — 
And the firmament benign 
Hallowed be it, where they shine ! 
Yes, for them whose soids have scope 
Ample for a winged hope, 
And can earthward bend an ear 
For needful listening, pledge is here, 
That, if thy new-born Charge shall tread 
In thy footsteps, and be led 
By that other Guide, whose light 7c 

Of manly virtues, mildly bright, 
Gave him first the wished-for part 
In thy gentle virgin heart; 
Then, amid the storms of life 
Presignified by that dread strife 
Whence ye have escaped together, 
She may look for serene weather; 
In all trials sure to find 
Comfort for a faithful mind; 
Kindlier issues, holier rest, go 

Than even now await her prest, 
Conscious Nursling, to thy breast ! 



THE WARNING 

A SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING 
1833- 1835 

These lines were composed during the fever 
spread through the Nation by the Reform Bill. 
As the motives which led to this measure, and 
the good or evil which has attended or has risen 
from it, will be duly appreciated by future 
historians, there is no call for dwelling on the 
subject in this place. I will content myself 
with saying that the then condition of the 
people's mind is not, in these verses, exag- 
gerated. 

List, the winds of March are blowing; 
Her ground-flowers shrink, afraid of show» 

Their meek heads to the nipping air, 

Which ye feel not, happy pair ! 

Sunk into a kindly sleep. 

We, meanwhile, our hope will keep; 

And if Time leagued with adverse Change 

(Too busy fear !) shall cross its range, 

Whatsoever check they bring, 



THE WARNING 



7°3 



Anxious duty hindering, 10 

To like hope our prayers will cling. 

Thus, while the ruminating spirit feeds 
Upon the events of home as life proceeds, 
Affections pure and holy hi their source 
Gain a fresh impulse, run a livelier course ; 
Hopes that within the Father's heart pre- 
vail, 
Are in the experienced Grandsire's slow to 

fail ; 
And if the harp pleased his gay youth, it 

rings 
To his grave touch with no unready strings, 
While thoughts press on, and feelings over- 
flow, 20 
And quick words round him fall like flakes 

of snow. 
Thanks to the Powers that yet maintain 

their sway, 
And have renewed the tributary Lay. 
Truths of the heart flock in with eager 

pace, 
And Fancy greets them with a fond em- 
brace ; 
Swift as the rising sun his beams extends 
She shoots the tidings forth to distant 

friends ; 
Their gifts she hails (deemed precious, as 

they prove 
For the unconscious Babe so prompt a 

love !). 
But from this peaceful centre of delight 30 
Vague sympathies have urged her to take 

flight: 
Rapt into upper regions, like the bee 
That sucks from mountain heath her honey 

fee; 
Or, like the warbling lark intent to shroud 
His head in sunbeams or a bowery cloud, 
She soars — and here and there her pinions 

rest 
On proud towers, like this humble cottage, 

blest 
With a new visitant, an infant guest — 
Towers where red streamers flout the breezy 

sky 
In pomp foreseen by her creative eye, 40 
When feasts shall crowd the hall, and 

steeple bells 
Glad proclamation make, and heights and 

dells 
Catch the blithe music as it sinks and 

swells, 
And harboured ships, whose pride is on the 



Shall hoist their topmost flags in sign of 

glee, 
Honouring the hope of noble ancestry. 
But who (though neither reckoning ills 
assigned 
By Nature, nor reviewing in the mind 
The track that was, and is, and must be, 
worn 49 

With weary feet by all of woman born) — 
Shall now by such a gift with joy be moved, 
Nor feel the fulness of that joy reproved ? 
Not He, whose last faint memory will 

command 
The truth that Britain was his native land; 
Whose infant soul was tutored to confide 
In the cleansed faith for which her martyrs 

died; 
Whose boyish ear the voice of her renown 
With rapture thrilled; whose Youth re- 
vered the crown 
Of Saxon liberty that Alfred wore, 
Alfred, dear Babe, thy great Progenitor ! 60 
— Not He, who from her mellowed practice 

drew 
His social sense of just, and fair, and true; 
And saw, thereafter, on the soil of France 
Rash Polity begin her maniac dance, 
Foundations broken up, the deeps run wild, 
Nor grieved to see (himself not unbe- 

guiled) — 
Woke from the dream, the dreamer to up- 
braid, 
And learn how sanguine expectations fade 
When novel trusts by folly are betrayed, — 
To see Presumption, turning pale, refrain 70 
From further havoc, but repent hi vain, — 
Good aims lie down, and perish in the road 
Where guilt had urged them on with cease- 
less goad, 
Proofs thickening round her that on public 

ends 
Domestic virtue vitally depends, 
That civic strife can turn the happiest 

hearth 

Into a grievous sore of self-tormenting 

earth. 

Can such a One, dear Babe ! though 

glad and proud 78 

To welcome thee, repel the fears that crowd 

Into his English breast, and spare to quake 

Less for his own than for thy innocent sake ? 

Too late — or, should the providence of 

God 
Lead, through dark ways by sin and sorrow 
trod, 



7°4 



THE WARNING 



Justice and peace to a secure abode, 

Too soon — thou corn'st into this breathing 
world; 

Ensigns of mimic outrage are unfurled. 

Who shall preserve or prop the tottering 
Realm ? 

What hand suffice to govern the state-helm ? 

If, in the aims of men, the surest test 

Of good or bad (whate'er be sought for or 
prof est) 90 

Lie in the means required, or ways or- 
dained, 

For compassing the end, else never gained; 

Yet governors and governed both are blind 

To this plain truth, or fling it to the wind; 

If to expedience principle must bow; 

Past, future, shrinking up beneath the in- 
cumbent Now; 

If cowardly concession still must feed 

The thirst for power in men who ne'er con- 
cede; 

Nor turn aside, unless to shape a way 

For domination at some riper day; 100 

If generous Loyalty must stand in awe 

Of subtle Treason, in his mask of law, 

Or with bravado insolent and hard, 

Provoking punishment, to win reward; 

If office help the factious to conspire, 

And they who should extinguish, fan the 
fire — 

Then, will the sceptre be a straw, the crown 

Sit loosely, like the thistle's crest of down; 

To be blown off at will, by Power that 
spares it 

In cunning patience, from the head that 
wears it. no 

Lost people, trained to theoretic feud ! 

Lost above all, ye labouring multitude ! 

Bewildered whether ye, by slanderous 
tongues 

Deceived, mistake calamities for wrongs; 

And over fancied usurpations brood, 

Oft snapping at revenge in sullen mood; 

Or, from long stress of real injuries, fly 

To desperation for a remedy; 

In bursts of outrage spread your judgments 
wide, 

And to your wrath cry out, " Be thou our 
guide;" 120 

Or, bound by oaths, come forth to tread 
earth's floor 

In marshalled thousands, darkening street 
and moor 

With the worst shape mock-patience ever 
wore; 



Or, to the giddy top of self-esteem 
By Flatterers carried, mount into a dream 
Of boundless suffrage, at whose sage be- 
hest 
Justice shall rule, disorder be supprest, 
And every man sit down as Plenty's Guest ! 

— Oh for a bridle bitted with remorse 

To stop your Leaders in their headstrong 
course ! I30 

Oh may the Almighty scatter with his grace 
These mists, and lead you to a safer place, 
By paths no human wisdom can foretrace ! 
May He pour round you, from worlds far 

above 
Man's feverish passions, his pure light of 

love, 
That quietly restores the natural mien 
To hope, and makes truth willing to be seen ! 
Else shall your blood-stained hands in 

frenzy reap 
Fields gaily sown when promises were 

cheap. — 
Why is the Past belied with wicked art, 140 
The Future made to play so false a part, 
Among a people famed for strength of 

mind, 
Foremost in freedom, noblest of mankind ? 
We act as if we joyed in the sad time 
Storms make in rising, valued in the moon 
Nought but her changes. Thus, ungrate- 
ful Nation ! 
If thou persist, and scorning moderation, 
Spread for thyself the snares of tribulation, 
Whom, then, shall meekness guard ? What 

saving skill 
Lie in forbearance, strength in standing 
still? 150 

— Soon shall the widow (for the speed of 

Time 
Nought equals when the hours are winged 

with crime) 
Widow, or wife, implore on tremulous knee, 
From him who judged her lord, a like 

decree; 
The skies will, weep o'er old men desolate: 
Ye little-ones ! Earth shudders at your 

fate, 

Outcasts and homeless orphans 

But turn, my Soul, and from the sleeping 

pair 
Learn thou the beauty of omniscient care ! 
Be strong in faith, bid anxious thoughts 

lie still; 160 

Seek for the good and cherish it — the ill 
Oppose, or bear with a submissive will. 



(BY THE SEASIDE) 



7°5 



"IF THIS GREAT WORLD OF 
JOY AND PAIN " 

i§33- 1835 
If this great world of joy and pain 

Revolve in one sure track; 
If freedom, set, will rise again, 

And virtue, flown, come back; 
Woe to the purblind crew who fill 

The heart with each day's care ; 
Nor gain, from past or future, skill 

To bear, and to forbear ! 

ON A HIGH PART OF THE 
COAST OF CUMBERLAND 

Easter Sunday, April 7 

THE AUTHOR'S SIXTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY 

1833- 1835 

The lines were composed on the road between 
Moresby and Whitehaven while I was on a 
visit to my son, then rector of the former place. 
This and some other Voluntaries originated in 
the concluding- lines of the last paragraph of 
this poem. With this coast I have been famil- 
iar from my earliest childhood, and remember 
being struck for the first time by the town and 
port of Whitehaven, and the white waves 
breaking against its quays and piers, as the 
whole came into view from the top of the high 
ground down which- the road (it has since been 
altered) then descended abruptly. My sister, 
when she first heard the voice of the sea from 
this point, and beheld the scene spread before 
her, burst into tears. Our family then lived at 
Cockermouth, and this fact was often men- 
tioned among us as indicating the sensibility 
for which she was so remarkable. 

The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire, 
Flung back from distant climes a streaming 

fire, 
Whose blaze is now subdued to tender 

gleams, 
Prelude of night's approach with soothing 

dreams. 
Look rotind ; — of all the clouds not one is 

moving ; 
'T is the still hour of thinking, feeling, 

loving. 
Silent, and stedfast as the vaulted sky, 
The boundless plain of waters seems to 

lie: — 
Comes that low sound from breezes rustling 

o'er 



The grass-crowned headland that conceals 

the shore ? 
No ; 't is the earth-voice of the mighty sea, 
Whispering how meek and gentle he can be! 
Thou Power supreme ! who, arming to 

rebuke 
Offenders, dost put off the gracious look, 
And clothe thyself with terrors like the 

flood 
Of ocean roused into its fiercest mood, 
Whatever discipline thy Will ordain 
For the brief course that must for me re- 
main ; 
Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice 
In admonitions of thy softest voice ! 
Whate'er the path these mortal feet may 

trace, 
Breathe through my soul the blessing of 

thy grace, 
Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere 
Drawn from the wisdom that begins with 

fear, 
Glad to expand; and, for a season, free 
From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee ! 



(BY THE SEASIDE) 

1833- 1835 

The smi is couched, the sea-fowl gone to 

rest, 
And the wild storm hath somewhere foimd 

a nest; 
Air slumbers — wave with wave no longer 

strives, 
Only a heaving of the deep survives, 
A tell-tale motion ! soon will it be laid, 
And by the tide alone the water swayed. 
Stealthy withdrawings, interminglmgs mild 
Of light with shade in beauty reconciled — 
Such is the prospect far as sight can range, 
The soothing recompence, the welcome 

change. 10 

Where, now, the ships that drove before 

the blast, , 
Threatened by angry breakers as they 

passed ; 
And by a train of flying clouds bemocked; 
Or, in the hollow surge, at anchor rocked 
As on a bed of death ? Some lodge in 

peace, 
Saved by His care who bade the tempest 

cease ; 
And some, too heedless of past danger, 

court 



706 COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 



Fresh gales to waft them to the far-off port. 
But near, or hanging sea and sky between, 
Not one of all those winged powers is seen, 
Seen in her course, nor 'mid tins quiet 

heard ; 2 1 

Yet oh ! how gladly would the air be stirred 
By some acknowledgment of thanks and 

praise, 
Soft in its temper as those vesper lays 
Sung to the Virgin while accordant oars 
Urge the slow bark along Calabrian shores; 
A sea-born service through the mountains 

felt 
Till into one loved vision all things melt: 



Or like those hymns that soothe with graver 

sound 
The gulfy coast of Norway iron-bound; 30 
And, from the wide and open Baltic, rise 
With punctual care, Lutherian harmonies. 
Hush, not a voice is here ! but why repine, 
Now when the star of eve comes forth to 

shine 
On British waters with that look benign ? 
Ye mariners, that plough your onward way, 
Or in the haven rest, or sheltering bay, 
May silent thanks at least to God be given 
With a full heart; " our thoughts are heard 

in heaven." 



POEMS 

COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN THE SUMMER 

OF 1833 

My companions were H. C. Robinson and nay son John. 

Having been prevented by the lateness of the season, in 1831, from visiting Staffa and Iona, 
the author made these the principal objects of a short tour in the summer of 1833, of which the 
following series of poems is a Memorial. The course pursued was down the Cumberland river 
Derwent, and to Whitehaven ; thence (by the Isle of Man, where a few days were passed) up the 
Frith of Clyde to Greenock, then to Oban. Staffa, Iona ; and back towards England, by Loch 
Awe, Inverary, Loch Goil-head, Greenock, and through parts of Renfrewshire, Ayrshire, and 
Dumfriesshire to Carlisle, and thence up the river Eden, and homewards by Ullswater. 



1833- 1S35 
Adieu, Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown 
And spread as if ye knew that days might 

come 
When ye would shelter in a happy home, 
On this fair Mount, a Poet of your own, 
One who ne'er ventured for a Delphic crown 
To sue the God ; but, haunting your green 

shade 
All seasons through, is humbly pleased to 

braid 
Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship, 

self-sown. 
Farewell ! no Minstrels now with harp new- 
strung 
For summer wandering quit their house- 
hold bowers; 
Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue 
To cheer the Itinerant on whom she pours 
Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors, 
Or musing sits forsaken halls among. 



II 

1833- 1835 
Why should the Enthusiast, journeying 

through this Isle 
Repine as if his hour were come too late ? 
Not unprotected in her mouldering state, 
Antiquity salutes him with a smile, 
'Mid fruitful fields that ring with jocund 

toil, 
And pleasure-grounds where Taste, refined 

Co-mate 
Of Truth and Beauty, strives to imitate, 
Far as she may, primeval Nature's style. 
Fair land ! by Time's parental love made 

free, 
By Social Order's watchful arms em- 
braced ; 
With unexampled union meet in thee, 
For eye and mind, the present and the 

past; 
With golden prospect for futurity, ■ 
If that be reverenced which ought to last. 



COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 707 



III 
1833- 1835 

They called Thee Merry England, in 

old time; 
A happy people won for thee that name 
With envy heard in many a distant clime; 
And, spite of change, for me thou keep'st 

the same 
Endearing title, a responsive chime 
To the heart's fond belief; though some 

there are 
Whose sterner judgments deem that word 

a snare 
For inattentive Fancy, like the lime 
Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, 

I ask, 
This face of rural beauty be a mask 
For discontent, and poverty, and crime; 
These spreading towns a cloak for lawless 

will? 
Forbid it, Heaven ! — and Merry Eng- 
land still 
Shall be thy rightful name, in prose and 

rhyme ! * 



IV 

TO THE RIVER GRETA, NEAR 
KESWICK 

1833- 1835 

Greta, what fearful listening ! when huge 

stones 
Rumble along thy bed, block after block: 
Or, whirling with reiterated shock, 
Combat, while darkness aggravates the 

groans: 
But if thou (like Cocytus from the moans 
Heard on his rueful margin) thence wert 

named 
The Mourner, thy true nature was de- 
famed, 
And the habitual murmur that atones 
For thy worst rage, forgotten. Oft as 

Spring 
Decks, on thy sinuous banks, her thousand 

thrones 
Seats of glad instinct and love's carolling, 
The concert, for the happy, then may vie 
With liveliest peals of birth-day har- 
mony: 
To a grieved heart, the notes are beni- 
sons. 



IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF 
COCKERMOUTH 

1833- 1835 

Where the Author was born, and his Father's 
remains are laid. 

A point of life between my Parent's dust, 
And yours, my buried Little-ones ! am I; 
And to those graves looking habitually 
In kindred quiet I repose my trust. 
Death to the innocent is more than just, 
And, to the sinner, mercifully bent; 
So may I hope, if truly I repent 
And meekly bear the ills which bear I 

must: 
And You, my Offspring ! that do still re- 
main, 
Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race, 
If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual 

pain 
We breathed together for a moment's space, 
The wrong, by love provoked, let love 

arraign, 
And only love keep in your hearts a place. 

VI 

ADDRESS FROM THE SPIRIT 
OF COCKERMOUTH CASTLE 

1833- 1835 

" Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly 

think, 
Poet ! that, stricken as both are by years, 
We, differing once so much, are now Com- 
peers, 
Prepared, when each has stood his time, to 

sink 
Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link 
United us; when thou, in boyish play, 
Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey 
To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink 
Of light was there; — and thus did I, thy 

Tutor, 
Make thy young thoughts acquainted with 

the grave; 
While thou wert chasing the winged but- 
terfly 
Through my green courts; or climbing, a 

bold suitor, 
Up to the flowers whose golden progeny 
Stdl round my shattered brow in beauty 
wave." 



708 COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 



VII 
NUN'S WELL, BRIGHAM 

1833- i335 

So named from the religious House which 
stood close by. I have rather an odd anecdote 
to relate of the Nun's Well. One day the land- 
lady of a public-house, a field's length from the 
well, on the road side, said to me — " You have 
been to see the Nun's Well, Sir?" — "The 
Nun's Well ! what is that ? " said the Postman, 
who in his royal livery stopt his mail-car at 
the door. The landlady and I explained to him 
what the name meant, and what sort of people 
the nuns were. A countryman who was stand- 
ing by, rather tipsy, stammered out — "Aye, 
those nuns were good people ; they are gone ; 
but we shall soon have them back again." The 
Reform mania was just then at its height. 

The cattle crowding round this beverage 
clear 

To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs 
have trod 

The encircling turf into a barren clod; 

Through which the waters creep, then dis- 
appear, 

Born to be lost in Derwent flowing near; 

Yet, o'er the brink, and round the lime- 
stone cell 

Of the pure spring (they call it the " Nun's 
Well," 

Name that first struck by chance my startled 
ear) 

A tender Spirit broods — the pensive Shade 

Of ritual honours to this Fountain paid 

By hooded Votaresses with saintly cheer; 

Albeit oft the Virgin-mother mild 

Looked down with pity upon eyes beguiled 

Into the shedding of " too soft a tear." 



VIII 
TO A FRIEND 

ON THE BANKS OF THE DERWENT 
I833- 1835 

My son John, who was then building a par- 
sonage on his small living at Brigham. 

Pastor and Patriot ! — at whose bidding 

rise 
These modest walls, amid a flock that need, 
For one who comes to watch them and to 

feed, 



A fixed Abode — keep down presagef id 

sighs. 
Threats, which the unthinking only can de- 
spise, 
Perplex the Church; but be thou firm, — 

be true 
To thy first hope, and this good work pursue, 
Poor as thou art. A welcome sacrifice 
Dost Thou prepare, whose sign will be the 

smoke 
Of thy new hearth; and sooner shall its 

wreaths, 
Mounting while earth her morning incense 

breathes, 
From wandering fiends of air receive a 

yoke, 
And straightway cease to aspire, than God 

disdain 
This humble tribute as ill-timed or vain. 



IX 

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS 

» 

LANDING AT THE MOUTH OF THE DER- 
WENT, WORKINGTON 

I833- 1835 

I will mention for the sake of the friend who 
is writing down these notes, that it was among 
the fine Scotch firs near Ambleside, and partic- 
ularly those near Green Bank, that I have over 
and over again paused at the sight of this image. 
Long may they stand to afford a like gratifica- 
tion to others ! — This wish is not uncalled for, 
several of their brethren having already dis- 
appeared. 

Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces 

vowed, 
The Queen drew back the wimple that she 

wore; 
And to the throng, that on the Cumbrian 

shore 
Her landing hailed, how touchingly she 

bowed ! 
And like a Star (that, from a heavy cloud 
Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth 

darts, 
When a soft summer gale at evening parts 
The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud) 
She smiled; but Time, the old Saturnian 

seer, 
Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the 

strand, 



COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 709 



With step prelusive to a long array 
Of woes and degradations hand hi hand — 
Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear 
Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fother- 



mgay 



X 



STANZAS SUGGESTED IN A 
STEAMBOAT OFF SAINT BEES' 
HEADS, ON THE COAST OF 
CUMBERLAND 

1833- 1335 

If Life were slumber on a bed of down, 
Toil unhnposed, vicissitude unknown, 
Sad were our lot: no hunter of the hare 
Exults like him whose javelin from the lair 
Has roused the lion ; no one plucks the rose, 
Whose proffered beauty in safe shelter 

blows 
'Mid a trim garden's summer luxuries, 
With joy like his who climbs, on hands and 

knees, 
For some rare plant, yon Headland of St. 

Bees. 

This independence upon oar and sail, 10 
This new indifference to breeze or gale, 
This straight-lined progress, furrowing a 

flat lea, 
And regular as if locked in certainty — 
Depress the hours. Up, Spirit of the 

storm ! 
That Courage may find something to per- 
form ; 
That Fortitude, whose blood disdains to 

freeze 
At Danger's bidding, may confront the 

seas, 
Firm as the towering Headlands of St. 
Bees. 

Dread cliff of Baruth ! that wild wish may 

sleep, 
Bold as if men and creatures of the Deep 
Breathed the same element; too many 

wrecks 21 

Have struck thy sides, too many ghastly 

decks 
Hast thou looked down upon, that such a 

thought 
Should here be welcome, and in verse en- 

wrouffht; 



With thy stern aspect better far agrees 
Utterance of thanks that we have past with 

ease, 
As millions thus shall do, the Headlands of 

St. Bees. 

Yet, while each useful Art augments her 

store, 
What boots the gain if Nature should lose 

more ? 
And Wisdom, as she holds a Christian 

place 30 

In man's intelligence sublimed by grace ? 
When Bega sought of yore the Cumbrian 

coast, 
Tempestuous winds her holy errand crossed: 
She knelt hi prayer — the waves their wrath 

appease ; 
And, from her vow well weighed hi Hea- 
ven's decrees, 
Rose, where she touched the strand, the 

Chantry of St. Bees. 

" Cruel of heart were they, bloody of 
hand," 

Who in these Wilds then struggled for 
command; 

The strong were merciless, without hope 
the weak; 

Till this bright Stranger came, fair as day- 
break, 40 

And as a cresset true that darts its length 

Of beamy lustre from a tower of strength; 

Guiding the mariner through troubled 
seas, 

And cheering oft his peaceful reveries, 

Like the fixed Light that crowns yon Head- 
land of St. Bees. 

To aid the Votaress, miracles believed 
Wrought in men's minds, like miracles 

achieved ; 
So piety took root; and Song might tell 
What humanizing virtues near her cell 
Sprang up, and spread their fragrance wide 

around ; 50 

How savage bosoms melted at the sound 
Of gospel-truth enchained in harmonies 
Wafted o'er waves, or creeping through 

close trees, 
From her religious Mansion of St. Bees. 

When her sweet Voice, that instrument of 

love, 
Was glorified, and took its place, above 



7io COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 



The silent stars, among the angelic quire, 
Her chantry blazed with sacrilegious hre, 
And perished utterly ; but her good 

deeds 
Had sown the spot, that witnessed them, 

with seeds 60 

Which lay in earth expectant, till a breeze 
With quickening impulse answered their 

mute pleas, 
And lo ! a statelier pile, the Abbey of St. 

Bees. 

There are the naked clothed, the hungry 

fed; 
And Charity extendeth to the dead 
Her intercessions made for the soul's rest 
Of tardy penitents; or for the best 
Among the good (when love might else have 

slept, 
Sickened, or died) in pious memory kept. 
Thanks to the austere and simple Devo- 
tees, 7 o 
Who, to that service bound by venial 

fees, 
Keep watch before the altars of St. Bees. 

Are not, in sooth, their Requiem's sacred 

ties 
Woven out of passion's sharpest agonies, 
Subdued, composed, and formalized by 

art, 
To fix a wiser sorrow in the heart ? 
The prayer for them whose hour is past 

away 
Says to the Living, profit while ye may ! 
A little part, and that the worst, he sees 
Who thinks that priestly cunning holds the 

keys 80 

That best unlock the secrets of St. Bees. 

Conscience, the timid being's inmost light, 
Hope of the dawn and solace of the 

night, 
Cheers these Recluses Avith a steady ray 
In many an hour when judgment goes 

astray. 
Ah ! scorn not hastily their rule who try 
Earth to despise, and flesh to mortify; 
Consume with zeal, in winged ectasies 
Of prayer and praise forget their rosaries, 
Nor hear the loudest surges of St. Bees. 90 

Yet none so prompt to succour and pro- 
tect 
The forlorn traveller, or sailor wrecked 



On the bare coast; nor do they grudge the 
boon 

Which staff and cockle hat and sandal 
shoon 

Claim for the pilgrim: and, though elud- 
ings sharp 

May sometimes greet the strolling min- 
strel's harp, 

It is not then when, swept with sportive 
ease, 

It charms a feast-day throng of all de- 
grees, 

Brightening the archway of revered St. 
Bees. 

How did the cliffs and echoing hills re- 
joice 100 

What time the Benedictine Brethren's 
voice, 

Imploring, or commanding with meet pride, 

Summoned the Chiefs to lay their feuds 
aside, 

And under one blest ensign serve the 
Lord 

In Palestine. Advance, indignant Sword ! 

Flaming till thou from Panym hands re- 
lease 

That Tomb, dread centre of all sanctities 

Nursed in the quiet Abbey of St. Bees. 

But look we now to them whose minds 
from far 

Follow the fortunes which they may not 
share. no 

While hi Judea Fancy loves to roam, 

She helps to make a Holy-land at home: 

The Star of Bethlehem from its sphere in- 
vites 

To sound the crystal depth of maiden 
rights ; 

And wedded Life, through scriptural mys- 
teries, 

Heavenward ascends with all her chari- 
ties, 

Taught by the hooded Celibates of St. 
Bees. 

Nor be it e'er forgotten how, by skill 

Of cloistered Architects, free their souls to 

fill 
With love of God, throughout the Land 

were raised 120 

Churches, on whose symbolic beauty gazed 
Peasant and mail-clad Chief with pious 

awe; 



COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 711 



As at this day men seeing what they saw, 
Or the bare wreck of faith's solemnities, 
Aspire to more than earthly destinies; 
Witness yon Pile that greets us from St. 
Bees. 

Yet more; around those Churches, gathered 

Towns 
Safe from the feudal Castle's haughty 

frowns ; 
Peaceful abodes, where Justice might up- 
hold 
Her scales with even hand, and culture 

mould 130 

The heart to pity, train the mind in care 
For rules of life, sound as the Time could 

bear. 
Nor dost thou fail, thro' abject love of 

ease, 
Or hindrance raised by sordid purposes, 
To bear thy part in this good work, St. 

Bees. 

Who with the ploughshare clove the barren 
moors, 

And to green meadows changed the swampy 
shores ? 

Thinned the rank woods ; and for the cheer- 
ful grange 

Made room, where wolf and boar were used 
to range ? 

Who taught, and showed by deeds, that 
gentler chains 140 

Should bind the vassal to his lord's do- 
mains ? — 

The thoughtful Monks, intent their God to 
please, 

For Christ's dear sake, by human sympa- 
thies 

Poured from the bosom of thy Church, St. 
Bees ! 

But all availed not; by a mandate given 
Through lawless will the Brotherhood was 

driven 
Forth from their cells; their ancient House 

laid low 
In Reformation's sweeping overthrow. 
But now once more the local Heart re- 
vives, 
The inextinguishable Spirit strives. 150 

Oh may that Power who hushed the stormy 

seas, 
And cleared a way for the first Votaries, 
Prosper the new-born College of St. Bees ! 



Alas ! the Genius of our age, from Schools 
Less humble, draws her lessons, aims, and 

rules. 
To Prowess guided by her insight keen 
Matter and Spirit are as one Machine; 
Boastful Idolatress, of formal skill 
She in her own would merge the eternal 

will: 
Better, if Reason's triumphs match with 

these, 160 

Her flight before the bold credulities 
That furthered the first teaching of St. 

Bees. 

XI 

IN THE CHANNEL, BETWEEN 
THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND 
AND THE ISLE OF MAN 

i333- i335 

Ranging the heights of Scawfell or Black- 
comb, 
In his lone course the Shepherd oft will 

pause, 
And strive to fathom the mysterious laws 
By which the clouds, arrayed in light or 

gloom, 
On Mona settle, and the shapes assume 
Of all her peaks and ridges. What he 

draws 
From sense, faith, reason, fancy, of the 

cause, 
He will take with him to the silent tomb. 
Or, by his fire, a child upon his knee, 
Haply the untaught Philosopher may speak 
Of the strange sight, nor hide his theory 
That satisfies the simple and the meek, 
Blest in their pious ignorance, though 

weak 
To cope with Sages undevoutly free. 



XII 
AT SEA OFF THE ISLE OF MAN 

1833- 183S 

Bold words affirmed, in days when faith 

was strong 
And doubts and scruples seldom teased the 

brain, 
That no adventurer's bark had power to gain 
These shores if he approached them bent 

on wrong; 



7i2 COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 



For, suddenly up-conjured from the Main, 
Mists rose to hide the Land — that search, 

though long 
And eager, might be still pursued in vain. 
O Fancy, what an age was that for song ! 
That age, when not by laws inanimate, 
As men believed, the waters were impelled, 
The ah' controlled, the stars their courses 

held; 
But element and orb on acts did wait 
Of Powers endued with visible form, in- 
stinct 
With will, and to their work by passion 
linked. 

XIII 

1833- 1835 

Desire we past illusions to recall ? 
To reinstate wild Fancy, would we hide 
Truths whose thick veil Science has drawn 

aside ? 
No, — let this Age, high as she may, instal 
In her esteem the thirst that wrought man's 

fall, 
The universe is infinitely wide; 
And conquering Reason, if self-glorified, 
Can nowhere move uncrossed by some new 

wall 
Or gulf of mystery, which thou alone, 
Imaginative Faith ! canst overleap, 
In progress toward the fount of Love, — 

the throne 
Of Power whose ministers the records keep 
Of periods fixed, and laws established, less 
Flesh to exalt than prove its nothingness. 



XIV 

ON ENTERING DOUGLAS BAY, 
ISLE OF MAN 

1833- 183S 

" Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori." 

The feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn, 
Even when they rose to check or to repel 
Tides of aggressive war, oft served as 

well 
Greedy ambition, armed to treat with 

scorn 
Just limits; but yon Tower, whose smiles 

adorn 
This perilous bay, stands clear of all offence ; 



Blest work it is of love and innocence, 
A Tower of refuge built for the else forlorn. 
Spare it, ye waves, and lift the mariner, 
Struggling for life, into its savhig arms ! 
Spare, too, the human helpers ! Do they 

stir 
'Mid your fierce shock like men afraid to 

die? 
No; their dread service nerves the heart it 

warms, 
And they are led by noble Hillary. 



XV 

BY THE SEASHORE, ISLE OF 

MAN 

I833- 1835 

Why stand we gazing on the sparkling 

Brine, 
With wonder smit by its transparency, 
And all-enraptured with its purity ? — 
Because the unstained, the clear, the crys- 
talline, 
Have ever hi them something of benign; 
Whether in gem, in water, or hi sky, 
A sleeping infant's brow, or wakeful eye 
Of a young maiden, only not divine. 
Scarcely the hand forbears to dip its palm 
For beverage drawn as from a mountain* 

well; 
Temptation centres in the liquid Calm; 
Our daily raiment seems no obstacle 
To instantaneous plunging in, deep Sea ! 
And revelling hi long embrace with thee. 



XVI 

ISLE OF MAN 

1833- 1835 

My son William is here the person alluded 
to as saving- the life of the youth, and the cir- 
cumstances were as mentioned in the Sonnet. 

A youth too certain of his power to wade 
On the smooth bottom of this clear bright 

sea, 
To sight so shallow, with a bather's glee 
Leapt from this rock, and but for timely aid 
He, by the alluring element betrayed, 
Had perished. Then might Sea-nymphs 

(and with sighs 



COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 713 



Of self-reproach) have chanted elegies 
Bewailing his sad fate, when he was laid 
In peaceful earth: for, doubtless, he was 

frank, 
Utterly in himself devoid of guile; 
Knew not the double-dealing of a smile; 
Nor aught that makes men's promises a 

blank, 
Or deadly snare: and He survives to bless 
The Power that saved him in his strange 

distress. 

XVII 
ISLE OF MAN 

I833- 183S 

Did pangs of grief for lenient time too 
keen, 

Grief that devouring waves had caused, or 
guilt 

Which they had witnessed — sway the man 
who built 

This Homestead, placed where nothing 
could be seen, 

Nought heard, of ocean troubled or serene ? 

A tired Ship-soldier on paternal land, 

That o'er the channel holds august com- 
mand, 

The dwelling raised, — a veteran Marine. 

He, in disgust, turned from the neighbour- 
ing sea 

To shun the memory of a listless life 

That hung between two callings. May no 
strife 

More hurtful here beset him, doomed 
though free, 

Self-doomed, to worse inaction, till his eye 

Shrink from the daily sight of earth and 
sky ! 

XVIII 
BY A RETIRED MARINER, H. H. 

Mrs. Wordsworth's Brother Henry. 

I833- 1835 

Fr6m early youth I ploughed the restless 

Main, 
My mind as restless and as apt to change; 
Through every clime and ocean did I range, 
In hope at length a competence to gain; 
For poor to Sea I went, and poor I still 

remain. 



Year after year I strove, but strove in vain, 
And hardships manifold did I endure, 
For Fortune on me never deigned to smile; 
Yet I at last a resting-place have found, 
With just enough life's comforts to procure, 
In a snug Cove on this our favoured Isle, 
A peaceful spot where Nature's gifts 

abound ; 
Then sure I have no reason to complain, 
Though poor to Sea I went, and poor I 

still remain. 



XIX 

AT BALA-SALA, ISLE OF MAN 

1833- 1835 

Supposed to be written by a friend (Mr. 
Cookson) who died there a few years after. 

Broken in fortune, but in niind entire 
And sound in principle, I seek repose 
Where ancient trees this convent-pile en- 
close, 
In ruin beautiful. When vain desire 
Intrudes on peace, I pray the eternal Sire 
To cast a soul-subduing shade on me, 
A grey -haired, pensive, thankful Refugee; 
A shade — but with some sparks of hea- 
venly fire 
Once to these cells vouchsafed. And when 

I note 
The old Tower's brow yellowed as with the 

beams 
Of sunset ever there, albeit streams 
Of stormy weather-stains that semblance 

wrought, 
I thank the silent Monitor, and say 
" Shine so, my aged brow, at all hours of 
the day ! " 

XX 

TYNWALD HILL 
1833. 1835 

Mr. Robinson and I walked the greater part 
of the way from Castle-town to Piel, and 
stopped some time at Tynwald Hill. One of 
my companions was an elderly man, who in a 
muddy way (for he was tipsy) explained and 
answered, as far as he could, my enquiries 
about this place and the ceremonies held here. 
I found more agreeable company in some little 
children ; one of whom, upon my request, re. 



714 COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1S33 



cited the Lord's Prayer to me, and I helped 
her to a clearer understanding' of it as well as 
I could; but I was not at all satisfied with my 
own part; hers was much better done, and I 
am persuaded that, like other children, she 
knew more about it than she was able to ex- 
press, especially to a stranger. 

Once on the top of Tynwald's formal 

mound 
(Still marked with green turf circles nar- 
rowing 
Stage above stage) would sit this Island's 

King, 
The laws to promulgate, enrobed and 

crowned : 
While, compassing the little mount around, 
Degrees aud Orders stood, each under each: 
Now, like to things within fate's easiest 

reach 
The power is merged, the pomp a grave 

has found. 
Off with yon cloud, old Snafell ! that thine 

eye 
Over three Realms may take its widest 

range ; 
And let, for them, thy fountains utter strange 
Voices, thy winds break forth in prophecy, 
If the whole State must suffer mortal change 
Like Mona's miniature of sovereignty. 



XXI 
1833- 1835 

Despond who will — / heard a voice ex- 
claim, 
u Though fierce the assault, and shattered 

the defence, 
It cannot be that Britain's social frame, 
The glorious work of time and providence, 
Before a flying season's rash pretence, 
Should fall; that She, whose virtue put to 

shame, 
When Europe prostrate lay, the Con- 
queror's aim, 
Should perish, self-subverted. Black and 

dense 
The cloud is ; but brings that a day of doom 
To Liberty ? Her sun is up the while, 
That orb whose beams round Saxon Alfred 

shone : 
Then laugh, ye innocent Vales ! ye Streams, 

sweep on, 
Nor let one billow of our heaven-blest Isle 
Toss in the fanning wind a humbler plume." 



XXII 

IN THE FRITH OF CLYDE, AILSA 
CRAG 

DURING AN ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, JULY IJ 

1833- 1835 

The morning- of the eclipse was exquisitely 
beautiful while we passed the Crag- as described 
in the Sonnet. On the deck of the steaml>oat 
were several persons of the poor and labouring 
class, and I could not but be struck by their 
cheerful talk with each other, while not one of 
them seemed to notice the magnificent objects 
with which we were surrounded ; and even the 
phenomenon of the eclipse attracted but little 
of their attention. Was it right not to regret 
this ? They appeared to me, however, so much 
alive in their own minds to their own concerns 
that I could not look upon it as a misfortune 
that they had little perception for such 
pleasures as cannot be cultivated without ease 
and leisure. Yet if one surveys life in all its 
duties and relations, such ease and leisure will 
not be found so enviable a privilege as it may 
at first appear. Natural Philosophy, Painting - , 
and Poetry, and refined taste, are no doubt 
great acquisitions to society ; but among- those 
who dedicate themselves to such pursuits it is 
to be feared that few are as happy, and as con- 
sistent in the management of their lives, as the 
class of persons who at that time led me into 
this course of reflection. I do not mean by this 
to be understood to derogate from intellectual 
pursuits, for that would be monstrous : I say it 
in deep gratitude for this compensation to those 
whose cares are limited to the necessities of 
daily life. Among them, self -tormentors, so 
numerous in the higher classes of society, are 
rare. 

Since risen from ocean, ocean to defy, 
Appeared the crag of Ailsa, ne'er did morn 
With gleaming lights more gracefully adorn 
His sides, or wreathe with mist his forehead 

high: 
Now, faintly darkening with the sun's 

eclipse, 
Still is he seen, in lone sublimity, 
Towering above the sea and little ships; 
For dwarfs the tallest seem while sailing by, 
Each for her haven; with her freight of 

Care, 
Pleasure, or Grief, and Toil that seldom 

looks 
Into the secret of to-morrow's fare; 
Though poor, yet rich, without the wealth 

of books, 



COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 715 



Or aught that watchful Love to Nature owes 
For her mute Powers, fixed Forms, or 
transient Shows. 



XXIII 
ON THE FRITH OF CLYDE 

IN A STEAMBOAT 
I333- 1835 

The mountain outline on the north of this 
island, as seen from the Frith of Clyde, is much 
the finest I have ever noticed in Scotland or 
elsewhere. 

Arran ! a single-crested Teneriffe, 
A St. Helena next — in shape and hue, 
Varying her crowded peaks and ridges blue; 
Who but must covet a cloud-seat, or skiff 
Built for the air, or winged Hippogriff ? 
That he might fly, where no one could 

pursue, 
From this dull Monster and her sooty crew; 
And, as a God, light on thy topmost cliff. 
Impotent wish ! which reason would despise 
If the mind knew no union of extremes, 
No natural bond between the boldest 

schemes, 
Ambition frames, and heart-humilities. 
Beneath stern mountains many a soft vale 

lies, 
And lofty springs give birth to lowly 

streams. 



XXIV 

ON REVISITING DUNOLLY 
CASTLE 

1833- 183S 

See former series, " Yarrow Revisited," etc., 
p. 685. 

The captive Bird was gone ; — to cliff or 
moor 

Perchance had flown, delivered by the 
storm ; 

Or he had pined, and sunk to feed the 
worm : 

Him found we not: but, climbing a tall 
tower, 

There saw, impaved with rude fidelity 

Of art mosaic, in a roofless floor, 

An Eagle with stretched wings, but beam- 
less eye — 



An Eagle that could neither wail nor soar. 
Effigy of the Vanished — (shall I dare 
To call thee so ?) or symbol of fierce deeds 
And of the towering courage which past 

times 
Rejoiced in — take,whate'er thou be,a share, 
Not undeserved, of the memorial rhymes 
That animate my way where'er it leads ! 



XXV 

THE DUNOLLY EAGLE 

i833- 1835 

Not to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew; 
But when a storm, on sea or mountain bred, 
Came and delivered him, alone he sped 
Into the castle-dungeon's darkest mew. 
Now, near his master's house in open view 
He dwells, and hears indignant tempests 

howl, 
Kennelled and chained. Ye tame domestic 

fowl, 
Beware of him ! Thou, saucy cockatoo, 
Look to thy plumage and thy life ! — The 

roe, 
Fleet as the west wind, is for him no quarry; 
Balanced in ether he will never tarry, 
Eyeing the sea's blue depths. Poor Bird ! 

even so 
Doth man of brother man a creature make 
That clings to slavery for its own sad sake. 



XXVI 

WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF 
MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN 

1824. 1827 

The verses — 

" Or strayed 
From hope and promise, self-betrayed," 

were, I am sorry to say, suggested from appre- 
hensions of the fate of my friend, H. C., the 
subject of the verses addressed to " H. C. when 
six years old." The piece to " Memory " arose 
out of similar feelings. 

Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze, 
Fragments of far-off melodies, 
With ear not coveting the whole, 
A part so charmed the pensive soul. 
While a dark storm before my sight 
Was yielding, on a mountain height 



}a6 COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 



Loose vapours have I watched, that won 

Prismatic colours from the sun; 

Nor felt a wish that heaven would show 

The image of its perfect bow. 10 

What need, then, of these finished Strains ? 

Away with counterfeit Remains ! 

An abbey in its lone recess, 

A temple of the wilderness, 

Wrecks though they be, announce with 

feeling 
The majesty of honest dealing. 
Spirit of Ossian ! if imbound 
In language thou may'st yet be found, 
If aught (intrusted to the pen 
Or floating on the tongues of men, 20 

Albeit shattered and impaired) 
Subsist thy dignity to guard, 
In concert with memorial claim 
Of old grey stone, and high-born name 
That cleaves to rock or pillared cave 
Where moans the blast, or beats the wave, 
Let Truth, stern arbitress of all, 
Interpret that Original, 
And for presumptuous wrongs atone; — 
Authentic words be given, or none ! 30 

Time is not blind ; — yet He, who spares 
Pyramid pointing to the stars, 
Hath preyed with ruthless appetite 
On all that marked the primal flight 
Of the poetic ecstasy 
Into the land of mystery. 
No tongue is able to rehearse 
One measure, Orpheus ! of thy verse; 
Musjeus, stationed with his lyre 
Supreme among the Elysian quire, 40 

Is, for the dwellers upon earth, 
Mute as a lark ere morning's birth. 
Why grieve for these, though past away 
The music, and extinct the lay ? 
When thousands, by severer doom, 
Full early to the silent tomb 
Have sunk, at Nature's call; or strayed 
From hope and promise, self -betrayed ; 
The garland withering on their brows; 
Stung with remorse for broken vows; 50 
Frantic — else how might they rejoice ? 
And friendless, by their own sad choice ! 
Hail, Bards of mightier grasp ! on you 
I chiefly call, the chosen Few, 
Who cast not off the acknowledged guide, 
Who faltered not, nor turned aside; 
Whose lofty genius could survive 
Privation, under sorrow thrive; 
In whom the fiery Muse revered 
The symbol of a snow-white beard, 60 



Bedewed with meditative tears 
Dropped from the lenient cloud of years. 
Brothers in soul ! though distant times 
Produced you nursed in various climes, 
Ye, when the orb of life had waned, 
A plenitude of love retained: 
Hence, while hi you each sad regret 
By corresponding hope was met, 
Ye lingered among human kind, 
Sweet voices for the passing wind, 70 

Departing sunbeams, loth to stop, 
Though smiling on the last hill top ! 
Such to the tender-hearted maid 
Even ere her joys begin to fade ; 
Such, haply, to the rugged chief 
By fortune crushed, or tamed by grief; 
Appears, on Morven's lonely shore, 
Dim-gleaming through imperfect lore, 
The Son of Fingal; such was blind 
Mseonides of ampler mind; 80 

Such Milton, to the fountain head 
Of glory by Urania led ! 

XXVII 
CAVE OF STAFFA 
1833- 1835 
We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd, 
Not One of us has felt the far-famed sight ; 
How could we feel it ? each the other's blight, 
Hurried and hurrying, volatile and loud. 
O for those motions only that invite 
The Ghost of Fingal to his tuneful Cave 
By the breeze entered, and wave after wave 
Softly embosoming the timid light ! 
And by one Votary who at will might stand 
Gazing and take into his mind and heart, 
With undistracted reverence, the effect 
Of those proportions where the almighty 

hand 
That made the worlds, the sovereign Archi- 
tect, 
Has deigned to work as if with human Art ! 

XXVIII 
CAVE OF STAFFA 

AFTER THE CROWD HAD DEPARTED 
1833. 1835 

Thanks for the lessons of this Spot — fit 

school 
For the presumptuous thoughts that would 

assign 



COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 717 



Mechanic laws to agency divine; 

And, measuring heaven by earth, woidd 

overrule 
Infinite Power. The pillared vestibule, 
Expanding yet precise, the roof embowed, 
Might seem designed to humble man, when 

proud 
Of his best workmanship by plan and tool. 
Down-bearing with his whole Atlantic weight 
Of tide and tempest on the Structure's base, 
And flashing to that Structure's topmost 

height, 
Ocean has proved its strength, and of its 

grtice 
In calms is conscious, finding for his freight 
Of softest music some responsive place. 

XXIX 

CAVE OF STAFFA 

1833- 1835 
Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and 

claims 
In every cell of Fingal's mystic Grot, 
Where are ye ? Driven or venturing to the 

spot, 
Our fathers glimpses caught of your thin 

Frames, 
And, by your mien and bearing knew your 

names ; 
And they could hear his ghostly song who 

trod 
Earth, till the flesh lay on him like a load, 
While he struck his desolate harp without 

hopes or aims. 
Vanished ye are, but subject to recall; 
Why keep we else the instincts whose dread 

law 
Ruled here of yore, till what men felt they 

saw, 
Not by black arts but magic natural ! 
If eyes be still sworn vassals of belief, 
Yon light shapes forth a Bard, that shade a 

Chief. 

XXX 

FLOWERS ON THE TOP OF THE 
PILLARS AT THE ENTRANCE 
OF THE CAVE 

1833- 1835 
Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, 
Children of Summer ! Ye fresh Flowers 
that brave 



What Summer here escapes not, the fierce 

wave, 
And whole artillery of the western blast, 
Battering the Temple's front, its long-drawn 

.nave 
Smiting, as if each moment were their last. 
But ye, bright Flowers on frieze and archi- 
trave 
Survive, and once again the Pile stands fast: 
Calm as the Universe, from specular towers 
Of heaven contemplated by Spirits pure 
With mute astonishment, it stands sus- 
tained 
Through every part in symmetry, to endure, 
Unhurt, the assault of Time with all his 

hours, 
As the supreme Artificer ordained. 

XXXI 
IONA 

1833- 1835 

On to Iona ! — What can she afford 

To us save matter for a thoughtful sigh, 

Heaved over ruin with stability 

In urgent contrast ? To diffuse the Word 

(Thy Paramount, mighty Nature ! and 

Time's Lord) 
Her Temples rose, 'mid pagan gloom; but 

why, 
Even for a moment, has our verse deplored 
Their wrongs, since they fulfilled their 

destiny ? 
And when, subjected to a common doom 
Of mutability, those far-famed Piles 
Shall disappear from both the sister Isles, 
Iona's Saints, forgetting not past days, 
Garlands shall wear of amaranthine bloom, 
While heaven's vast sea of voices chants 

their praise. 



XXXII 

IONA 

UPON LANDING 

I833- 1835 

How sad a welcome ! To each voyager 
Some ragged child holds up for sale a store 
Of wave-worn pebbles, pleading on the 

shore 
Where once came monk and nun with gen- 
tle stir, 



718 COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 



Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer. 
Yet is yon neat trim church a grateful speck 
Of novelty amid the sacred wreck 
Strewn far and wide. Think, proud Philo- 
sopher ! 
Fallen though she be, this Glory of the 

west, 
Still on her sons the beams of mercy shine ; 
And " hopes, perhaps more heavenly bright 

than thine, 
A grace by thee unsought and unpossest, 
A faith more fixed, a rapture more divine, 
Shall gild their passage to eternal rest." 



XXXIII 
THE BLACK STONES OF IONA 

1833- 1835 
See Martin's Voyage among the Western Isles. 

Here on their knees men swore: the stones 

were black, 
Black in the people's minds and words, yet 

they 
Were at that time, as now, in colour grey. 
But what is colour, if upon the rack 
Of conscience souls are placed by deeds 

that lack 
Concord with oaths ? What differ night 

and day 
Then, when before the Perjured on his way 
Hell opens, and the heavens in vengeance 

crack 
Above his head uplifted in vain prayer 
To Saint, or Fiend, or to the Godhead 

whom 
He had insulted — Peasant, King, or Thane? 
Fly where the culprit may, guilt meets a 

doom; 
And, from invisible worlds at need laid 

bare, 
Come links for social order's awful chain. 



XXXIV 

1833- 1835 

Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's 

Cell, 
Where Christian piety's soul - cheering 

spark 
(Kindled from Heaven between the light 

and dark 



Of time) shone like the morning-star, fare- 
well ! — 
And fare thee well, to Fancy visible, 
Remote St. Kilda, lone and loved sea- 
mark 
For many a voyage made in her swift 

bark, 
When with more hues than in the rainbow 

dwell 
Thou a mysterious intercourse dost hold, 
Extracting from clear skies and air serene, 
And out of sun-bright waves, a lucid veil, 
That thickens, spreads, and, mingling fold 

with fold, 
Makes known, when thou no longer canst 

be seen, 
Thy whereabout, to warn the approaching 
sail. 

XXXV- 
GREENOCK 

1833- 1835 

Per me si va nella Citta dolente. 

We have not passed into a doleful City, 
We who were led to-day down a grim dell, 
By some too boldly named " the Jaws of 

Hell: " 
Where be the wretched ones, the sights for 

pity? 
These crowded streets resound no plaintive 

ditty: — 
As from the hive where bees hi summer 

dwell, 
Sorrow seems here excluded; and that 

knell, 
It neither damps the gay, nor checks the 

witty. 
Alas ! too busy Rival of old Tyre, 
Whose merchants Princes were, whose 

decks were thrones; 
Soon may the punctual sea in vain respire 
To serve thy need, in union with that 

Clyde 
Whose nursling current brawls o'er mossy 

stones, 
The poor, the lonely, herdsman's joy and 

pride. 

XXXVI 

1833- 1835 

Mosgiel was thus pointed out to me by a 
young man on the top of the coach on nay way 



COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 719 



from Glasgow to Kilmarnock. It is remark- 
able that, though Burns lived some time here, 
and during much the most productive period 
of his poetical life, he nowhere adverts to the 
splendid prospects stretching towards the sea 
and bounded by the peaks of Arran on one 
part, which in clear weather he must have had 
daily before his eyes. In one of his poetical 
effusions he speaks of describing u fair Nature's 
face " as a privilege on which he sets a high 
value; nevertheless, natural appearances rarely 
take a lead in his poetry. It is as a human 
being, eminently sensitive and intelligent, and 
not as a poet, clad in his priestly robes and 
carrying the ensigns of sacerdotal office, that 
he interests and affects us. Whether he speaks 
of rivers, hills, and woods, it is not so much on 
account of the properties with which they are 
absolutely endowed, as relatively to local pa- 
triotic remembrances and associations, or as 
they ministered to personal feelings, especially 
those of love, whether happy or otherwise ; — 
yet it is not always so. Soon after we had 
passed Mosgiel Farm we crossed the Ayr, mur- 
muring and winding through a narrow woody 
hollow. His line — " Auld hermit Ayr strays 
through his woods " — came at once to my 
mind with Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, — 
Ayrshire streams over which he breathes a sigh 
as being unnamed in song ; and surely his own 
attempts to make them known were as success- 
ful as his heart could desire. 

" There ! " said a Stripling, pointing with 

meet pride 
Towards a low roof with green trees half 

concealed, 
"Is Mosgiel Farm; and that's the very 

field 
Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far 

and wide 
A plain below stretched seaward, while, 

descried 
Above sea -clouds, the Peaks of Arran 

rose ; 
And, by that simple notice, the repose 
Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. 
Beneath " the random bield of clod or 

stone " 
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in 

flower 
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural 

hour 
Have passed away; less happy than the 

One 
That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to 

prove 
The tender charm of poetry and love. 



XXXVII 

THE RIVER EDEN, CUMBER- 
LAND 

i833- 1335 

" Nature gives thee flowers that have no rivals 
among British bowers." This can scarcely be 
true to the letter ; but, without stretching the 
point at all, I can say that the soil and air ap- 
pear more congenial with many upon the banks 
of this river than I have observed in any other 
parts of Great Britain. 

Eden ! till now thy beauty had I viewed 
By glimpses only, and confess with shame 
That verse of mine, whate'er its varying 

mood, 
Repeats but once the sound of thy sweet 

name : 
Yet fetched from Paradise that honour 

came, 
Rightfully borne; for Nature gives thee 

flowers 
That have no rivals among British bowers; 
And thy bold rocks are worthy of their 

fame. 
Measuring thy course, fair Stream ! at 

length I pay 
To my life's neighbour dues of neighbour- 
hood; 
But I have traced thee on thy winding way 
With pleasure sometimes by this thought 

restrained — 
For things far off we toil, while many a 

good 
Not sought, because too near, is never 

gained. 

XXXVIII 

MONUMENT OF MRS. HOWARD 

by Nollekens 

IN WETHERAL CHURCH, NEAR CORBY, 
ON THE BANKS OF THE EDEN 

I833- 1835 
Before this monument was put up in the 
Church at Wetheral, I saw it in the sculptor's 
studio. Nollekens, who, by the bye, was a 
strange and grotesque figure that interfered 
much with one's admiration of his works, 
showed me at the same time the various models 
in clay which he had made, one after another, 
of the Mother and her Infant : the improvement 
on each was surprising ; and how so much grace, 



72o COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 



beauty, and tenderness had come out of such a 
head I was sadly puzzled to conceive. Upon a 
window-seat in his parlour lay two casts of 
faces, one of the Duchess of Devonshire, so 
noted in her day ; and the other of Mr. Pitt, 
taken after his death, a ghastly resemblance, 
as these thing's always are, even when taken 
from the living subject, and more ghastly in 
this instance from the peculiarity of the fea- 
tures. The heedless and apparently neglect- 
ful manner in which the faces of these two 
persons were left — the one so distinguished in 
London Society, and the other upon whose 
counsels and public conduct, during a most 
momentous period, depended the fate of this 
great Empire and perhaps of all Europe — 
afforded a lesson to which the dullest of casual 
visitors could scarcely be insensible. It touched 
me the more because I had so often seen Mr. 
Pitt upon his own ground at Cambridge and 
upon the floor of the House of Commons. 

Stretched on the dying Mother's lap, lies 

dead 
Her new-born Babe; dire ending of bright 

hope ! 
But Sculpture here, with the divinest scope 
Of luminous faith, heavenward hath raised 

that head 
So patiently; and through one hand has 

spread 
A touch so tender for the insensate Child — 
(Earth's lingering love to parting recon- 
ciled, 
Brief parting, for the spirit is all but fled) — 
That we, who contemplate the turns of life 
Through this still medium, are consoled and 

cheered; 
Feel with the Mother, think the severed 

Wife 
Is less to be lamented than revered; 
And own that Art, triumphant over strife 
And pain, hath powers to Eternity endeared. 



XXXIX 

SUGGESTED BY THE FORE- 
GOING 

I833- i83S 

Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wert 
thou 

In heathen schools of philosophic lore; 

Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore 

The Tragic Muse thee served with thought- 
ful vow; 



And what of hope Elysium could allow 
Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore 
Peace to the Mourner. But when He who 

wore 
The crown of thorns around his bleeding 

brow 
Warmed our sad being with celestial light, 
Then Arts which still had drawn a soften- 
ing grace 
From shadowy fountains of the Infinite, 
Communed with that Idea face to face: 
And move around it now as planets run, 
Each in its orbit round the central Sun. 



XL 

NUNNERY 
1833. 1835 , 

I became acquainted with the walks of Nun- 
nery when a boy : they are within easy reach 
of a day's pleasant excursion from the town of 
Penrith, where I used to pass my summer holi- 
days under the roof of my maternal Grand- 
father. The place is well worth visiting ; 
though, within these few years, its privacy, and 
therefore the pleasure which the scene is so 
well fitted to give, has been injuriously affected 
by walks cut in the rocks on that side the 
stream which had been left in its natural state. 

The floods are roused, and will not soon 

be weary; 
Down from the Pennine Alps how fiercely 

sweeps 
Croglin, the stately Eden's tributary ! 
He raves, or through some moody passage 

creeps 
Plotting new mischief — out again he leaps 
Into broad light, and sends, through regions 

airy, 
That voice which soothed the Nuns while 

on the steeps 
They knelt in prayer, or sang to blissful 

Mary. 
That union ceased: then, cleaving easy 

walks 
Through crags, and smoothing paths beset 

with danger, 
Came studious Taste; and many a pensive 

stranger 
Dreams on the banks, and to the river talks. 
What change shall happen next to Nunnery 

Dell? 
Canal, and Viaduct, and Railway, tell J 



COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 721 



XLI 

STEAMBOATS, VIADUCTS, AND 
RAILWAYS 

i833- 1835 

Motions and Means, on laud and sea at 

war 
With old poetic feeling, not for this, 
Shall ye, by Poets even, be judged ainiss ! 
Nor shall your presence, howsoe'er it mar 
The loveliness of Nature, prove a bar 
To the Mind's gaining that prophetic sense 
Of future change, that point of vision, 

whence 
May be discovered what in soul ye are. 
In spite of all that beauty may disown 
In your harsh features, Nature doth em- 
brace 
Her lawful offspring in Man's art; and Time, 
Pleased with your triumphs o'er his brother 

Space, 
Accepts from your bold hands the proffered 

crown 
Of hope, and smiles on you with cheer 
sublime. 

XLII 

THE MONUMENT COMMONLY 
CALLED LONG MEG AND HER 
DAUGHTERS, NEAR THE 
RIVER EDEN 

1833- i835 

A weight of awe, not easy to be borne, 
Fell suddenly upon my Spirit — cast 
From the dread bosom of the unknown 

past, 
When first I saw that family forlorn. 
Speak Thou, whose massy strength and 

stature scorn 
The power of years — pre-eminent, and 

placed 
Apart, to overlook the circle vast — 
Speak, Giant-mother ! tell it to the Morn 
While she dispels the cumbrous shades of 

Night; 
Let the Moon hear, emerging from a 

cloud ; 
At whose behest uprose on British ground 
That Sisterhood, in hieroglyphic round 
Forth-shadowing, some have deemed, the 

infinite 
The inviolable God, that tames the proud ! 



XLIII 
LOWTHER 

1833- 1835 

" Cathedral pomp" It may be questioned 
whether this union was in the contemplation of 
the artist when he planned the edifice. How- 
ever this might be, a poet may be excused for 
taking the view of the subject presented in this 
Sonnet. 

Lowther ! in thy majestic Pile are seen 
Cathedral pomp and grace, in apt accord 
With the baronial castle's sterner mien; 
Union significant of God adored, 
And charters won and guarded by the 

sword 
Of ancient honour; whence that goodly 

state 
Of polity which wise men venerate, 
And will maintain, if God his help afford. 
Hourly the democratic torrent swells; 
For airy promises and hopes suborned 
The strength of backward-looking thoughts 

is scorned. 
Fall if ye must, ye Towers and Pinnacles, 
With what ye symbolise ; authentic Story 
Will say, Ye disappeared with England's 

Glory ! 

XLIV 

TO THE EARL OF LONSDALE 

1833- 1835 

" Magistratus mdicat viruin " 

Lonsdale ! it were unworthy of a Guest, 
Whose heart with gratitude to thee in- 
clines, 
If he should speak, by fancy touched, of 

signs 
On thy Abode harmoniously imprest, 
Yet be unmoved with wishes to attest 
How in thy mind and moral frame agree 
Fortitude, and that Christian Charity 
Which, filling, consecrates the human breast. 
And if the Motto on thy 'scutcheon teach 
With truth, "The Magistracy shows 

the Man;" 
That searching test thy public course has 

stood; 
As will be owned alike by bad and good, 
Soon as the measuring of life's little span 
Shall place thy virtues out of Envy's 
reach. 



722 COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 



XLV 
THE SOMNAMBULIST 

1833- i835 

This poem might be dedicated to my friends, 
Sir G. Beaumont and Mr. Rogers, jointly. 
While we were making an excursion together 
in this part of the Lake District we heard that 
Mr. Glover, the artist, while lodging at 
Lyulph's Tower, had been disturbed by a loud 
shriek, and upon rising he had learnt that it 
had come from a young woman in the house 
who was in the habit of walking in her sleep. 
In that state she had gone downstairs, and, 
while attempting to open the outer door, either 
from some difficulty or the effect of the cold 
stone upon her feet, had uttered the cry which 
alarmed him. It seemed to us all that this 
might serve as a hint for a poem, and the story 
here told was constructed and soon after put 
into verse by me as it now stands. 

List, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower 

At eve; how softly then 
Doth Aira-force, that torrent hoarse, 

Speak from the woody glen ! 
Fit music for a solemn vale ! 

And holier seems the ground 
To him who catches on the gale 
The spirit of a mournful tale, 

Embodied in the sound. 

Not far from that fair site whereon 10 

The Pleasure-house is reared, 
As story says, in antique days 

A stern-browed house appeared; 
Foil to a Jewel rich in light 

There set, and guarded well; 
Cage for a Bird of plumage bright, 
Sweet-voiced, nor wishing for a flight 

Beyond her native dell. 

To win this bright Bird from her cage, 

To make this Gem their own, 20 

Came Barons bold, with store of gold, 

And Knights of high renown; 
But one She prized, and only one; 

Sir Eglamore was he; 
Full happy season, when was known, 
Ye Dales and Hills ! to you alone 

Their mutual loyalty — 

Known chiefly, Aira ! to thy glen, 
Thy brook, and bowers of holly; 

Where Passion caught what Nature taught, 
That all but love is folly; 31 



Where Fact with Fancy stooped to play; 

Doubt came not, nor regret — 
To trouble hours that winged their way, 
As if through an immortal day 

Whose sun could never set. 

But in old times Love dwelt not long 

Sequestered with repose; 
Best throve the fire of chaste desire, 

Fanned by the breath of foes. 4 o 

" A conquering lance is beauty's test, 

And proves the Lover true ; " 
So spake Sir Eglamore, and pressed 
The drooping Emma to his breast, 

And looked a blind adieu. 

They parted. — Well with him it fared 

Through wide-spread regions errant; 
A knight of proof in love's behoof, 

The thirst of fame his warrant: 
And She her happiness can build 50 

On woman's quiet hours; 
Though faint, compared with spear and 

shield, 
The solace beads and masses yield, 

And needlework and flowers. 

Yet blest was Emma when she heard 

Her Champion's praise recounted; 
Though brain would swim, and eyes grow 
dim, 

And high her blushes mounted; 
Or when a bold heroic lay 

She warbled from full heart; 60 

Delightful blossoms for the May 
Of absence ! but they will not stay, 

Born only to depart. 

Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills 

Whatever path he chooses; 
As if his orb, that owns no curb, 

Received the light hers loses. 
He comes not back; an ampler space 

Requires for nobler deeds; 
He ranges on from place to place, 70 

Till of his doings is no trace, 

But what her fancy breeds. 

His fame may spread, but in the past 

Her spirit finds its centre; 
Clear sight She has of what he was, 

And that would now content her. 
" Still is he my devoted Knight ? " 

The tear in answer flows; 



COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN 1833 723 



Month falls on month with heavier weight; 
Day sickens round her, and the night 80 
Is empty of repose. 

In sleep She sometimes walked abroad, 

Deep sighs with quick words blending, 
Like that pale Queen whose hands are 
seen 

With fancied spots contending; 
But she is innocent of blood, — 

The moon is not more pure 
That shines aloft, while through the wood 
She tlirids her way, the sounding Flood 

Her melancholy lure ! 90 

While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, 

And owls alone are waking, 
In white arrayed, glides on the Maid 

The downward pathway taking, 
That leads her to the torrent's side 

And to a holly bower; 
By whom on this still night descried ? 
By whom hi that lone place espied ? 

By thee, Sir Eglamore ! 

A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, 

His coming step has thwarted, 101 

Beneath the boughs that heard their 
vows, 

Within whose shade they parted. 
Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see ! 

Perplexed her fingers seem, 
As if they from the holly tree 
Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly 

Flung from her to the stream. 

What means the Spectre ? Why intent 

To violate the Tree, no 

Thought Eglamore, by which I swore 

Unfading constancy ? 
Here am I, and to-morrow's sun, 

To her I left, shall prove 
That bliss is ne'er so surely won 
As when a circuit has been run 

Of valour, truth, and love. 

So from the spot whereon he stood, 

He moved with stealthy pace; 
And, drawing nigh, with his living eye, 120 

He recognised the face; 
And whispers caught, and speeches small, 

Some to the green-leaved tree, 
Some muttered to the torrent-fall; — 
" Roar on, and bring him with thy call; 

I heard, and so may He ! " 



Soul-shattered was the Knight, nor knew 

If Emma's Ghost it were, 
Or boding Shade, or if the Maid 

Her very self stood there. 130 

He touched; what followed who shall 
tell? 

The soft touch snapped the thread 
Of slumber — shrieking back she fell, 
And the Stream whirled her down the 
dell 

Along its foaming bed. 

In plunged the Knight ! — when on firm 
ground 

The rescued Maiden lay, 
Her eyes grew" bright with blissful light, 

Confusion passed away; 
She heard, ere to the throne of grace 140 

Her faithful Spirit flew, 
His voice — beheld his speaking face ; 
And, dying, from his own embrace, 

She felt that he was true. 

So was he reconciled to life: 

Brief words may speak the rest; 
Within the dell he built a cell, 

And there was Sorrow's guest; 
In hermits' weeds repose he found, 

From vain temptations free; 150 

Beside the torrent dwelling — bound 
By one deep heart-controlling sound, 

And awed to piety. 

Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course, 

Nor fear memorial lays, 
Where clouds that spread in solemn shade, 

Are edged with golden rays ! 
Dear art thou to the light of heaven, 

Though minister of sorrow; 
Sweet is thy voice at pensive even; 160 

And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven, 

Shalt take thy place with Yarrow ! 



XLVI 
TO CORDELIA M 

HALLSTEADS, ULLSWATER 
I833- 1835 

Not in the mines beyond the western main, 
You say, Cordelia, was the metal sought, 
Which a fine skill, of Indian growth, has 
wrought 



724 



COMPOSED BY THE SEASHORE 



Into this flexible yet faithful Cham; 

Nor is it silver of romantic Spain 

But from our loved Helvellyn's depths was 

brought, 
Our own domestic mountain. Thing and 

thought 
Mix strangely; trifles light, and partly 

vain, 
Can prop, as you have learnt, our nobler 

being: 
Yes, Lady, while about your neck is 

woimd 
(Your casual glance oft meeting) this bright 

cord, 
What witchery, for pure gifts of inward 

seeing, 
Lurks in it, Memory's Helper, Fancy's 

Lord, 
For precious tremblings in your bosom 

found ! 



XLVII 

1833- 1835 
Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 
To pace the ground, if path be there or none, 
While a fair region round the traveller lies 
Which he forbears again to look upon; 
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, 
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 
Of meditation, slipping in between 
The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 
If Thought and Love desert us,frorn that day 
Let us break off all commerce with the 

Muse: 
With Thought and Love companions of our 

way, 
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, 
The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her 

dews 
Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 



COMPOSED BY THE SEASHORE 

1833. 1845 

These lines were suggested during my resi- 
dence under my Son's roof at Moresby, on the 
coast near Whitehaven, at the time when I was 
composing those verses among the " Evening 
Voluntaries " that have reference to the sea. It 
was in that neighbourhood I first became ac- 
quainted with the ocean and its appearances and 
movements. My infancy and early childhood 
were passed at Cockermouth, about eight miles 
from the coast, and I well remember that mys- 
terious awe with which I used to listen to 
anything said about storms and shipwrecks. 
Sea-shells of many descriptions were common 
in the town ; and I was not a little surprised 
when I heard that Mr. Landor had denounced 
me as a plagiarist from himself for having de- 
scribed a boy applying a sea-shell to his ear 
and listening to it for intimations of what was 
going on in its native element. This I had 
done myself scores of times, and it was a belief 
among us that we could know from the sound 
whether the tide was ebbing or flowing. 

What mischief cleaves to unsubdued re- 
gret, _ 
How fancy sickens by vague hopes beset; 
How baffled projects on the spirit prey, 
And fruitless wishes eat the heart away, 
The Sailor knows; he best, whose lot is cast 
On the relentless sea that holds him fast 



On chance dependent, and the fickle star 
Of power, through long and melancholy war. 
O sad it is, in sight of foreign shores; 
Daily to think on old familiar doors, 10 

Hearths loved in childhood, and ancestral 

floors; 
Or, tossed about along a waste of foam, 
To ruminate on that delightful home 
Which with the dear Betrothed was to 

come ; 
Or came and was and is, yet meets the eye 
Never but in the world of memory; 
Or in a. dream recalled, whose smoothest 

range 
Is crossed by knowledge, or by dread, of 

change, 
And if not so, whose perfect joy makes 

sleep 
A thing too bright for breathing man to 

keep. 20 

Hail to the virtues which that perilous life 
Extracts from Nature's elemental strife ; 
And welcome glory won in battles fought 
As bravely as the foe was keenly sought. 
But to each gallant Captain and his crew 
A less imperious sympathy is due, 
Such as my verse now yields, while moon- 
beams play 
On the mute sea in this unruffled bay; 
Such as will promptly flow from every 

breast, 



BY THE SIDE OF RYDAL MERE 



725 



Where good men, disappointed in the quest 
Of wealth and power and honours, long for 
rest; 31 

Or, having known the splendours of success, 
Sigh for the obscurities of happiness. 



"NOT IN THE LUCID INTER- 
VALS OF LIFE" 

1834. 1835 

The lines following ' ' nor do words " were 
written with Lord Byron's character, as a poet, 
before me, and that of others, his contempo- 
raries, who wrote under like influences. 

Not in the lucid intervals of life 

That come but as a curse to party-strife ; 

Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh 

Of languor puts his rosy garland by; 

Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave 

Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's 

cave — 
Is Nature felt, or can be ; nor do words, 
Which practised talent readily affords, 
Prove that her hand has touched responsive 

chords; 
Nor has her gentle beauty power to move 10 
With genuine rapture and with fervent love 
The soul of Genius, if he dare to take 
Life's rule from passion craved for passion's 

sake; 
Untaught that meekness is the cherished 

bent 
Of all the truly great and all the innocent. 
But who is innocent ? By grace divine, 
Not otherwise, O Nature ! we are thine, 
Through good and evil thine, in just degree 
Of rational and manly sympathy. 
To all that Earth from pensive hearts is 

stealing, 20 

And Heaven is now to gladdened eyes re- 
vealing, 
Add every charm the Universe can show 
Through every change its aspects undergo — 
Care may be respited, but not repealed; 
No perfect cure grows on that bounded 

field. 
Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace, 
If He, through whom alone our conflicts 

cease, 
Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance, 
Come not to speed the Soul's deliverance; 
To the distempered Intellect refuse 30 

His gracious help, or give what we abuse. 



BY THE SIDE OF RYDAL MERE 

1834. 1835 

The linnet's warble, sinking towards a 

close, 
Hints to the thrush 't is time for their re- 
pose; 
The shrill-voiced thrush is heedless, and 

again 
The monitor revives his own sweet strain; 
But both will soon be mastered, and the copse 
Be left as silent as the inountain-tops, 
Ere some commanding star dismiss to rest 
The throng of rooks, that now, from twig 

or nest, 
(After a steady flight on home-bound wings, 
And a last game of mazy hoverings 10 

Around their ancient grove) with cawing 

noise 
Disturb the liquid music's equipoise. 

O Nightingale ! Who ever heard thy 
song 
Might here be moved, till Fancy grows so 

strong 
That listening sense is pardonably cheated 
Where wood or stream by thee was never 

greeted. 
Surely, from fairest spots of favoured lands, 
Were not some gifts withheld by jealous 

hands, 
This hour of deepening darkness here would 

be 
As a fresh morning for new harmony; 20 
And lays as prompt would hail the dawn of 

Night : 
A dawn she has both beautiful and bright, 
When the East kindles with the full moon's 

light; 
Not like the rising sun's impatient glow 
Dazzling the mountains, but an overflow 
Of solemn splendour, in mutation slow. 
Wanderer by spring with gradual pro- 
gress led, 
For sway prof oundly felt as widely spread ; 
To king, to peasant, to rough sailor, dear, 
And to the soldier's trumpet-wearied ear; 
How welcome wouldst thou be to this green 
Vale 3 1 

Fairer than Tempe ! Yet, sweet Nightin- 
gale ! 
From the warm breeze that bears thee on, 

alight 
At will, and stay thy migratory flight; 
Build, at thy choice, or sing, by pool or 
fount, 



726 



"SOFT AS A CLOUD IS YON BLUE RIDGE" 



Who shall complain, or call thee to account ? 
The wisest, happiest, of our kind are they 
That ever walk content with Nature's 

way, 
God's goodness — measuring bounty as it 

may; 
For whom the gravest thought of what 

they miss, 40 

Chastening the fulness of a present bliss, 
Is with that wholesome office satisfied, 
While unrepining sadness is allied 
In thankful bosoms to a modest pride. 



"SOFT AS A CLOUD IS YON 
BLUE RIDGE" 

1834. 1835 

Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge — the 

Mere 
Seems firm as solid crystal, breathless, 

clear, 
And motionless; and, to the gazer's eye, 
Deeper than ocean, in the immensity 
Of its vague mountains and unreal sky ! 
But, from the process in that still retreat, 
Turn to minuter changes at our feet; 
Observe how dewy Twilight has with- 
drawn 
The crowd of daisies from the shaven lawn, 
And has restored to view its tender green, 
That, while the sun rode high, was lost 

beneath their dazzling sheen. 
— An emblem this of what the sober Hour 
Can do for minds disposed to feel its power ! 
Thus oft, when we in vain have wished 

away 
The petty pleasures of the garish day, 
Meek eve shuts up the whole usurping 

host 
(Unbashful dwarfs each glittering at his 

post) 
And leaves the disencumbered spirit free 
To reassume a staid simplicity. 

'T is well — but what are helps of time 

and place, 
When wisdom stands in need of nature's 

grace; 
Why do good thoughts, invoked or not, 

descend, 
Like Angels from their bowers, our virtues 

to befriend; 
If yet To-morrow, unbelied, may say, 
" I come to open out, for fresh display, 
The elastic vanities of yesterday " ? 



"THE LEAVES THAT RUSTLED 
ON THIS OAK-CROWNED HILL" 

1834. 1835 

Composed by the side of Grasraere lake. The 
mountains that enclose the vale, especially to- 
wards Easdale, are most favourable to the re- 
verberation of sound. There is a passage in the 
" Excursion," towards the close of the fourth 
book, where the voice of the raven in flight is 
traced through the modifications it undergoes, 
as I have often heard it in that vale and others 
of this district. 

" Often, at the hour 
When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard, 
Within the circuit of this fabric huge, 
One voice — the solitary raven." 

The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned 

hill, 
And sky that danced among those leaves, 

are still; 
Rest smooths tbe way for sleep; in field and 

bower 
Soft shades and dews have shed their 

blended power 
On drooping eyelid and the closing flower; 
Sound is there none at which the faintest 

heart 
Might leap, the weakest nerve of supersti- 
tion start; 
Save when the Owlet's unexpected scream 
Pierces the ethereal vault; and ('mid the 

gleam 
Of unsubstantial imagery, the dream, 10 
From the hushed vale's realities, transferred 
To the still lake) the imaginative Bird 
Seems, 'mid inverted mountains, not un- 
heard. 
Grave Creature ! — whether, while the 

moon shines bright 
On thy wings opened wide for smoothest 

flight, 
Thou art discovered in a roofless tower, 
Rising from what may once have been a 

lady's bower; 
Or spied where thou sitt'st moping in thy 

mew 
At the dim centre of a churchyard yew; 
Or, from a rifted crag or ivy tod 20 

Deep in a forest, thy secure abode, 
Thou giv'st, for pastime's sake, by shriek 

or shout, 
A puzzling notice of thy whereabout — 
May the night never come, nor day be seen, 
When I shall scorn thy voice or mock thy 



THE REDBREAST 



727 



In classic ages men perceived a soul 
Of sapience in thy aspect, headless Owl ! 
Thee Athens reverenced in the studious 

grove; 
And, near the golden sceptre grasped by Jove, 
His Eagle's favourite perch, while round 

him sate 30 

The Gods revolving the decrees of Fate, 
Thou, too, wert present at Minerva's side : — 
Hark to that second larum ! — far and wide 
The elements have heard, and rock and 

cave replied. 



THE LABOURER'S NOON-DAY 
HYMN 

1834. 1835 

Bishop Ken's Morning and Evening Hymns 
are, as they deserve to be, familiarly known. 
Many other hymns have also been written on 
the same subject ; but, not being aware of any 
being designed for noon-day, I was induced to 
compose these verses. Often one has occasion 
to observe cottage children carrying, in their 
baskets, dinner to their Fathers engaged with 
their daily labours in the fields and woods. How 
gratifying would it be to me could I be assured 
that any portion of these stanzas had been sung 
by such a domestic concert under such circum- 
stances. A friend of mine has told me that she 
introduced this Hymn into a village-school 
which she superintended, and the stanzas in 
succession furnished her with texts to comment 
upon in a way which without difficulty was 
made intelligible to the children, and in which 
they obviously took delight, and they were 
taught to sing it to the tune of the old 100th 
Psalm. 

Up to the throne of God is borne 
The voice of praise at early morn, 
And he accepts the punctual hymn 
Sung as the light of day grows dim: 

Nor will he turn his ear aside 
From holy offerings at noontide: 
Then here reposing let us raise 
A song of gratitude and praise. 

What though our burthen be not light, 
We need not toil from morn to night; 10 
The respite of the mid-day hour 
Is in the thankful Creature's power. 

Blest are the moments, doubly blest, 
That, drawn from this one hour of rest, 



Are with a ready heart bestowed 
Upon the service of our God ! 

Each field is then a hallowed spot, 

An altar is in each man's cot, 

A church in every grove that spreads 

Its living roof above our heads. 20 

Look up to Heaven ! the industrious Sun 
Already half his race hath run; 
He cannot halt nor go astray, 
But our immortal Spirits may. 

Lord ! since his rising in the East, 
If we have faltered or transgressed, 
Guide, from thy love's abundant source, 
What yet remains of this day's course: 

Help with thy grace, through life's short 

day, 
Our upward and our downward way; 30 
And glorify for us the west, 
When we shall sink to final rest. 



THE REDBREAST 

SUGGESTED IN A WESTMORELAND 
COTTAGE 

1834. 1835 

Written at Rydal Mount. All our cat3 
having been banished the house, it was soon 
frequented by redbreasts. Two or three of 
them, when the window was open, would come 
in, particularly when Mrs. Wordsworth was 
breakfasting alone, and hop about the table 
picking up the crumbs. My sister being then 
confined to her room by sickness, as, dear 
creature, she still is, had one that, without be- 
ing caged, took up its abode with her, and at 
night used to perch upon a nail from which a 
picture had hung. It used to sing and fan her 
face with its wings in a manner that was very 
touching. 

Driven in by Autumn's sharpening air 

From half-stripped woods and pastures bare, 

Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home: 

Not like a beggar is he come, 

But enters as a looked-for guest, 

Confiding in his ruddy breast, 

As if it were a natural shield 

Charged with a blazon on the field, 

Due to that good and pious deed 

Of which we in the Ballad read. 10 



728 



LINES 



But pensive fancies putting by, 

And wild-wood sorrows, speedily 

He plays the expert ventriloquist; 

And, caught by glimpses now — now missed, 

Puzzles the listener with a doubt 

If the soft voice he throws about 

Comes from within doors or without ! 

Was ever such a sweet confusion, 

Sustained by delicate illusion? 

He 's at your elbow — to your feeling 20 

The notes are from the floor or ceiling; 

And there 's a riddle to be guessed, 

'Till you have marked his heaving chest, 

And busy throat whose sink and swell, 

Betray the Elf that loves to dwell 

In Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell. 

Heart-pleased we smile upon the Bird 
If seen, and with like pleasure stirred 
Commend him, when he 's only heard. 
But small and fugitive our gain 30 

Compared with hers who long hath lain, 
With languid limbs and patient head 
Reposing on a lone sick-bed; 
Where now, she daily hears a strain 
That cheats her of too busy cares, 
Eases her pain, and helps her prayers. 
And who but this dear Bird beguiled 
The fever of that pale-faced Child; 
Now cooling, with his passing whig, 
Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring: 40 
Recalling now, with descant soft 
Shed round her pillow from aloft, 
Sweet thoughts of angels hovering nigh, 
And the invisible sympathy 
Of " Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, 
Blessing the bed she lies upon " ? 
And sometimes, just as listening ends 
In slumber, with the cadence blends 
A dream of that low-warbled hymn 
Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim 50 
Lamps of faith, now burning dim, 
Say that the Cherubs, carved in stone, 
When clouds gave way at dead of night 
And the ancient church was filled with 

light, ; 

Used to sing in heavenly tone, 
Above and round the sacred places 
They guard, with winged baby-faces. 

Thrice happy Creature ! in all lands 
Nurtured by hospitable hands: 
Free entrance to this cot has he, 60 

Entrance and exit both yet free; 
And, when the keen unruffled weather 
That thus brings man and bird together, 
Shall with its pleasantness be past, 



And casement closed and door made fast, 
To keep at bay the howling blast, 
He needs not fear the season's rage, 
For the whole house is Robin's cage. 
Whether the bird flit here or there, 
O'er table lilt, or perch on chair, 70 

Though some may frown and make a stir, 
To scare him as a trespasser, 
And he belike will flinch or start, 
Good friends he has to take his part; 
One chiefly, who with voice and look 
Pleads for him from the chimney-nook, 
Where sits the Dame, and wears away 
Her long and vacant holiday; 
With images about her heart, 
Reflected from the years gone by, 8c 

On human nature's second infancy. 



LINES 

SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT FROM THE 
PENCIL OF F. STONE 

1834. 1835 

This Portrait has hung for many years in our 
principal sitting-room, and represents J. Q. as 
she was when a girl. The picture, though it is 
somewhat thinly painted, has much merit in 
tone and general effect : it is chiefly valuable, 
however, from the sentiment that pervades if. 
The Anecdote of the saying of the Monk in 
sight of Titian's picture was told in this house 
by Mr. Wilkie, and was, I believe, first com- 
municated to the public in this poem, the for- 
mer portion of which I was composing at the 
time. Southey heard the story from Miss 
Hutchinson, and transferred it to the " Doctor "; 
but it is not easy to explain how my friend Mr. 
Rogers, in a note subsequently added to his 
" Italy," was led to speak of the same remark- 
able words having many years before been 
spoken in his hearing by a monk or priest in 
front of a picture of the Last Supper, placed 
over a Refectory-table in a convent at Padua. 

Beguiled into forgetfulness of care 
Due to the day's unfinished task; of pen 
Or book regardless, and of that fair scene 
In Nature's prodigality displayed 
Before my window, oftentimes and long 
I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam 
Of beauty never Geases to enrich 
The common light; whose stillness charms 

the air, 
Or seems to charm it, into like repose ; 9 
Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear, 



LINES 



729 



Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits 
With emblematic purity attired 
In a white vest, white as her marble neck 
Is, and the pillar of the throat would be 
But for the shadow by the drooping chin 
Cast into that recess — the tender shade, 
The shade and light, both there and every- 
where, 
And through the very atmosphere she 

breathes, 
Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with 

skill 
That might from nature have been learnt 
in the hour 20 

When the lone shepherd sees the morning 

spread 
Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe'er 
Thou be that, kindling with a poet's soul, 
Hast loved the painter's true Promethean 

craft 
Intensely — from Imagination take 
The treasure, — what mine eyes behold, 

see thou, 
Even though the Atlantic ocean roll be- 
tween. 
A silver line, that rims from brow to 
crown 
And in the middle parts the braided hair, 
Just serves to show how delicate a soil 30 
The golden harvest grows in; and those 

eyes, 
Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky 
Whose azure depth their colour emulates, 
Must needs be conversant with upward 

looks, 
Prayer's voiceless service ; but now, seeking 

nought 
And shunning nought, their own peculiar 

life 
Of motion they renounce, and with the head 
Partake its inclination towards earth 
In humble grace, and quiet pensiveness 
Caught at the point where it stops short of 
sadness. 40 

Offspring of soul-bewitching Art, make 
me 
Thy confidant ! say, whence derived that air 
Of calm abstraction ? Can the ruling 

thought 
Be with some lover far away, or one 
Crossed by misfortune, or of doubted faith ? 
inapt conjecture ! Childhood here, a moon 
Crescent in simple loveliness serene, 
Has but approached the gates of woman- 
hood, 



Not entered them; her heart is yet un- 

pierced 
By the blind Archer-god ; her fancy free : 50 
The fount of feeling if unsought elsewhere, 
Will not be found. 

Her right hand, as it lies 
Across the slender wrist of the left arm 
Upon her lap reposing, holds — but mark 
How slackly, for the absent mind permits 
No firmer grasp — a little wdd-flower, 

joined 
As in a posy, with a few pale ears 
Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopped 
And in their common birthplace sheltered 

it 
'Till they were plucked together; a blue 

flower 60 

Called by the thrifty husbandman a weed; 
But Ceres, hi her garland, might have worn 
That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, 

held 
In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she 

knows, 
(Her Father told her so) in youth's gay 

dawn 
Her Mother's favourite; and the orphan 

Girl, 
In her own dawn — a dawn less gay and 

bright, 
Loves it, while there in solitary peace 
She sits, for that departed Mother's sake. 
— Not from a source less sacred is derived 
(Surely I do not err) that pensive air 71 
Of calm abstraction through the face dif- 
fused 
And the whole person. 

Words have something told 
More than the pencil can, and verily 
More than is needed, but the precious Art 
Forgives their interference — -Art divine, 
That both creates and fixes, in despite 
Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath 

wrought. 
Strange contrasts have we in this world 

of ours ! 
That posture, and the look of filial love 80 
Thinking of past and gone, with what is 

left 
Dearly united, might be swept away 
From this fair Portrait's fleshly Archetype, 
Even by an innocent fancy's slightest freak 
Banished, nor ever, haply, be restored 
To their lost place, or meet in harmony 
So exquisite ; but here do they abide, 
Enshrined for ages. Is not then the Art 



733 



THE FOREGOING SUBJECT RESUMED 



Godlike, a humble branch of the divine, 
In visible quest of immortality, go 

Stretched forth with trembling hope ? — In 

every realm, 
From high Gibraltar to Siberian plains, 
Thousands, in each variety of tongue 
That Europe knows, would echo this ap- 
peal; 
One above all, a Monk who waits on God 
In the magnific Convent built of yore 
To sanctify the Escurial palace. He — 
Guiding, from cell to cell and room to 

room, 
A British Painter (eminent for truth 
In character, and depth of feeling, shown 
By labours that have touched the hearts of 
kings, ioi 

And are endeared to simple cottagers — 
Came, in that service, to a glorious work, 
Our Lord's Last Supper, beautiful as when 

first 
The appropriate Picture, fresh from Titian's 

hand, 
Graced the Refectory: and there, while 

both 
Stood with eyes fixed upon that master- 
piece, 
The hoary Father in the Stranger's ear 
Breathed out these words: — " Here daily 

do we sit, 
Thanks given to God for daily bread, and 
here 1 10 

Pondering the mischiefs of these restless 

times, 
And thinking of my Brethren, dead, dis- 
persed, 
Or changed and changing, I not seldom 

gaze 
Upon this solemn Company unmoved 
By shock of circumstance, or lapse of 

years, 
Until I cannot but believe that they — 
They are in truth the Substance, we the 
Shadows." ^ 
So spake the mild Jeronymite, his griefs 
Melting away within him like a dream 
Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to 
speak: 120 

And I, grown old, but in a happier land, 
Domestic Portrait ! have to verse consigned 
In thy calm presence those heart-moving 

words: 
Words that can soothe, more than they 

agitate ; 
Whose spirit, like the angel that went down 



Into Bethesda's pool, with healing virtue 
Informs the fountain in the human breast 
Which by the visitation was disturbed. 
— But why this stealing tear ? Companion 

mute, 
On thee I look, not sorrowing; fare thee 

well, 130 

My Song's Inspirer, once again farewell ! 



THE FOREGOING SUBJECT 
RESUMED 

1834. 1835 

Among a grave fraternity of Monks, 
For One, but surely not for One alone, 
Triumphs, in that great work, the Painter's 

skill, 
Humbling the body, to exalt the soul; 
Yet representing, amid wreck and wrong 
And dissolution and decay, the warm 
And breathing life of flesh, as if already 
Clothed with impassive majesty, and graced 
With no mean earnest of a heritage 
Assigned to it in future worlds. Thou, 
too, 10 

With thy memorial flower, meek Portrait- 
ure ! 
From whose serene companionship I passed 
Pursued by thoughts that haunt me still; 

thou also — 
Though but a simple object, into light 
Called forth by those affections that en- 
dear 
The private hearth; though keeping thy 

sole seat 
In singleness, and little tried by time, 
Creation, as it were, of yesterday — 
With a congenial function art endued 
For each and all of us, together joined 20 
In course of nature under a low roof 
By charities and duties that proceed 
Out of the bosom of a wiser vow. 
To a like salutary sense of awe 
Or sacred wonder, growing with the power 
Of meditation that attempts to weigh, 
In faithful scales, things and their oppo- 

sites, 
Can thy enduring quiet gently raise 
A household small and sensitive, — whose 

love, 
Dependent as in part its blessings are 30 
Upon frail ties dissolving or dissolved 
On earth, will be revived, we trust, in 
heaven. 



LINES 



73i 



TO A CHILD 

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM 

1834. 1835 

This quatrain was extempore on observing 
this image, as I had often done, on the lawn of 
Rydal Mount. It was first written down in the 
Album of my God-daughter, Kotha Quillinan. 

Small service is true service while it lasts : 
Of humblest Friends, bright Creature ! 

scorn not one: 
The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts, 
Protects the lingering dew-drop from the 

Sim. 

LINES 

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF THE COUN- 
TESS OF LONSDALE. NOV. 5, 1 834 

1834. 1835 

This is a faithful picture of that amiable 
Lady, as she then was. The youthfulness of 
figure and demeanour and habits, which she 
retained in almost unprecedented degree, de- 
parted a very few years after, and she died 
without violent disease by gradual decay before 
she reached the period of old age. 

Lady ! a Pen (perhaps with thy regard, 
Among the Favoured, favoured not the 

least) 
Left, 'mid the Records of this Book in- 
scribed, 
Deliberate traces, registers of thought 
And feeling, suited to the place and time 
That gave them birth : — months passed, 

and still this hand, 
That had not been too timid to imprint 
Words which the virtues of thy Lord in- 
spired, 
Was yet not bold enough to write of Thee. 
And why that scrupulous reserve ? In 
sooth 10 

The blameless cause lay in the Theme itself. 
Flowers are there many that delight to 

strive 
With the sharp wind, and seem to court 

the shower, 
Yet are by nature careless of the sun 
Whether he shine on them or not; and 

some, 
Where'er he moves along the unclouded sky, 
Turn a broad front full on his flattering 
beams: 



Others do rather from their notice shrink, 
Loving the dewy shade, — a humble band, 
Modest and sweet, a progeny of earth, 20 
Congenial with thy mind and character, 
High-born Augusta ! 

Witness, Towers and Groves ! 
And Thou, wild Stream, that giv'st the 

honoured name 
Of Lowther to this ancient Line, bear wit- 
ness 
From thy most secret haunts; and ye 

Parterres, 
Which She is pleased and proud to call her 

own, 
Witness how oft upon my noble Friend 
Mute offerings, tribute from an inward 

sense 
Of admiration and respectful love, 
Have waited — till the affections could no 

more 30 

Endure that silence, and broke out in song, 
Snatches of music taken up and dropt 
Like those self-solacing, those under, notes 
Trilled by the redbreast, when autumnal 

leaves 
Are thin upon the bough. Mine, only mine, 
The pleasure was, and no one heard the 

praise, 
Checked, in the moment of its issue, 

checked 
And reprehended, by a fancied blush 
From the pure qualities that called it forth. 
Thus Virtue lives debarred from Virtue's 

meed; 40 

Thus, Lady, is retiredness a veil 
That, while it only spreads a softening 

charm 
O'er features looked at by discerning eyes, 
Hides half their beauty from the common 

gaze; 
And thus, even on the exposed and breezy 

hill 
Of lofty station, female goodness walks, 
When side by side with lunar gentleness, 
As in a cloister. Yet the grateful Poor 
(Such the immunities of low estate, 
Plain Nature's enviable privilege, 50 

Her sacred recompence for many wants) 
Open their hearts before Thee, pouring out 
All that they think and feel, with tears of 

j°y; 

And benedictions not unheard in heaven • 
And friend in the ear of friend, where 

speech is free 
To follow truth, is eloquent as they. 



73 2 



TO THE MOON 



Then let the Book receive in these prompt 

liues 
A just memorial; and thine eyes consent 
To read that they, who mark thy course, 

behold 
A life declining with the golden light 60 
Of summer, hi the season of sere leaves ; 
See cheerfulness undamped by stealing 

Time ; 
See studied kindness flow with easy stream, 
Illustrated with inborn courtesy; 
Aud an habitual disregard of self 
Balanced by vigilance for others' weal. 
And shall the Verse not tell of lighter 

gifts 
With these ennobling attributes conjoined 
And blended, in peculiar harmony, 
By Youth's surviving spirit ? What agile 

grace ! 7 o 

A nymph-like liberty, hi nymph-like form, 
Beheld with wonder ; whether floor or 

path 
Thou tread; or sweep — borne on the 

managed steed — 
Fleet as the shadows, over down or field, 
Driven by strong winds at play among the 

clouds. 
Yet one word more — one farewell word 

— a wish 
Which came, but it has passed into a 

prayer — 
That, as thy sun in brightness is declining, 
So — at an hour yet distant for their sakes 
Whose tender love, here faltering on the 

way 80 

Of a diviner love, will be forgiven — 
So may it set in peace, to rise again 
For everlasting glory won by faith. 



TO THE MOON 

COMPOSED BY THE SEASIDE, — ON THE 
COAST OF CUMBERLAND 

1835- 1836 

Wanderer ! that stoop'st so low, and 
com'st so near 

To human life's unsettled atmosphere; 

Who lov'st with Night and Silence to par- 
take, 

So might it seem, the cares of them that 
wake; 

And, through the cottage-lattice softly 
peeping, 



Dost shield from harm the humblest of the 

sleep ing; 
What pleasure once encompassed those 

sweet names 
Which yet hi thy behalf the Poet claims, 
An idolizing dreamer as of yore ! — 
I slight them all ; and, on this sea-beat shore 
Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend u 
That bid me hail thee as the Sailor's 

Friend; 
So call thee for heaven's grace through thee 

made known 
By confidence supplied and mercy shown, 
When not a twinkling star or beacon's light 
Abates the perils of a stormy night; 
And for less obvious benefits, that find 
Their way, with thy pure help, to heart 

and mind; 
Both for the adventurer starting in life's 

prime ; 
And veteran ranging round from clime to 

clime, 20 

Long-baffled hope's slow fever in his veins, 
And wounds and weakness oft his labour's 

sole remains. 
The aspirhig Mountains and the winding 

Streams, 
Empress of Night ! are gladdened by thy 

beams ; 
A look of thine the wilderness pervades, 
Ancl penetrates the forest's inmost shades; 
Thou, chequering peaceably the minster's 

gloom, 
Guid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's 

tomb; 
Canst reach the Prisoner — to his grated 

cell 29 

Welcome, though silent and intangible ! — 
And lives there one, of all that come and go 
On the great waters toiling to and fro, 
One, who has watched thee at some quiet 

hour 
Enthroned aloft in undisputed power, 
Or crossed by vapoury streaks and clouds 

that move 
Catching the lustre they in part reprove — 
Nor sometimes felt a fitness hi thy sway 
To call up thoughts that shun the glare of 

day, 
And make the serious happier than the gay ? 
Yes, lovely Moon ! if thou so mildly 

bright 40 

Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite, 
To fiercer mood the phrenzy-stricken brain, 
Let me a compensating faith maintain; 



TO THE MOON 



733 



That there 's a sensitive, a tender, part 
Which thou canst touch in every human 

heart, 
For healing and composure. — But, as least 
And mightiest billows ever have confessed 
Thy domination; as the whole vast Sea 
Feels through her lowest depths thy 

sovereignty ; 
So shines that countenance with especial 

grace S o 

On them who urge the keel her plains to 

trace 
Furrowing its way right onward. The most 

rude, 
Cut off from home and country, may have 

stood — 
Even till long gazing hath bedimmed his eye, 
Or the mute rapture ended in a sigh — 
Touched by accordance of thy placid cheer, 
With some internal lights to memory dear, 
Or fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast 
Tired with its daily share of earth's unrest, — 
Gentle awakenings, visitations meek; 60 
A kindly influence whereof few will speak, 
Though it can wet with tears the hardiest 

cheek. 
And when thy beauty in the shadowy 

cave 
Is hidden, buried in its monthly grave; 
Then, while the Sailor, 'mid an open sea 
Swept by a favouring wind that leaves 

thought free, 
Paces the deck — no star perhaps in sight, 
And nothing save the moving ship's own 

light 
To cheer the long dark hours of vacant 
1 night — 69 

Oft with his musings does thy image blend, 
: In his mind's eye thy crescent horns ascend, 
And thou art still, O Moon, that Sailor's 

Friend ! 

TO THE MOON 

! 

RYDAL 

I835. 1836 

' Queen of the stars ! — so gentle, so benign, 
That ancient Fable did to thee assign, 
* W hen darkness creeping o'er thy silver brow 
1 Warned thee these upper regions to forego, 
Alternate empire in the shades below — 
A Bard, who, lately near the wide-spread sea 
Traversed by gleaming ships, looked up 
to thee 



With grateful thoughts, doth now thy ris- 
ing hail 

From the close confines of a shadowy vale. 

Glory of night, consjncuous yet serene, 10 

Nor less attractive when by glimpses seen 

Through cloudy umbrage, well might that 
fair face, 

And all those attributes of modest grace, 

In days when Fancy wrought unchecked by 
fear, 

Down to the green earth fetch thee from 
thy sphere, 

To sit in leafy woods by fountains clear ! 
O still beloved (for thine, meek Power, 
are charms 

That fascinate the very Babe in arms, 

While he, uplifted towards thee, laughs 
outright, 

Spreading his little palms in his glad 
Mother's sight) 20 

still beloved, once worshipped ! Time, 
that frowns 

In his destructive flight on earthly crowns, 

Spares thy mild splendour; still those far- 
shot beams 

Tremble on dancing waves and rippling 
streams 

With stainless touch, as chaste as when thy 
praise 

Was sung by Virgin-choirs in festal lays ; 

And through dark trials still dost thou 
explore 

Thy way for increase punctual as of yore, 

When teeming Matrons — yielding to rude 
faith 

In mysteries of birth and life and death 30 

And painful struggle and deliverance — 
prayed 

Of thee to visit them with lenient aid. 

What though the rites be swept away, the 
fanes 

Extinct that echoed to the votive strains ; 

Yet thy mild aspect does not, cannot, cease 

Love to promote and purity and peace ; 

And Fancy, unreproved, even yet may trace 

Faint types of suffering in thy beamless 
face. 
Then, silent Monitress ! let us — not blind 

To worlds unthought of till the searching 
mind 40 

Of Science laid them open to mankind — 

Told, also, how the voiceless heavens de- 
clare 

God's glory; and acknowledging thy share 

In that blest charge ; let us — without offence 



734 



WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES LAMB 



To aught of highest, holiest influence — 
Receive whatever good 't is given thee to 

dispense. 
May sage and simple, catching with one eye 
The moral intimations of the sky, 
Learn from thy course, where'er their own 

be taken, 
" To look on tempests, and be never 

shaken ; " 50 

To keep with faithful step the appointed 

• way, 
Eclipsing or eclipsed, by night or day, 
And from example of thy monthly range 
Gently to brook decline and fatal change; 
Meek, patient, stedfast, and with loftier 

scope, 
Than thy revival yields, for gladsome hope ! 

WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH 
OF CHARLES LAMB 

1835. 1S36 

Light will be thrown upon the tragic circum- 
stance alluded to in this poem when, after the 
death of Charles Lamb's Sister, his biographer, 
Mr. Sergeant Talfourd, shall be at liberty to 
relate particulars which could not, at the time 
his Memoir was written, be given to the public. 
Mary Lamb was ten years older than her 
brother, and has survived him as long a time. 
Were I to give way to my own feelings, I 
should dwell not only on her genius and intel- 
lectual powers, but upon the delicacy and re- 
finement of manner which she maintained in- 
violable under most trying circumstances. She 
was loved and honoured by all her brother's 
friends ; and others, some of them strange 
characters, whom his philanthropic peculiarities 
induced him to countenance. The death of C. 
Lamb himself was doubtless hastened by his 
sorrow for that of Coleridge, to whom he had 
been attached from the time of their being 
school-fellows at Christ's Hospital. Lamb was 
a good Latin scholar, and probably would have 
gone to college upon one of the school founda- 
tions but for the impediment in his speech. 
Had such been his lot, he would most likely 
have been preserved from the indulgences of 
social humours and fancies which were often 
injurious to himself, and causes of severe re- 
gret to his friends, without, really benefiting 
the object of his misapplied kindness. 

To a good Man of most dear memory 
This Stone is sacred. Here he lies apart 
From the great city where he first drew 
breath, 



Was reared and taught; and humbly earned 

his bread, 
To the strict labours of the merchant's desk 
By duty chained. Not seldom did those 

tasks 
Tease, and the thought of time so spent 

depress, 
His spirit, but the recompence was high; 
Firm Independence, Bounty's rightful sire; 
Affections, warm as sunshine, free as air; 10 
And when the precious hours of leisure 

came, 
Knowledge and wisdom, gained from con- 
verse sweet 
With books, or while he ranged the crowded 

streets 
With a keen eye, and overflowing heart: 
So genius triumphed over seeming wrong, 
And poured out truth in works by thought- 
ful love 
Inspired — works potent over smiles and 

tears. 
And as round mountain-tops the lightning 

plays, 
Thus innocently sported, breaking forth 
As from a cloud of some grave sympathy, 20 
Humour and wild instinctive wit, and all 
The vivid flashes of his spoken words. 
From the most gentle creature nursed in 

fields 
Had been derived the name he bore — a 

name, 
Wherever Christian altars have been raised, 
Hallowed to meekness and to innocence; 
And if in him meekness at times gave way, 
Provoked out of herself by troubles strange, 
Many and strange, that hmig about his life; 
Still, at the centre of his being, lodged 30 
A soul by resignation sanctified: 
And if too often, self-reproached, he felt 
That innocence belongs not to our kind, 
A power that never ceased to abide in 

him, 
Charity, 'mid the multitude of sins 
That she can cover, left not his exposed 
To an unforgiving judgment from just 

Heaven. 
Oh, he was good, if e'er a good Man lived ! 

From a reflecting mind and sorrowing heart 
Those simple lines flowed with an earnest 

wish, 4° 

Though but a doubting hope, that they 

might serve 
Fitly to guard the precious dust of him 



WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES LAMB 735 



Whose virtues called them forth. That 

aim is missed; 
For much that truth most urgently required 
Had from a faltering pen been asked in 

vain: 
Yet, haply, on the printed page received, 
The imperfect record, there, may stand un- 

blamed 
As long as verse of mine shall breathe the 

air 
Of memory, or see the light of love. 

Thou wert a scorner of the fields, my 

Friend, 50 

But more in show than truth; and from the 

fields, 
And from the mountains, to thy rural grave 
Transported, my soothed spirit hovers o'er 
Its green untrodden turf, and blowing 

flowers ; 
And taking up a voice shall speak (tho' still 
Awed by the theme's peculiar sanctity 
Which words less free presumed not even 

to touch) 
Of that fraternal love, whose heaven-lit 

lamp 
From infancy, through manhood, to the last 
Of threescore years, and to thy latest hour, 
Burnt on with ever-strengthening light, 

enshrined 61 

Within thy bosom. 

" Wonderful " hath been 
The love established between man and man, 
" Passing the love of women; " and between 
Man and his help-mate in fast wedlock 

joined 
Through God, is raised a spirit and soul of 

love 
Without whose blissful influence Paradise 
Had been no Paradise ; and earth were now 
A waste where creatures bearing human 

form, 
Direst of savage beasts, would roam in fear, 
Joyless and comfortless. Our days glide 

on; 71 

And let him grieve who cannot choose but 

grieve 
That he hath been an Elm without his Vine, 
And her bright dower of clustering char- 
ities, 
That, round his trunk and branches, might 

have clung 
Enriching and adorning. Unto thee, 
Not so enriched, not so adorned, to thee 
Was given (say rather, thou of later birth 
Wert given to her) a Sister — 't is a word 



Timidly littered, for she lives, the meek, 80 
The self -restraining, and the ever-kind; 
In whom thy reason and intelligent heart 
Found — for all interests, hopes, and tender 

cares, 
All softening, humanising, hallowing 

powers, 
Whether withheld, or for her sake un- 
sought — 
More than sufficient recompence ! 

Her love 
(What weakness prompts the voice to tell 

it here ?) 
Was as the love of mothers; and when 

years, 
Lifting the boy to man's estate, had called 
The long-protected to assume the part 90 
Of a protector, the first filial tie 
Was undissolved; and, in or out of sight, 
Remained imperishably interwoven 
With life itself. Thus, 'mid a shifting 

world, 
Did they together testify of time 
And season's difference — a double tree 
With two collateral stems sprung from one 

root; 
Such were they — such thro' life they might 

have been 
In union, in partition only such ; 
Otherwise wrought the will of the Most 

High; 100 

Yet, thro' all visitations and all trials, 
Still they were faithful; like two vessels 

launched 
From the same beach one ocean to explore 
With mutual help, and sailing — to their 

league 
True, as inexorable winds, or bars 
Floating or fixed of polar ice, allow. 

But turn we rather, let my spirit turn 
With thine, O silent and invisible Friend ! 
To those dear intervals, nor rare nor brief, 
When reunited, and by choice withdrawn 
From miscellaneous converse, ye were 

taught 1 1 1 

That the remembrance of foregone distress, 
And the worse fear of future ill (which oft 
Doth hang around it, as a sickly child 
Upon its mother) may be both alike 
Disarmed of power to unsettle present good 
So prized, and things inward and outward 

held 
In such an even balance, that the heart 
Acknowledges God's grace, his mercy feels, 
And in its depth of gratitude is still. 120 



736 EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF JAMES HOGG 



O gift divine of quiet sequestration ! 
The hermit, exercised in prayer and praise, 
And feeding daily on the hope of heaven, 
Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleaves 
To life-long singleness; but happier far 
Was to your souls, and, to the thoughts of 

others, 
A thousand tunes more beautiful appeared, 
Your dual loneliness. The sacred tie 
Is broken; yet why grieve? for Time but 

holds 
His moiety hi trust, till Joy shall lead 130 
To the blest world where parting is un- 
known. 



EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON 
THE DEATH OF JAMES HOGG 

1835. 1836 

These verses were written extempore, imme- 
diately after reading 1 a notice of the Ettrick 
Shepherd's death in the Newcastle paper, to the 
Editor of which I sent a copy for publication. 
The persons lamented in these verses were all 
either of my friends or acquaintance. In 
Lockhart's Life of Sir Walter Scott an account 
is given of my first meeting with him in 1803. 
How the Ettrick Shepherd and I became known 
to each other has already been mentioned in 
these notes. He was undoubtedly a man of 
original genius, but of coarse manners and low 
and offensive opinions. Of Coleridge and 
Lamb I need not speak here. Crabbe I have 
met in London at Mr. Rogers's, but more fre- 
quently and favourably at Mr. Hoare"s upon 
Hampstead Heath. Every spring he used to 
pay that family a visit of some length, and was 
upon terms of intimate friendship with Mrs. 
Hoare, and still more with her daughter-in- 
law, who has a large collection of his letters 
addressed to herself. After the Poet's decease, 
application was made to her to give up these 
letters to his biographer, that they, or at least 
part of them, might be given to the public. 
She hesitated to comply, and asked my opinion 
on the subject. " By no means," was my an- 
swer, grounded not. upon any objection there 
might be to publishing a selection from these 
letters, but from an aversion I have always felt 
to meet idle curiosity by calling back the re- 
cently departed to become the object of trivial 
and familiar gossip. Crabbe obviously for the 
most part preferred the company of women to 
that of men, for this among other reasons, that 
he did not like to be put upon the stretch in 
general conversation : accordingly in miscel- 



laneous society his talk was so much below 
what might have been expected from a man so 
deservedly celebrated, that to me it seemed 
trilling. It must upon other occasions have 
been of a different character, as I found in our 
rambles together on Hampstead Heath, and 
not so much from a readiness to communicate 
his knowledge of life and manners as of natural 
history in all its branches. His mind was in- 
quisitive, and he seems to have taken refuge 
from the remembrance of the distresses he had 
gone through, in these studies and the employ- 
ments to which they led. Moreover, such 
contemplations might tend profitably to coun- 
terbalance the painful truths which he had 
collected from his intercourse with mankind. 
Had I been more intimate with him, I should 
have ventured to touch upon his office as a min- 
ister of the Gospel, and how far his heart and 
soul were in it so as to make him a zealous and 
diligent labourer : in poetry, though he wrote 
much, as we all know, he assuredly was not so. 
I happened once to speak of pains as necessary 
to produce merit of a certain kind which I 
highly valued : his observation was — " It is 
not worth while." You are quite right, thought 
I, if the labour encroaches upon the time due 
to teach truth as a steward of the mysteries of 
God : if there be cause to fear that, write less : 
but, if poetry is to be produced at all, make 
what you do produce as good as you can. Mr. 
Rogers once told me that he expressed his re- 
gret to Crabbe that he wrote in his later works 
so much less correctly than in his earlier. 
" Yes," replied he, " but then I had a reputa- 
tion to make ; now I can afford to relax." 
Whether it was from a modest estimate of his 
own qualifications, or from causes less credit- 
able, his motives for writing verse and his hopes 
and aims were not so high as is to be desired. 
After being silent for more than twenty years, 
he again applied himself to poetry, upon the 
spur of applause he received from the periodi- 
cal publications of the day, as he himself telk 
us in one of his prefaces. Is it not to be 
lamented that a man who was so conversant 
with permanent truth, and whose writings are 
so valuable an acquisition to our country's 
literature, should have required an impulse from 
such a quarter ? — Mrs. Hemans was unfor- 
tunate as a poetess in being obliged by cir- 
cumstances to write for money, and that so 
frequently and so much, that she was compelled 
to look out for subjects wherever she could 
find them, and to write as expeditiously as 
possible. As a woman, she was to a consider- 
able degree a spoilt child of the world. She 
had been early in life distinguished for talent, 
and poems of hers were published while she 
was a girl. She had also been handsome in 



UPON SEEING A DRAWING OF THE BIRD OF PARADISE 737 



her youth, but her education had been most 
unfortunate. IShe was totally ignorant of 
housewifery, and could as easily have managed 
the spear of Minerva as her needle. It was 
from observing- these deficiencies, that, one 
day while she was under my roof, I purposely 
directed her attention to household economy, 
and told her I had purchased Scales, which I 
intended to present to a. young lady as a wed- 
ding present ; pointed out their utility (for her 
especial benefit), and said that no mdnage ought 
to be without them. Mrs. Hemans, not in the 
least suspecting my drift, reported this saying, 
in a letter to a friend at the time, as a proof of 
my simplicity. Being disposed to make large 
allowances for the faults of her education and 
the circumstances in which she was placed, I 
felt most kindly disposed towards her, and 
took her part upon all occasions, and I was not 
a little affected by learning that after she 
withdrew to Ireland, a long and severe sick- 
ness raised her spirit as it depressed her body. 
This I heard from her most intimate friends, 
and there is striking evidence of it in a poem 
written and published not long before her 
death. These notices of Mrs. Hemans would 
be very unsatisfactory to her intimate friends, 
as indeed they are to myself, not so much for 
what is saM, but what for brevity's sake is left 
unsaid. Let it suffice to add, there was much 
sympathy between us, and, if opportunity had 
been allowed me to see more of her, I should 
have loved and valued her accordingly ; as it 
is, I remember her with true affection for her 
amiable qualities, and, above all, for her deli- 
cate and irreproachable conduct during her 
long separation from an unfeeling husband, 
whom she had been led to marry from the ro- 
mantic notions of inexperienced youth. Upon 
this husband I never heard her cast the least 
reproach, nor did I ever hear her even name 
him, though she did not wholly forbear to 
touch upon her domestic position ; but never 
so as that any fault could be found with her 
manner of adverting to it. 

When first, descending from the moor- 
lands, 
I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide 
Along a bare and open valley, 
The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. 

When last along its banks I wandered, 
Through groves that had begun to shed 
Their golden leaves upon the pathways, 
My steps the Border-minstrel led. 

The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 
'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies) 10 



And death upon the braes of Yarrow, 
Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes: 

Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
From sign to sign, its stedfast course, 
Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 

The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, 
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: 
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 
Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 20 

Like clouds that rake the mountain-sum- 
mits, 
Or waves that own no curbing hand, 
How fast has brother followed brother 
From sunshine to the sunless land ! 

Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
" Who next will drop and disappear ? " 

Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, 
Like London with its own black wreath, 30 
On which with thee, O Crabbe ! forth- 
looking, 
I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 

As if but yesterday departed, 
Thou too art gone before ; but why, 
O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered, 
Should frail survivors heave a sigh ? 

Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, 
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep ; 
For Her who, ere her summer faded, 
Has sunk into a breathless sleep. 40 

No more of old romantic sorrows, 
For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn Maid ! 
With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, 
And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet 
dead. 



UPON SEEING A COLOURED 
DRAWING OF THE BIRD OF 
PARADISE IN AN ALBUM 

1835. 1S36 

I cannot forbear to record that the last seven 
lines of this Poem were composed in bed dur- 
ing the night of the day on which my sister 



73S "BY A BLEST HUSBAND GUIDED, MARY CAME" 



Sara Hutchinson died about 6 p.m., and it was 
the thought of her innocent and beautiful life 
that, through faith, prompted the words — 

" On wings that fear no glance of God's pure sight, 
No tempest from his breath." 

The reader will find two poems on pictures of 
this bird among my Poems. I will here observe 
that in a far greater number of instances than 
have been mentioned in these notes one poem 
has, as in this case, grown out of another, either 
because I felt the subject had been inadequately 
treated, or that the thoughts and images sug- 
gested in course of composition have been such 
as I found interfered with the unity indispens- 
able to every work of art, however humble in 
character. 

Who rashly strove thy Image to portray ? 
Thou buoyant minion of the tropic air; 
How could he think of the live creature — 

With a divinity of colours, drest 

In all her brightness, from the dancing crest 

Far as the last gleam of the filmy train 

Extended and extending to sustain 

The motions that it graces — and forbear 

To drop his pencil ! Flowers of every clime 

Depicted on these pages smile at time; 10 

And gorgeous insects copied with nice care 

Are here, and likenesses of many a shell 

Tossed ashore by restless waves, 

Or in the diver's grasp fetched up from 

caves 
Where sea-nymphs might be proud to 

dwell: 
But whose rash hand (again I ask) could 

dare, 
'Mid casual tokens and promiscuous shows, 
To circumscribe this Shape in fixed repose; 
Could imitate for indolent survey, 
Perhaps for touch profane, 20 

Plumes that might catch, but cannot keep, 

a stain; 
And, with cloud-streaks lightest and loftiest, 

share 
The sim's first greeting, his last farewell 

ray ! 
Resplendent Wanderer ! followed with 

glad eyes 
Where'er her course ; mysterious Bird ! 
To whom, by wondering Fancy stirred, 
Eastern Islanders have given 
A holy name — the Bird of Heaven ! 
And even a title higher still, 
The Bird of God ! whose blessed will 30 
She seems performing as she flies 



Over the earth and through the skies 
In never-wearied search of Paradise — 
Region that crowns her beauty with the 

name 
She bears for us — for us how blest, 
How happy at all seasons, could like aim 
Uphold our Spirits urged to kindred flight 
On wings that fear no glance of God's pure 

sight, 
No tempest from his breath, their promised 

rest 
Seeking with indefatigable quest 40 

Above a world that deems itself most wise 
When most enslaved by gross realities ! 



"BY A BLEST HUSBAND GUIDED, 
MARY CAME" 

1835- i835 

This lady was named Carleton ; she, along 
with a sister, was brought up in the neighbour, 
hood of Ambleside. The epitaph, a part of it 
at least, is in the church at Bromsgrove, where 
she resided after her marriage. 

By a blest Husband guided, Mary came 
From nearest kindred, Vernon her new 

name ; 
She came, though meek of soul, in seemly 

pride 
Of happiness and hope, a youthful Bride. 
O dread reverse ! if aught be so, which 

proves 
That God will chasten whom he dearly 

loves. 
Faith bore her up through pains in mercy 

given, 
And troubles that were each a step to 

Heaven: 
Two Babes were laid in earth before she 

died ; 
A third now slumbers at the Mother's 

side; 
Its Sister-twin survives, whose smiles afford 
A trembling solace to her widowed Lord. 
Reader ! if to thy bosom cling the pain 
Of recent sorrow combated in vain; 
Or if thy cherished grief have failed to 

thwart 
Time still intent on his insidious part, 
Lulling the mourner's best good thoughts 

asleep, 
Pilfering regrets we would, but cannot, 

keep; 



SONNETS 



739 



Bear with Hiiu — judge Him gently who 

makes known 
His bitter loss by this memorial Stone; 
And pray that in his faithful breast the 

grace 
Of resignation find a hallowed place. 

SONNETS 



1835 (?)• 1835 

Desponding Father ! mark this altered 

bough, 
So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed, 
Or moist with dews; what more unsightly 

now, 
Its blossoms shrivelled, and its fruit, if 

formed, 
Invisible ? yet Spring her genial brow 
Knits not o'er that discolouring and decay 
As false to expectation. Nor fret thou 
At like unlovely process in the May 
Of human life: a Stripling's graces blow, 
Fade and are shed, that from their timely 

fall 
(Misdeem it not a cankerous change) may 

grow 
Rich mellow bearings, that for thanks shall 

call: 
In all men, sinful is it to be slow 
To hope — in Parents, sinful above all. 



n 

ROMAN ANTIQUITIES DISCOVERED AT 
BISHOPSTONE, HEREFORDSHIRE 

1835 (?)• 1835 

My attention to these antiquities was directed 
by Mr. Walker, son to the itinerant Eidouranian 
Philosopher. The beautiful pavement was dis- 
covered within a few yards of the front door of 
his parsonage, and appeared from the site (in 
full view of several hills upon which there had 
formerly been Roman encampments) as if it 
might have been the villa of the commander of 
the forces, at least such was Mr. Walker's con- 
jecture. 

While poring Antiquarians search the 
ground 

Upturned with curious pains, the Bard, a 
Seer, 

Takes fire : — The men that have been re- 
appear; 



Romans for travel girt, for business gowned ; 
And some recline on couches, myrtle- 
crowned, 
In festal glee : why not ? For fresh and 

clear, 
As if its hues were of the passing year, 
Dawns this time-buried pavement. From 

that mound 
Hoards may come forth of Trajans, Maxi- 

mins, 
Shrimk into coins with all their warlike 

toil: 
Or a fierce impress issues with its foil 
Of tenderness — the Wolf, whose suckling 

Twins 
The unlettered ploughboy pities when he 

wins 
The casual treasure from the furrowed soil. 



ST. CATHERINE OF LEDBURY 

1835 (?)• 1835 

Written on a journey from Brinsop Court, 
Herefordshire. 

When human touch (as monkish books 

attest) 
Nor was applied nor could be, Ledbury 

bells 
Broke forth in concert flung adown the 

dells, 
And upward, high as Malvern's cloudy 

crest; 
Sweet tones, and caught by a noble Lady 

blest 
To rapture ! Mabel listened at the side 
Of her loved mistress: soon the music died, 
And Catherine said, (£m 31 0ft up mp rest. 
Warned in a dream, the Wanderer long 

had sought 
A home that by such miracle of sound 
Must be revealed: — she heard it now, or 

felt 
The deep, deep joy of a confiding thought; 
And there, a saintly Anchoress, she dwelt 
Till she exchanged for heaven that happy 

ground. 

IV 

i835(?)« 1835 

In the month of January, when Dora and I 
were walking from Town-end, Grasmere, across 
the vale, snow being on the ground, she espied, 



74Q 



SONNETS 



in the thick though leafless hedge, a hird's 
nest half filled with snow. Out of this com- 
fortless appearance arose this Sonnet, which 
was, in fact, written without the least reference 
to any individual object, but merely to prove to 
myself that I could, if I thought fit, write in a 
strain that Poets have been fond of. On the 
14th of February in the same year, my daughter, 
in a sportive mood, sent it as a Valentine, un- 
der a fictitious name, to her cousin C. W. 

Why art thou silent ! Is thj r love a plant 
Df such weak fibre that the treacherous air 
Of absence withers what was once so fair ? 
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? 
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigi- 
lant — 
Bound to thy service with unceasing care, 
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant 
For nought but what thy happiness could 

spare. 
Speak — though this soft warm heart, once 

free to hold 
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and 

mine, 
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold 
Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 
'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine — 
Speak, that my torturing doubts their end 
may know ! 



1835 (?). 1835 

Suggested on the road between Preston and 
Lancaster where it first gives a view of the 
Lake country, and composed on the same day, 
on the roof of the coach. 

Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein 
Whirled us o'er sunless ground beneath a 

sky 
As void of sunshine, when, from that wide 

plain, 
Clear tops of far-off mountains we descry, 
Like a Sierra of cerulean Spain, 
All light and lustre. Did no heart reply ? 
Yes, there was One; — for One, asunder fly 
The thousand links of that ethereal chain; 
And green vales open out, with grove and 

field, 
And the fair front of many a happy Home ; 
Such tempting spots as into vision come 
While Soldiers, weary of the arms they wield 
And sick at heart of strifeful Christendom, 
Gaze on the moon by parting clouds re- 
vealed. 



TO 

1335 (?)• 1835 

The fate of this poor Dove, as described, 
was told to me at Briusop Court, by the young 
lady to whom I have given the name of Lesbia. 

"Miss not the occasion : by the forelock take 
That subtile Power, the never-halting Time, 
Lest a mere moment's putting-off should make 
Mischance almost as heavy as a crime." 

" Wait, prithee, wait ! " this answer Les- 
bia threw 
Forth to her Dove, and took no further 

heed; 
Her eye was busy, while her fingers flew 
Across the harp, with soul-engrossing speed; 
But from that bondage when her thoughts 

were freed 
She rose, and toward the close-shut case- 
ment drew, 
Whence the poor unregarded Favourite, true 
To old affections, had been heard to plead 
With flapping wing for entrance. What a 

shriek ! 
Forced from that voice so lately tuned to a 

strain 
Of harmony ! — a shriek of terror, pain, 
And self-reproach ! for, from aloft, a Kite 
Pounced, — and the Dove, which from its 

ruthless beak 
She could not rescue, perished in her sight ! 

VII 

1835 (?). 1835 

Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud, 
Falsehood and Treachery, in close council 

met, 
Deep under ground, in Pluto's cabinet, 
" The frost of England's pride will soon be 

thawed ; 
Hooded the open brow that overawed 
Our schemes; the faith and honour, never 

yet 
By us with hope encountered, be upset; — 
For once I burst my bands, and cry, ap- 
plaud ! " 
Then whispered she, " The Bill is carrying 

out!" 
They heard, and, starting up, the Brood of 

Night 
Clapped hands, and shook with glee their 

matted locks; 
All Powers and Places that abhor the light 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



74i 



Joined in the transport, echoed back their 

shout, 
Hurrah for , hugging his Ballot-bos ! 

NOVEMBER 1836 

1836. 1S37 

Even so for me a Vision sanctified 

The sway of Death; long ere mine eyes had 

seen 
Thy countenance — the still rapture of thy 

mien — 
When thou, dear Sister ! wert become 

Death's Bride: 
No trace of pain or languor could abide 
That change : — age on thy brow was 

smoothed — thy cold 
Wan cheek at once was privileged to unfold 
A loveliness to living youth denied. 
Oh ! if within me hope should e'er decline, 



The lamp of faith, lost Friend ! too faintly 

burn; 
Then may that heaven-revealing smile of 

thine, 
The bright assurance, visibly return: 
And let my spirit in that power divine 
Rejoice, as, through that power, it ceased 

to mourn. 

"SIX MONTHS TO SIX YEARS 
ADDED HE REMAINED" 

1836. 1836 

Six months to six years added he remained 
Upon this sinful earth, by sin unstained: 
O blessed Lord ! whose mercy then removed 
A Child whom every eye that looked on 

loved ; 
Support us, teach us calmly to resign 
What we possessed, and now is wholly thine ! 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 

1837-42. 1842 

During my whole life I had felt a strong 1 desire to visit Rome and the other celebrated cities 
and regions of Italy, but did not think myself justified in incurring the necessary expense till I 
received from Mr. Moxon, the publisher of a large edition of my poems, a sum sufficient to en- 
able me to gratify my wish without encroaching upon what I considered due to my family. My 
excellent friend H. C. Robinson readily consented to accompany me, and in March 1837, we set 
off from London, to which we returned in August, earlier than my companion wished or I should 
myself have desired had I been, like him, a bachelor. These Memorials of that tour touch upon 
but a very few of the places and objects that interested me, and, in what they do advert to, are 
for the most part much slighter than I could wish. More particularly do I regret that there is 
no notice in them of the South of France, nor of the Roman antiquities abounding in that dis- 
trict, especially of the Pont de Degard, which, together with its situation, impressed me full as 
much as any remains of Roman architecture to be found in Italy. Then there was Vaucluse, with 
its Fountain, its Petrarch, its rocks of all seasons, its small plots of lawn in their first vernal 
freshness, and the blossoms of the peach and other trees embellishing the scene on every side. 
The beauty of the stream also called forcibly for the expression of sympathy from one who from 
his childhood had studied the brooks and torrents of his native mountains. Between two and 
three hours did I run about climbing the steep and rugged crags from whose base the water of 
Vaucluse breaks forth. "Has Laura's Lover," often said I to myself, " ever sat down upon 
this stone ? or has his foot ever pressed that turf ? " Some, especially of the female sex, would 
have felt sure of it: my answer was (impute it to my years), " I fear not." Is it not in fact 
obvious that many of his love verses must have flowed, I do not say from a wish to display his 
own talent, but from a habit of exercising his intellect in that way rather than from an impulse 
of his heart ? It is otherwise with his Lyrical poems, and particularly with the one upon the 
degradation of his country : there he pours out his reproaches, lamentations, and aspirations like 
an ardent and sincere patriot. But enough : it is time to turn to my own effusions, such as they are. 



TO 
HENRY CRABB ROBINSON 

Companion ! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered", 
In whose experience trusting, day by day 
Treasures I gained with zeal that neither feared 
The toils nor felt the crosses of the way, 



These records take, and happy should I be 
Were but the Gift a meet Return to thee 
For kindnesses that never ceased to flow, 
And prompt self-sacrifice to which I owe 
Far more than any heart but mine can know. 



Rydal Mount, Feb. Wh, 1842. 



W. Wordsworth. 



742 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



The Tour of which the following' Poems are 
very inadequate remembrances was shortened 
by report, too well founded, of the prevalence 
of Cholera at Naples. To make some amends 
for what was reluctantly left unseen in the 
tjouth of Italy, we visited the Tuscan Sanctu- 
aries among' the Apennines, and the principal 
Italian Lakes among the Alps. Neither of 
those lakes, nor of Venice, is there any notice 
in these Poems, chiefly because I have touched 
upou them elsewhere. See, in particular " De- 
scriptive Sketches," " Memorials of a Tour on 
the Continent in 1820," and a Sonnet upon the 
extinction of the Venetian Republic. 



I 

MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPEN- 
DENTE 

April 1837. 1842 

" Not the less 
Had his sunk eye kindled at those dear words 
That spake of bards and minstrels." 

His, Sir Walter Scott's eye, did in fact kindle 
at them, for the lines, " Places forsaken now," 
and the two that follow were adopted from a 
poem of mine which nearly forty years ago was 
in part read to him, and he never forgot them. 

" Old Helvellyn's brow, 
Where once together, in his day of strength, 
We stood rejoicing." 

Sir Humphrey Davy was with us at the time. 
We had ascended from Paterdale, and I could 
not but admire the vigour with which Scott 
scrambled along that horn of the mountain 
called ''Striding Edge." Our progress was 
necessarily slow, and was beguiled by Scott's 
telling many stories and amusing anecdotes, as 
was his custom. Sir H. Davy would have 
probably been better pleased if other topics 
had occasionally been interspersed, and some 
discussion entered upon : at all events he did 
not remain with us long at the top of the moun- 
tain, but left us to find our way down its steep 
side together into the vale of Grasmere, where, 
at my cottage, Mrs. Scott was to meet us at 
dinner. 



" With faint smile 
He said, — ' When I am there, although 't is fair, 
'T will be another Yarrow.' " 

See among these notes the one on ' ' Yarrow 
Revisited." 



" A few short steps (painful they were)." 

This, though introduced here, I did not know 
till it was told me at Rome by Miss Mackenzie 
of Seaforth, a lady whose friendly attentions 



during my residence at Rome I have gratefully 
acknowledged, with expressions of sincere re- 
gret that she is no more. Miss M. told me 
that she accompanied Sir Walter to the Jani- 
cular Mount, and, after showing him the grave 
of Tasso in the church upon the top, and a 
mural monumeut there erected to his memory, 
they left the church and stood together on 
the brow of the hill overlooking the city of 
Rome : his daughter Anne was with them, and 
she, naturally desirous, for the sake of Miss 
Mackenzie especially, to have some expression 
of pleasure from her father, half reproached 
him foil showing nothing of that kind either by 
his looks or voice : '' How can I," replied he, 
" having- only one leg to stand upon, and that 
in extreme pain ! " so that the prophecy was 
more than fulfilled. 



" Over waves rough and deep." 

We took boat near the lighthouse at the 
point of the right horn of the bay which makes 
a sort of natural port for Genoa ; but the wind 
was high, and the waves long and rough, so 
that I did not feel quite recompensed by the 
view of the city, splendid as it was, for the 
danger apparently incurred. The boatman (I 
had only one) encouraged me, saying we were 
quite safe, but I was not a little glad when we 
gained the shore, though Shelley and Byron — 
one of them at least, who seemed to have 
courted agitation from any quarter — would 
have probably rejoiced in such a situation: 
more than once I believe were they both in ex- 
treme danger even on the Lake of Geneva. 
Every man however has his fears of some kind 
or other ; and no doubt they had theirs : of all 
men whom I have ever known, Coleridge had 
the most of passive courage in bodily peril, but 
no one was so easily cowed when moral firm- 
ness was required in miscellaneous conversation 
or in the daily intercourse of social life. 



*' How lovely robed in forenoon light and shade, 
Each ministering to each, didst thou appear, 
Savona." 

There is not a single bay along this beautiful 
coast that might not raise in a traveller a wish 
to take up his abode there, each as it succeeds 
seems more inviting than the other ; but the 
desolated convent on the cliff in the bay of 
Savona struck my fancy most ; and had I, for 
the sake of my own health or that of a dear 
friend, or any other cause, been desirous of a 
residence abroad, I should have let my thoughts 
loose upon a scheme of turning some part of 
this building into a habitation provided as far 
as might be with English comforts. There is 
close by it a row or avenue, I forget which, of 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



743 



tall cypresses. I could not forbear saying to 
myself — '* What a sweet family walk, or one 
for lonely musings, would be found under the 
shade ! " but there, probably, the trees remained 
little noticed and seldom enjoyed. 



" This flowering broom's dear neighbourhood." 

The broom is a great ornament through the 
months of March and April to the vales and 
hills of the Apennines, in the wild parts of 
which it blows in the utmost profusion, and of 
course successively at different elevations as the 
season advances. It surpasses ours in beauty 
and fragrance, but, speaking from my own 
limited observation only, I cannot affirm ihe 
same of several of their wild spring flowers, the 
primroses in particular, which I saw not un- 
f requently but thinly scattered and languish- 
ing compared to ours. 

The note at the close of this poem, upon the 
Oxford movement, was intrusted to my friend 
Mr.'Frederiek Faber. I told him what I wished 
to be said, and begged that, as he was inti- 
mately acquainted with several of the Leaders 
of it, he would express my thought in the way 
least likely to be taken amiss by them. Much 
of the work they are undertaking was griev- 
ously wanted, and God grant their endeavours 
may continue to prosper as they have done. 

Ye Apennines ! with all your fertile vales 
Deeply embosomed, and your winding shores 
Of either sea — an Islander by birth, 
A Mountaineer by habit, would resound 
Your praise, in meet accordance with your 

claims 
Bestowed by Nature, or from man's great 

deeds 
Inherited : — presumptuous thought ! — it 

fled 
Like vapour, like a towering cloud, dis- 
solved. 
Not, therefore, shall my mind give way to 

sadness; — 
Yon snow-white torrent-fall, plumb down it 

drops 10 

Yet ever hangs or seems to hang in air, 
Lulling the leisure of that high perched 

town, 
Aquapendente, in her lofty site 
Its neighbour and its namesake — town, and 

flood 
Forth flashing out of its own gloomy chasm 
Bright sunbeams — the fresh verdure of 

this lawn 
Strewn with grey rocks, and on the horizon's 

verge, 



O'er intervenient waste, through glimmer- 
ing haze, 
Unquestionably kemied, that cone-shaped 

bill 
With fractured summit, no indifferent sight 
To travellers, from such comforts as are 
thine, 21 

Bleak Radicofani ! escaped with joy — 
These are before me; and the varied scene 
May well suffice, till noon-tide's sultry heat 
Relax, to fix and satisfy the mind 
Passive yet pleased. What ! with this 

Broom in flower 
Close at my side ! She bids me fly to greet 
Her sisters, soon like her to be attired 
With golden blossoms opening at the feet 
Of my own Fail-field. The glad greeting 
given, 30 

Given with a voice and by a look returned 
Of old companionship, Time counts not 

minutes 
Ere, from accustomed paths, familiar fields, 
The local Genius hurries me aloft, 
Transported over that cloud- wooing hill, 
Seat Sandal, a fond suitor of the clouds, 
With dream-like smoothness, to Helvellyn's 

top, 
There to alight upon crisp moss and range, 
Obtaining ampler boon, at every step, 
Of visual sovereignty — hills multitudinous, 
(Not Apennine can boast of fairer) hills 41 
Pride of two nations, wood and lake and 

plains, 
And prospect right below of deep coves 

shaped 
By skeleton arms, that, from the moun- 
tain's trunk 
Extended, clasp the winds, with mutual 

moan 
Struggling for liberty, while undismayed 
The shepherd struggles with them. On- 
ward thence 
And downward by the skirt of Greenside 

fell, 
And by Glenridding-screes, and low Glen- 
coign, 
Places forsaken now, though loving still 50 
The muses, as they loved them in the days 
Of the old minstrels and the border bards. — 
But here am I fast bound; and let it pass, 
The simple rapture ; — who that travels far 
To feed his mind with watchful eyes could 

share 
Or wish to share it? — One there surely 
was, 



744 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



" The Wizard of the North," with anxious 

hope 
Brought to this genial climate, when dis- 
ease 
Preyed upon body and mind — yet not the 

less 
Had his sunk eye kindled at those dear 

words 60 

That spake of bards and minstrels; and 

his spirit 
Had flown with mine to old Helvellyn's 

brow, 
Where once together, in his day of strength, 
We stood rejoicing, as if earth were free 
From sorrow, like the sky above our heads. 
Years followed years, and when, upon 

the eve 
Of his last going from Tweed-side, thought 

turned, 
Or by another's sympathy was led, 
To this bright laud, Hope was for him no 

friend, 
Knowledge no help ; Imagination shaped 70 
No promise. Still, in more than ear-deep 

seats, 
Survives for me, and cannot but survive 
The tone of voice which wedded borrowed 

words 
To sadness not their own, when, with 

faint smile 
Forced by intent to take from speech its 

edge, 
He said, " When I am there, although 't is 

fair, 
'T will be another Yarrow." Prophecy 
More than fulfilled, as gay Campania's 

shores 
Soon witnessed, and the city of seven hills, 
Her sparkling fountains and her moulder- 
ing tombs; 80 
And more than all, that Eminence which 

showed 
Her splendours, seen, not felt, the while 

he stood 
A few short steps (painful they were) apart 
From Tasso's Convent-haven, and retired 

grave. 
Peace to their Spirits ! why should Poesy 
Yield to the lure of vain regret, and hover 
In gloom on wings with confidence out- 
spread 
To move in sunshine ? — Utter thanks, my 

Soul ! 
Tempered with awe, and sweetened by 

compassion 



For them who in the shades of sorrow 

dwell, 9 o 

That I — so near the term to human life 
Appointed by man's common heritage, 
Fiad as the fradest, one withal (if that 
Deserve a thought) but little known to 

fame — 
Am free to rove where Nature's loveliest 

looks, 
Art's noblest relics, history's rich bequests, 
Failed to reanimate and but feebly cheered 
The whole world's Darling — free to rove 

at will 
O'er high and low, and if requiring rest, 
Rest from enjoyment only. 

Thanks poured forth 
For what thus far hath blessed my wander- 
ings, thanks 10 1 
Fervent but humble as the lips can breathe 
Where gladness seems a duty — let me 

guard 
Those seeds of expectation which the fruit 
Already gathered in this favoured Land 
Enfolds within its core. The faith be 

mine, 
That He who guides and governs all, ap- 
proves 
When gratitude, though disciplined to look 
Beyond these transient spheres, doth wear 

a crown 
Of earthly hope put on with trembling 

hand; no 

Nor is least pleased, we trust, when golden 

beams, 
Reflected through the mists of age, from 

hours 
Of innocent delight, remote or recent, 
Shoot but a little way — 't is all they can — 
Into the doubtful future. Who would keep 
Power must resolve to cleave to it through 

life, 
Else it deserts him, surely as he lives. 
Saints woidd hot grieve nor guardian angels 

frown 
If one — while tossed, as was my lot to be, 
In a frail bark urged by two slender oars 120 
Over waves rough and deep, that, when 

they broke, 
Dashed their white foam against the palace 

walls 
Of Genoa the superb — should there be led 
To meditate upon his own appointed tasks, 
However humble in themselves, with 

thoughts 
Raised and sustained by memory of Him 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



745 



Who oftentimes within those narrow bounds 
Rocked on the surge, there tried his spirit's 

strength 
And grasp of purpose, long ere sailed his 

ship 
To lay a new world open. 

Nor less prized 
Be those impressions which incline the 

heart i 3 1 

To mild, to lowly, and to seeming weak, 
Bend that way her desires. The dew, the 

storm — 
The dew whose moisture fell in gentle 

drops 
On the small hyssop destined to become, 
By Hebrew ordinance devoutly kept, 
A purifying instrument — the storm 
That shook on Lebanon the cedar's top, 
And as it shook, enabling the blind roots 
Further to force their way, endowed its 

trunk . i 4 o 

With magnitude and strength fit to uphold 
The glorious temple — did alike proceed 
From the same gracious will, were both an 

offspring 
Of bounty infinite. 

Between Powers that aim 
Higher to lift their lofty heads, impelled 
By no profane ambition, Powers that thrive 
By conflict, and their opposites, that trust 
In lowliness — a midway tract there lies 
Of thoughtful sentiment for every mind 
Pregnant with good. Young, Middle-aged, 

and Old, 150 

From century on to century, must have 

known 
The emotion — nay, more fitly were it said — 
The blest tranquillity that sunk so deep 
Into my spirit, when I paced, enclosed 
In Pisa's Campo Santo, the smooth floor 
Of its Arcades paved with sepulchral slabs, 
And through each window's open fretwork 

looked 
O'er the blank Area of sacred earth 
Fetched from Mount Calvary, or haply 

delved 
In precincts nearer to the Saviour's tomb, 160 
By hands of men, humble as brave, who 

fought 
For its deliverance — a capacious field 
That to descendants of the dead it holds 
And to all living mute memento breathes, 
More touching far than aught which on the 

walls 
Is pictured, or their epitaphs can speak, 



Of the changed City's long-departed power, 
Glory, and wealth, which, perilous as they 

are, 
Here did not kill, but nourished, Piety. 
And, high above that length of cloistral 
roof, 170 

Peering in air and backed by azure sky, 
To kindred contemplations ministers 
The Baptistery's dome, and that which 

swells 
From the Cathedral pile; and with the 

twain 
Conjoined in prospect mutable or fixed 
(As hurry on in eagerness the feet, 
Or pause) the summit of the Leaning- 
tower. 
Nor less remuneration waits on him 
Who having left the Cemetery stands 
In the Tower's shadow, of decline and fall 
Admonished not without some sense of 
fear, * 181 

Fear that soon vanishes before the sight 
Of splendour unextinguished, pomp un- 
scathed, 
And beauty unimpaired. Grand in itself, 
And for itself, the assemblage, grand and 

fair 
To view, and for the mind's consenting eye 
A type of age in man, upon its front 
Bearing the world-acknowledged evidence 
Of past exploits, nor fondly after more 
Struggling against the stream of destiny, 190 
But with its peaceful majesty content. 

— Oh what a spectacle at every turn 

The Place unfolds, from pavement skinned 

with moss 
Or grass-grown spaces, where the heaviest 

foot 
Provokes no echoes, but must softly tread; 
Where Solitude with Silence paired stops 

short 
Of Desolation, and to Rum's scythe 
Decay submits not. . 

But where'er my steps 
Shall wander, chiefly let me cull with care 
Those images of genial beauty, oft 200 

Too lovely to be pensive in themselves 
But by reflection made so, which do best 
And fitliest serve to crown with fragrant 

wreaths 
Life's cup when almost filled with years, 

like mine. 

— How lovely robed in forenoon light and 

shade, 
Each ministering to each, didst thou appear 



746 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



Savona, Queen of territory fair 

As aught that marvellous coast thro' all its 

length 
Yields to the Stranger's eye. Remembrance 

holds 
As a selected treasure thy one cliff, 210 

That, while it wore for melancholy crest 
A shattered Convent, yet rose proud to have 
Clinging to its steep sides a thousand herbs 
And shrubs, whose pleasant looks gave 

proof how kind 
The breath of air can be where earth had 

else 
Seemed churlish. And behold, both far 

and near, 
Garden and field all decked with orange 

bloom, 
And peach and citron, in Spring's mildest 

breeze 
Expanding; and, along the smooth shore 

curved 
Into a natural port, a tideless sea, 220 

To that mild breeze with motion and with 

voice 
Softly responsive; and, attuned to all 
Those vernal charms of sight and sound, 

appeared 
Smooth space of turf which from the guard- 
ian fort 
Sloped seaward, turf whose tender April 

green, 
In coolest climes too fugitive, might even 

here 
Plead with the sovereign Sim for longer 

stay 
Than his unmitigated beams allow, 
Nor plead in vain, if beauty could preserve, 
From mortal change, aught that is born on 

earth 230 

Or doth on time depend. 

While on the brink 
Of that high Convent-crested cliff I stood, 
Modest Savona ! over all did brood 
A pure poetic Spirit — as the breeze, 
Mild — as the verdure, fresh — the sun- 
shine, bright — 
Thy gentle Chiabrera ! — not a stone, 
Mural or level with the trodden floor, 
In Church or Chapel, if my curious quest 
Missed not the truth, retains a single name 
Of young or old, warrior, or saint, or sage, 
To whose dear memories his sepulchral 
verse 241 

Paid simple tribute, such as might have 
flowed 



From the clear spring of a plain English 

heart, 
Say rather, one in native fellowship 
With all who want not skill to couple grief 
With praise, as genuine admiration prompts. 
The grief, the praise, are severed froni tbeir 

dust, 
Yet in his page the records of that worth 
Siirvive, uninjured; — glory then to words, 
Honour to word-preserving Arts, and hail 
Ye kindred local influences that still, 25 1 
If Hope's familiar whispers merit faith, 
Await my steps when they the breezy height 
Shall range of philosophic Tusculum ; 
Or Sabine vales explored inspire a wish 
To meet the shade of Horace by the side 
Of his Bandusian fount; or I invoke 
His presence to point out the spot where 

once 
He sate, and eulogized with earnest pen 
Peace, leisure, freedom, moderate desires; 
And all the immunities of rural life 261 

Extolled, behind Vacuna's crumbling fane. 
Or let me loiter, soothed with what is 

given 
Nor asking more, on that delicious Bay, 
Partheuope's Domain — Virgilian haunt, 
Illustrated with never-dying verse, 
And, by the Poet's laurel-shaded tomb, 
Age after age to Pilgrims from all lands 
Endeared. 

And who — if not a man as cold 
In heart as dull in brain — whfle pacing 

ground 270 

Chosen by Rome's legendary Bards, high 

minds 
Out of her early struggles well inspired 
To localize heroic acts — could look 
Upon the spots with undelighted eye, 
Though even to their last syllable the 

Lays 
And very names of those who gave them 

birth 
Have perished ? — Verily, to her utmost 

depth, 
Imagination feels what Reason fears not 
To recognize, the lasting virtue lodged 
In those bold fictions that, by deeds assigned 
To the Valerian, Fabian, Curian Race, 281 
And others like in fame, created Powers 
With attributes from History derived, 
By Poesy irradiate, and yet graced, 
Through marvellous felicity of skill, 
With something more propitious to high 

aims 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



747 



Than either, pent within her separate 

sphere, 
Can oft with justice claim. 

And not disdaining 
Union with those primeval energies 
To virtue consecrate, stoop ye from your 

height 290 

Christian Traditions ! at my Spirit's call 
Descend, and, on the hrow of ancient Rome 
As she survives in rum, manifest 
Your glories mingled with the brightest 

hues 
Of her memorial halo, fading, fading, 
But never to be extinct while Earth endures. 
O come, if undishonoured by the prayer, 
From all her Sanctuaries ! — Open for my 

feet 
Ye Catacombs, give to mine eyes a glimpse 
Of the Devout, as, 'mid your glooms con- 
vened 300 
For safety, they of yore enclasped the 

Cross 
On knees that ceased from trembling, or 

intoned 
Their orisons with voices half-suppressed, 
But sometimes heard, or fancied to be 

heard, 
Even at this hour. 

And thou Mamertine prison, 
Into that vault receive me from whose 

depth 
Issues, revealed in no presumptuous vision, 
Albeit lifting human to divine, 
A Saint, the Church's Rock, the mystic 

Keys 
Grasped in his hand; and lo ! with upright 

sword 3>° 

Prefiguring his own impendent doom, 
The Apostle of the Gentiles; both prepared 
To suffer pains with heathen scorn and 

hate 
Inflicted; — blessed Men, for so to Heaven 
They follow their dear Lord ! 

Time flows — nor winds, 
Nor stagnates, nor precipitates his course, 
But many a benefit borne upon his breast 
For human-kind sinks out of sight, is gone, 
No one knows how; nor seldom is put forth 
An angry arm that snatches good away, 320 
Never perhaps to reappear. The Stream 
Has to our generation brought and brings 
Innumerable gains ; yet we, who now 
Walk in the light of day, pertain full surely 
To a chilled age, most pitiably shut out 
From that which is and actuates, by forms, 



Abstractions, and by lifeless fact to fact 
Minutely linked with diligence uninspired, 
Unrectified, unguided, unsustained, 
By godlike insight. To this fate is doomed 
Science, wide-spread and spreading still as 

be 331 

Her conquests, in the world of sense made 

known, 
So with the internal mind it fares; and so 
With morals, trusting, hi contempt or fear 
Of vital principle's controlling law, 
To her purblind guide Expediency ; and so 
Suffers religious faith. Elate with view 
Of what is won, we overlook or scorn 
The best that should keep pace with it, and 

must, 
Else more and more the general mind will 

droop, 340 

Even as if bent on perishing. There lives 
No faculty within us which the Soid 
Can spare, and humblest earthly Weal de- 
mands, 
For dignity not placed beyond her reach, 
Zealous co-operation of all means 
Given or acquired, to raise us from the 

mire, 
And liberate our hearts from low pursuits. 
By gross Utilities enslaved, we need 
More of ennobling impulse from the past, 
If to the fixture aught of good must come 
Sounder and therefore holier than the ends 
Which, in the giddiness of self -applause, 352 
We covet as supreme. O grant the crown 
That Wisdom wears, or take his treacher- 
ous staff 
From Knowledge ! — If the Muse, whom I 

have served 
This day, be mistress of a single pearl 
Fit to be placed in that pure diadem ; 
Then, not in vain, under these chestnut 

boughs 
Reclined, shall I have yielded up my soul 
To transports from the secondary founts 
Flowing of time and place, and paid to 

both 361 

Due homage; nor shall fruitlessly have 

striven, 
By love of beauty moved, to enshrine in 

verse 
Accordant meditations, which in times 
Vexed and disordered, as our own, may 

shed 
Influence, at least among a scattered few, 
To soberness of mind and peace of heart 
Friendly; as here to my repose hath been 



74 8 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



This flowering broom's dear neighbourhood, 

the light 
And murmur issuing from yon pendent 

flood, 370 

And all the varied landscape. Let us now 
Rise, and to-morrow greet magnificent 

Rome. 



II 

THE PINE OF MONTE MARIO 
AT ROME 

1837. 1842 

Sir George Beaumont told me that, when he 
first visited Italy, pine-trees of this species 
abounded, but that on his return thither, which 
was more than thirty years after, they had dis- 
appeared from many places where he bad been 
accustomed to admire them, and had become 
rare all over the country, especially in and 
about Rome. Several Roman villas have 
within these few years passed into the hands of 
foreigners, who, I observed with pleasure, have 
taken care to plant this tree, which in course 
of years will become a great ornament to the 
city and to the general landscape. May I ven- 
ture to add here, that having ascended the 
Monte Mario, I could not resist embracing the 
trunk of this interesting monument of my de- 
parted friend's feelings for the beauties of na- 
ture, and the power of that art which he loved 
so much, and in the practice of which he was 
so distinguished. 

I saw far off the dark top of a Pine 
Look like a cloud — a slender stem the tie 
That bound it to its native earth — poised 

high 
'Mid evening hues, along the horizon line, 
Striving in peace each other to outshine. 
But when I learned the Tree was living 

there, 
Saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont's 

care, 
Oh, what a gush of tenderness was mine ! 
The rescued Pine-Tree, with its sky so 

bright 
And cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts of 

home, 
Death-parted friends, and days too swift in 

flight, 
Supplanted the whole majesty of Rome 
(Then first apparent from the Pincian 

Height) 
Crowned with St. Peter's everlasting Dome. 



Ill 

AT ROME 

1837. 1842 

Sight is at first a sad enemy to imagination 
and to those pleasures belonging to old times 
with which some exertions of that power will 
always mingle : nothing perhaps brings this 
truth home to the feelings more than the city 
of Rome ; not so much in respect to the impres- 
sion made at the moment when it is first seen 
and looked at as a whole, for then the imagi- 
nation may be invigorated and the mind's eye 
quickened ; but when particular spots or ob- 
jects are sought out, disappointment is I believe 
invariably felt. Ability to recover from this 
disappointment will exist in proportion to know- 
ledge, and the power of the mind to reconstruct 
out of fragments and parts, and to make details 
in the present subservient to more adequate 
comprehension of the past. 

Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill ? 
Yon petty Steep in truth the fearful Rock, 
Tarpeian named of yore, and keeping still 
That name, a local Phantom proud to mock 
The Traveller's expectation ? — Could our 

Will 
Destroy the ideal Power within, 't were done 
Thro' what men see and touch, — slaves 

wandering on, 
Impelled by thirst of all but Heaven-taught 

skill. 
Full oft, our wish obtained, deeply we sigh; 
Yet not unrecompensed are they who learn, 
From that depression raised, to mount on 

high 
With stronger wing, more clearly to discern 
Eternal things; and, if need be, defy 
Change, with a brow not insolent, though 

stern. 

IV 

AT ROME — REGRETS — IN AL- 
LUSION TO NIEBUHR AND 
OTHER MODERN HISTORIANS 

1837. 1842 

Those old credulities, to nature dear, 
Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock 
Of History, stript naked as a rock 
'Mid a dry desert ? What is it we hear ? 
The glory of Infant Rome must disappear, 
Her morning splendours vanish, and their 
place 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



749 



Know them no more. If Truth, who veiled 

her face 
With those bright beams yet hid it not, 

must steer 
Henceforth a humbler course perplexed and 

slow; 
One solace yet remains for us who came 
Into this world in days when story lacked 
Severe research, that in our hearts we know 
How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, 
Assent is power, belief the soul of fact. 



CONTINUED 

1S37-42. 1842 

Complacent Fictions were they, yet the 

same 
Involved a history of no doubtful sense, 
History that proves by inward evidence 
From what a precious source of truth it 

came. 
Ne'er could the boldest Eulogist have dared 
Such deeds to paint, such characters to 

frame, 
But for coeval sympathy prepared 
To greet with instant faith their loftiest 

claim. 
None but a noble people could have loved 
Flattery in Ancient Rome's pure-minded 

style : 
Not in like sort the Runic Scald was moved ; 
He, nursed 'mid savage passions that de- 
file 
Humanity, sang feats that well might call 
For the blood-thirsty mead of Odin's riot- 
ous Hall. 

VI 

PLEA FOR THE HISTORIAN 

1837-42. 1842 

Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise, 
Ungentle, or untouched by seemly ruth, 
Who, gathering up all that Time's envious 

tooth 
Has spared of sound and grave realities, 
Firmly rejects those dazzling flatteries, 
Dear as they are to unsuspecting Youth, 
That might have drawn down Clio from the 

skies 
To vindicate the majesty of truth. 



Such was her office while she walked with 

men, 
A Muse, who, not unmindful of her Sire 
All-ruling Jove, whate'er the theme might 

be, 
Revered her Mother, sage Mnemosyne, 
And taught her faithful servants how the 

lyre 
Should animate, but not mislead, the pen. 

VII 

AT ROME 

1837-42. 1842 

I have a private interest in this Sonnet, for 
I doubt whether it would ever have been writ- 
ten but for the lively picture given me by 
Anna Ricketts of what they had witnessed of 
the indignation and sorrow expressed by some 
Italian noblemen of their acquaintance upon 
the surrender, which circumstances had obliged 
them to make, of the best portion of their fam- 
ily mansions to strangers. 

They — who have seen the noble Roman's 

scorn 
Break forth at thought of laying down his 

head, 
When the blank day is over, garreted 
In his ancestral palace, where, from morn 
To night, the desecrated floors are worn 
By feet of purse-proud strangers; they — 

who have read 
In one meek smile, beneath a peasant's shed, 
How patiently the weight of wrong is borne ; 
They — who have heard some learned 

Patriot treat 
Of freedom, with mind grasping the whole 

theme 
From ancient Rome, downwards through 

that bright dream 
Of Commonwealths, each city a starlike seat 
Of rival glory; they — fallen Italy — 
Nor must, nor will, nor can, despair of 

Thee! 

VIII 

NEAR ROME, IN SIGHT OF ST. 
PETER'S 

1837-42. 1842 

Long has the dew been dried on tree and 

lawn: 
O'er man and beast a not unwelcome boon 



75° 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



Is shed, the languor of approaching noon; 
To shady rest withdrawing or withdrawn 
Mute are all creatures, as this couchant 

fawn, 
Save insect-swarms that hum in air afloat, 
Save that the Cock is crowing, a shrill note, 
Startling and shrill as that which roused the 

dawn. 
— Heard in that hour, or when, as now, the 

nerve 
Shrinks from the note as from a mistimed 

thing, 
Oft for a holy warning may it serve, 
Charged with remembrance of his sudden 

sting, 
His bitter tears, whose name the Papal 

Chair 
And yon resplendent Church are proud to 

bear. 



IX 

AT ALBANO 

1837-42. 1842 

This Sonnet is founded on simple fact, and 
was written to enlarge, if possible, the views 
of those who can see nothing but evil in the in- 
tercessions countenanced by the Church of Rome. 
That they are in many respects lamentably 
pernicious must be acknowledged ; but, on the 
other hand, they who reflect, while they see 
and observe, cannot but be struck with instances 
which will prove that it is a great error to con- 
demn in all cases such mediation as purely 
idolatrous. This remark bears with especial 
force upon addresses to the Virgin. 

Days passed — and Monte Calvo would not 

clear 
His head from mist; and, as the wind 

sobbed through 
Albano's dripping Ilex avenue, 
My dull forebodings in a Peasant's ear 
Found casual vent. She said, " Be of 

good cheer; 
Our yesterday's procession did not sue 
In vain ; the sky will change to sunny blue, 
Thanks to our Lady's grace." I smiled to 

hear, 
But not in scorn: — the Matron's Faith may 

lack 
The heavenly sanction needed to ensure 
Fulfilment ; but, we trust, her upward track 
Stops not at this low point, nor wants the 

lure 



Of flowers the Virgin without fear may 

own, 
For by her Son's blest hand the seed was 

sown. 

X 

1837-42. 1842 

Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove 
Perched on an olive branch, and heard her 

cooing 
'Mid new-born blossoms that soft airs were 

wooing, 
While all things present told of joy and 

love. 
But restless Fancy left that olive grove 
To hail the exploratory Bird renewing 
Hope for the few, who, at the world's un- 
doing, 
On the great flood were spared to live and 

move. 
O bounteous Heaven ! signs true as dove 

and bough 
Brought to the ark are coming evermore, 
Given though we seek them not, but, while 

we plough 
This sea of life without a visible shore, 
Do neither promise ask nor grace implore 
In what alone is ours, the living Now. 



XI 

FROM THE ALBAN HILLS, 
LOOKING TOWARDS ROME 

1837-42. 1842 

Forgive, illustrious Country ! these deep 

sighs, 
Heaved less for thy bright plains and hills 

bestrown 
With monuments decayed or overthrown, 
For all that tottering stands or prostrate 

lies, 
Than for like scenes in moral vision shown, 
Ruin perceived for keener sympathies; 
Faith crushed, yet proud of weeds, her 

gaudy crown; 
Virtues laid low, and mouldering energies. 
Yet why prolong this mournful strain ? — 

Fallen Power, 
Thy fortunes, twice exalted, might provoke 
Verse to glad notes prophetic of the hour 
When thou, uprisen, shalt break thy double 

yoke, 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



7Si 



And enter, with prompt aid from the Most 

High, 
On the third stage of thy great destiny. 



XII 

NEAR THE LAKE OF THRASY-- 
MENE 

1837-42. 1842 

When here with Carthage Rome to conflict 

came, 
An earthquake, mingling with the battle's 

shock, 
Checked not its rage; unfelt the ground 

did rock, 
Sword dropped not, javelin kept its deadly 

aim. — 
Now all is sun-bright peace. Of that day's 

shame, 
Or glory, not a vestige seems to endure, 
Save in this Rill that took from blood the 

name 
Which yet it bears, sweet Stream ! as 

crystal pure. 
So may all trace and sign of deeds aloof 
From the true guidance of humanity, 
Thro' Time and Nature's influence, purify 
Their spirit; or, unless they for reproof 
Or warning serve, thus let them all, on 

ground 
That gave them being, vanish to a sound. 



XIII 

NEAR THE SAME LAKE 

1837-42. 1842 

For action born, existing to be tried, 
Powers manifold we have that intervene 
To stir the heart that would too closely 

screen 
Her peace from images to pain allied. 
What wonder if at midnight, by the side 
Of Sanguinetto, or broad Tkrasymene, 
The clang of arms is heard, and phantoms 

glide, 
Unhappy ghosts in troops by moonlight seen ; 
And singly thine, O vanquished Chief ! 

whose corse, 
Unburied, lay hid under heaps of slain: 
But who is He ? — the Conqueror. Would 

he force 



His way to Rome ? Ah, no, — round hill 

and plain 
Wandering, he haunts, at fancy's strong 

command, 
This spot — his shadowy death-cup in his 

hand. 

XIV 

THE CUCKOO AT LAVERNA 

May 25, 1837 

1837. 1842 

Among a thousand delightful feelings con- 
nected in my mind with the voice of the cuckoo, 
there is a personal one which is rather mel- 
ancholy. I was first convinced that age had 
rather dulled my hearing, by not being able to 
catch the sound at the same distance as the 
younger companions of my walks ; and of this 
failure I had a proof upon the occasion that 
suggested these verses. I did not hear the 
sound till Mr. Robinson had twice or thrice 
directed my attention to it. 

List — 't was the Cuckoo. — O with what 

delight 
Heard I that voice ! and catch it now, though 

faint, 
Far off and faint, and melting into air, 
Yet not to be mistaken. Hark again ! 
Those louder cries give notice that the Bird, 
Although invisible as Echo's self, 
Is wheeling hitherward. Thanks, happy 

Creature, 
For this unthought-of greeting ! 

While allured 
From vale to hill, from hill to vale led on, 
We have pursued, through various lands, 

a long 10 

And pleasant course; flower after flower 

has blown, 
Embellishing the ground that gave them 

birth 
With aspects novel to my sight; but still 
Most fair, most welcome, when they drank 

the dew 
In a sweet fellowship with kinds beloved, 
For old remembrance sake. And oft — 

where Spring 
Displayed her richest blossoms among files 
Of orange-trees bedecked with glowing 

fruit 
Ripe for the hand, or under a thick shade 
Of Ilex, or, if better suited to the hour, 20 
The lightsome Olive's twinkling canopy — 



75 2 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



Oft have I heard the Nightingale and 

Thrush 
Blending as in a common English grove 
Their love-songs; hut, where'er my feet 

might roam, 
Whate'er' assemblages of new and old, 
Strange and familiar, might beguile the 

way, 
A gratulation from that vagrant Voice 
Was wanting, — and most happily till now. 
For see, Laverna ! mark the far-famed 

Pile, 
High on the brink of that precipitous rock, 
Implanted like a Fortress, as hi truth 31 
It is, a Christian Fortress, garrisoned 
In faith and hope, and dutiful obedience, 
By a few Monks, a stern society, 
Dead to the world and scorning earth-born 

joys- 
Nay — though the hopes that drew, the 

fears that drove, 
St. Francis, far from Man's resort, to abide 
Among these sterile heights of Apennine, 
Bound him, nor, since he raised yon House, 

have ceased 
To bind his spiritual Progeny, with rules 40 
Stringent as flesh can tolerate and live ; 
His milder Genius (thanks to the good God 
That made us) over those severe restraints 
Of mind, that dread heart-freezing disci- 
pline, 
Doth sometimes here predominate, and 

works 
By unsought means for gracious purposes; 
For earth through heaven, for heaven, by 

changeful earth, 
Illustrated, and mutually endeared. 

Rapt though He were above the power 

of sense, 
Familiarly, yet out of the cleansed heart 
Of that once sinful Being overflowed 51 
On sun, moon, stars, the nether elements, 
And every shape of creature they sustain, 
Divine affections; and with beast and bird 
(Stilled from afar — such marvel story 

tells — 
By casual outbreak of his passionate words, 
And from their own pursuits in field or 

grove 
Drawn to his side by look or act of love 
Humane, and virtue of his innocent life) 
He wont to hold companionship so free, 60 
So pure, so fraught with knowledge and 

delight, 
As to be likened in his Followers' minds 



To that which our first Parents, ere the 

fall 
From their high state darkened the Earth 

with fear, 
Held with all kinds in Eden's blissful 

bowers. 
Then question not that, 'mid the austere 

Band, 
Who breathe the air he breathed, tread 

where he trod, 
Some true Partakers of his loving spirit 
Do still survive, and, with those gentle 

hearts 
Consorted, Others, in the power, the faith, 
Of a baptized imagination, prompt 7 1 

To catch from Nature's humblest monitors 
Whate'er they bring of impulses sublime. 
Thus sensitive must be the Monk, though 

pale 
With fasts, with vigils worn, depressed by 

years, 
Whom in a sunny glade I chanced to see, 
Upon a pine-tree's storm-uprooted trunk, 
Seated alone, with forehead sky-ward raised, 
Hands clasped above the crucifix he wore 
Appended to his ,bosom, anc l lips closed 80 
By the joint pressure of his musing mood 
And habit of his vow. That ancient Man — 
Nor haply less the Brother whom I marked, 
As we approached the Convent gate, aloft 
Looking far forth from his aerial cell, 
A young Ascetic — Poet, Hero, Sage, 
He might have been, Lover belike he was — 
If they received into a conscious ear 
The notes whose first faint greeting startled 

me, 
Whose sedulous iteration thrilled with joy 
My heart — may have been moved like me 

to think, 9 i 

Ah ! not like me who walk in the world's 

ways, 
On the great Prophet, styled the Voice of 

One 
Crying amid the wilderness, and given, 
Now that their snows must melt, their herbs 

and flowers 
Revive, their obstinate winter pass away, 
That awful name to Thee, thee, simple 

Cuckoo, 
Wandering in solitude, and evermore 
Foretelling and proclaiming, ere thou leave 
This thy last haunt beneath Italian skies 100 
To carry thy glad tidings over heights 
Still loftier, and to climes more near the 

Pole. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



753 



Voice of the Desert, fare-thee-well; sweet 

Bird ! 
If that substantial title please thee more, 
Farewell ! — but go thy way, no need hast 

thou 
Of a good wish sent after thee; from bower 
To bower as green, from sky to sky as clear, 
Thee gentle breezes waft — or airs, that 

meet 
Thy course and sport around thee, softly 

fan — 
Till Night, descending upon hill and vale, 
Grants to thy mission a brief term of 

silence, m 

And folds thy pinions up in blest repose. 



XV 

AT THE CONVENT OF CAMAL- 
DOLI 

1837-42. 1842 

Grieve for the Man who hither came be- 
reft, 
And seeking consolation from above; 
Nor grieve the less that skill to him was 

left 
To paint this picture of his lady-love: 
Can she, a blessed saint, the work approve ? 
And oh, good Brethren of the cowl, a thing 
So fair, to which with peril he must cling, 
Destroy in pity, or with care remove. 
That bloom — those eyes — can they assist 

to bind 
Thoughts that would stray from Heaven ? 

The dream must cease 
To be; by Faith, not sight, his soul must 

live; 
Else will the enamoured Monk too surely 

find 
How wide a space can part from inward 

peace 
The most profound repose his cell can 

give. 

XVI 

CONTINUED 

1837-42. 1842 

The world forsaken, all its busy cares 
And stirring interests shunned with desper- 
ate flight, 
Ail trust abandoned in the healing might 



Of virtuous action; all that courage dares, 
Labour accomplishes, or patience bears — 
Those helps rejected, they, whose minds 

perceive 
How subtly works man's weakness, sighs 

may heave 
For such a One beset with cloistral snares. 
Father of Mercy ! rectify his view, 
If with his vows this object ill agree; 
Shed over it thy grace, and thus subdue 
Imperious passion in a heart set free: — 
That earthly love may to herself be true, 
Give him a soul that cleaveth unto thee. 



XVII 

AT THE EREMITE OR UPPER 
CONVENT OF CAMALDOLI 

1S37-42. 1842 

What aim had they, the Pair of Monks, 

in size 
Enormous, dragged, while side by side 

they sate, 
By panting steers up to this convent gate ? 
How, with empurpled cheeks and pampered 

eyes, 
Dare they confront the lean austerities 
Of Brethren who, here fixed, on Jesu wait 
In sackcloth, and God's anger deprecate 
Through all that humbles flesh and morti- 
fies ? 
Strange contrast ! — verily the world of 

dreams, 
Where mingle, as for mockery combined, 
Things in their very essences at strife, 
Shows not a sight incongruous as the ex- 
tremes 
That everywhere, before the thoughtful 

mind, 
Meet on the solid ground of waking life. 



XVIII 

AT VALLOMBROSA 

1837-42. 1842 

" Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks 
In Vallombrosa, where Etrurian shades 
High over-arch 'd embower." 

Paradise Lost. 

I must confess, though of course I did not 
acknowledge it in the few lines I wrote in the 
Strangers' book kept at the convent, that I was 



ISA 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



somewhat disappointed at Vallonibrosa. I had 
expected, as the name implies, a deep and narrow 
valley overshadowed by enclosing hills ; but 
the spot where the convent stands is in fact not 
a valley at all, but a cove or crescent open to an 
extensive prospect. In the hook before men- 
tioned, I read the notice in the English language 
that if any one would ascend the steep ground 
above the convent, and wander over it. he would 
be abundantly rewarded by magnificent views. 
I had not time to act upon this recommendation, 
and only went with my young guide to a point, 
nearly on a level with the site of the convent, 
that overlooks the vale of Amo for some leagues. 
To praise great and good men has ever been 
deemed one of the worthiest employments of 
poetry, but the objects of admiration vary so 
much with time and circumstances, and the 
noblest of mankind have been found, when in- 
timately known, to beof characters so imperfect, 
that no eulogist can find a subject which he will 
venture upon with the animation necessary to 
create sympathy, unless he confines himself to 
a particular art or he takes something of a one- 
sided view of the person he is disposed to cele- 
brate. This is a melancholy truth, and affords 
a strong reason for the poetic mind being chiefly 
exercised in works of fiction : the poet can then 
follow wherever the spirit of admiration leads 
him, unchecked by such suggestions as will be 
too apt to cross his way if all that he is prompted 
to utter is to be tested by fact. Something in 
this spirit I have written in the note attached 
to the sonnet on the king of Sweden ; and 
many will think that in this poem and elsewhere 
I have spoken of the author of " Paradise Lost " 
in a strain of panegyric scarcely justifiable by 
the tenor of some of his opinions, whether 
theological or political, and by the temper he 
carried into public affairs in which, xinfor- 
tunately for his genius, he was so much con- 
cerned. 

" Vallombrosa — I longed in thy shadiest 

wood 
To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered 

floor ! " 
Fond wish that was granted at last, and 

the Flood, 
That lulled me asleep bids me listen once 

more. 
Its murmur how soft I as it falls down the 

steep, 
Near that Cell — yon sequestered Retreat 

high in air — 
Where our Milton was wont lonely vigils 

to keep 
For converse with God, sought through 

study and prayer. 



The Monks still repeat the tradition with 

pride, 
And its truth who shall doubt ? for his 

Spirit is here; 10 

In the cloud-piercing rocks doth her 

grandeur abide, 
In the pines pointing heavenward her beauty 

austere ; 
In the flower-besprent meadows his genius 

we trace 
Turned to humbler delights, in which youth 

might confide, 
That would yield him fit help while pre- 
figuring that Place 
Where, if Sin had not entered, Love never 

had died. 

When with life lengthened out came a 

desolate time, 
And darkness and danger had compassed 

him round, 
With a thought he would flee to these 

hamits of his prime 
And here once again a kind shelter be 

found. 20 

And let me believe that when nightly the 

Muse 
Did waft him to Sion, the glorified hill, 
Here also, on some favoured height, he 

would choose 
To wander, and drink inspiration at will. 

Vallombrosa ! of thee I first heard in the 

page 
Of that holiest of Bards, and the name for 

my mind 
Had a musical charm, which the winter of 

age 
And the changes it brings had no power to 

unbind. 
And now, ye Miltonian shades ! under you 
I repose, nor am forced from sweet fancy 

to part, 30 

While your leaves I behold and the brooks 

they will strew, 
And the realised vision is clasped to my 

heart. 

Even so, and unblamed, we rejoice as wfo 

may 
In Forms that must perish, frail objects of 

sense ; 
Unblamed — if the Soul be intent on the day 
When the Being of Beings shall summon 

her hence. 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



755 



For he and he only with wisdom is blest 
Who, gathering true pleasures wherever 

they grow, 
Looks up in all places, for joy or for rest, 
To the Fountain whence Time and Eternity 

flow. 40 

XIX 

AT FLORENCE 

1837-42. 1842 

Upon what evidence the belief rests that this 
stone was a iavourite seat of Dante, I do not 
know ; but a man would little consult bis own 
interest as a traveller, if he should busy himself 
with doubts as to the fact. The readiness with 
which traditions of this character are received, 
and the fidelity with which they are preserved 
from generation to generation, are an evidence 
of feelings honourable to our nature. I re- 
member how, during one of my rambles in the 
course of a college vacation, I was pleased on 
being shown a seat near a kind of rocky cell 
at the source of the river, on which it was said 
that Congreve wrote his " Old Bachelor." One 
can scarcely bit on any performance less in 
harmony witli the scene ; but it was a local 
tribute paid to intellect by those who had not 
troubled themselves toestimate the moral worth 
of that author's comedies ; and why should 
they ? He was a man distinguished in his day ; 
and the sequestered neighbourhood in which he 
often resided was perhaps as proud of him as 
Florence of her Dante : it is the same feeling, 
though proceeding from persons one cannot 
bring together in this way without offering some 
apology to the Shade of the great Visionary. 

Under the shadow of a stately Pile, 
The dome of Florence, pensive and alone, 
Nor giving heed to aught that passed the 

while, 
I stood, and gazed upon a marble stone, 
The laurelled Dante's favourite seat. A 

throne, 
In just esteem, it rivals; though no style 
Be there of decoration to beguile 
The mind, depressed by thought of great- 
ness flown. 
As a true man, who long had served the lyre, 
I gazed with earnestness, and dared no more. 
But in his breast the mighty Poet bore 
A Patriot's heart, warm with undying fire. 
Bold with the thought, in reverence I sate 

down, 
And, for a moment, filled that empty 
Throne. 



XX 

BEFORE THE PICTURE OF THE 
BAPTIST, BY RAPHAEL, IN THE 
GALLERY AT FLORENCE 

1837-42. 1842 

It was very hot weather during the week we 
stayed at Florence ; and, never having been there 
before, I went through much hard service, and 
am not therefore ashamed to confess I fell asleep 
before this picture and sitting with my back to- 
wards the Venus de Medicis. Buonaparte — 
in answer to one who had spoken of his being 
in a sound sleep up to the moment when one of 
his great battles was to be fought, as a proof 
of the calmness of his mind and command over 
anxious thoughts — said frankly, that he slept 
because from bodily exhaustion he could not 
help it. In like manner it is noticed that 
criminals on the night previous to theirexecution 
seldom awake before they are called, a proof 
that the body is the master of us far more than 
we need be willing to allow. Should this note 
by any possible chance be seen by any of my 
countrymen who might have been in the gallery 
at the time (and several persons were there) 
and witnessed such an indecorum, I hope he will 
give up the opinion which he might naturally 
have formed to my prejudice. 

The Baptist might have been ordained to cry 
Forth from the towers of that huge Pile, 

wherein 
His Father served Jehovah; but how win 
Due audience, how for aught but scorn defy 
The obstinate pride and wanton revelry 
Of the Jerusalem below, her sin 
And folly, if they with united din 
Drown not at once mandate and prophecy ? 
Therefore the Voice spake from the Desert, 

thence 
To Her, as to her opposite in peace, 
Silence, and holiness, and innocence, 
To Her and to all Lands its warning sent, 
Crying with earnestness that might not 

cease, 
" Make straight a highway for the Lord — 

repent ! " 

XXI 

AT FLORENCE — FROM MICHAEL 
ANGELO 

1837-42. 1842 

However at first these two sonnets from 
Michael Angelo may seem in their spirit some- 



756 



MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 



■what inconsistent with each other, I have not 
scrupled to place them side by side as charac- 
teristic of their great author, and others with 
whom he lived. I feel nevertheless a wish to 
know at what periods of his life they were re- 
spectively composed. The latter, as it ex- 
presses, was written in his advanced years when 
it was natural that the Platonism that pervades 
the one should giveaway to the Christian feel- 
ing that inspired the other : between both there 
is more than poetic affinity. 

Rapt above earth by power of one fair face, 
Hers in whose sway alone rny heart de- 
lights, 
I mingle with the blest on those pure 

heights 
Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a 

place. 
With Him who made the Work that Work 

accords 
So well, that by its help and through his 

grace 
I raise my thoughts, inform' my deeds and 

words, 
Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace. 
Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot 

turn, 
I feel how in their presence doth abide 
Light which to God is both the way and 

guide ; 
And, kindling at their lustre, if I biirn, 
My noble fire emits the joyful ray 
That through the realms of glory shines for 

aye. 

XXII 

AT FLORENCE — FROM M. AN- 
GELO 

1837-42. 1842 

Eternal Lord ! eased of a cumbrous load, 
And loosened from the world, I turn to 

Thee ; 
Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and 

flee 
To thy protection for a safe abode. 
The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon 

the tree, 
The meek, benign, and lacerated face, 
To a sincere repentance promise grace, 
To the sad soul give hope of pardon free. 
With justice mark not Thou, O Light 

divine, 
My fault, nor hear it with thy sacred ear; 



Neither put forth that way thy arm severe; 
Wash with thy blood my sins; thereto in- 
cline 
More readily the more my years require 
Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire. 



XXIII 

AMONG THE RUINS OF A CON- 
VENT IN THE APENNINES 

1837-42. 1842 

The political revolutions of our time have 
multiplied, on the Continent, objects that un- 
avoidably call forth reflections such as are 
expressed in these verses, but the Ruins in 
those countries are too recent to. exhibit, in any- 
thing like an equal degree, the beauty with 
which time and nature have invested the re- 
mains of our Convents and Abbeys. These 
verses it will be observed take up the beauty 
long before it is matured, as one cannot but 
wish it may be among some of the desolations 
of Italy, France, and Germany. 

Ye Trees ! whose slender roots entwine 

Altars that piety neglects; 
Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine 

Which no devotion now respects; 
If not a straggler from the herd 
Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird, 
Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take pride 
In aught that ye would grace or hide — 
How sadly is your love misplaced, 
Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste ! 

Ye, too, wild Flowers ! that no one heeds, 
And ye — full often spurned as weeds — 
In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness 
From fractured arch and mouldering wall — 
Do but more touchingly recall 
Man's headstrong violence and Time's fleefc- 

ness, 
Making the precincts ye adorn 
Appear to sight still more forlorn. 



XXIV 

IN LOMBARDY 

1837-42. 1842 

See, where his difficult way that Old Man 

wins 
Bent by a load of Mulberry leaves ! — most 

hard 



AT BOLOGNA 



757 



Appears his lot, to the small Worm's com- 
pared, 
For whom his toil with early day begins. 
Acknowledging no task-master, at will 
(As if her labour and her ease were twins) 
She seems to work, at pleasure to lie still ; — 
And softly sleeps within the thread she 

spins. 
So fare they — the Man serving as her Slave. 
Ere long their fates do each to each con- 
form : 
Both pass into new being, — but the Worm, 
Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave; 
His volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend 
To bliss unbounded, glory without end. 



XXV 

AFTER LEAVING ITALY 

i S3 7-42. 1842 

I had proof in several instances that the 
Carbonari, if I may still call theni so, and their 
favourers, are opening their eyes to the neces- 
sity of patience, and are intent upon spreading 
knowledge actively but quietly as they can. 
May they have resolution to continue in this 
course ! for it is the only one by which they 
can truly benefit their country. We left Italy 
by the way which is called the " Nuova Strada 
de Allmagna," to the east of the high passes of 
the Alps, which take you at once from Italy 
into Switzerland. This road leads across sev- 
eral smaller heights, and winds down different 
vales in succession, so that it was only by the 
accidental sound of a few German words that 
I was aware we had quitted Italy, and hence 
the unwelcome shock alluded to in the two or 
three last lines of the latter sonnet. 

Fair Land ! Thee all men greet with joy; 

how few, 
Whose souls take pride in freedom, virtue, 

fame, 



Part from thee without pity dyed in shame: 
I could not — while from Venice we with- 
drew, 
Led on till an Alpine strait confined our 

view 
Within its depths, and to the shore we came 
Of Lago Morto, dreary sight and name, 
Which o'er sad thoughts a sadder colouring 

threw. 
Italia ! on the surface of thy spirit, 
(Too aptly emblemed by that torpid lake) 
Shall a few partial breezes only creep ? — 
Be its depths quickened; what thou dost 

inherit 
Of the world's hopes, dare to fulfil ; awake, 
Mother of Heroes, from thy death-like 
sleep ! 

XXVI 

CONTINUED 

1837. 1842 

As indignation mastered grief, my tongue 
Spake bitter words; words that did ill 

agree 
With those rich stores of Nature's imagery, 
And divine Art, that fast to memory 

clung — 
Thy gifts, magnificent Region, ever young 
In the sun's eye, and in his sister's sight 
How beautiful ! how worthy to be sung 
In strains of rapture, or subdued delight ! 
I feign not; witness that unwelcome shock 
That followed the first sound of German 

speech, 
Caught the far-winding barrier Alps among. 
In that announcement, greeting seemed to 

mock 
Parting; the casual word had power to 

reach 
My heart, and filled that heait with conflict 

strong. 



AT BOLOGNA, IN REMEMBRANCE 
OF THE LATE INSURREC- 
TIONS, 1837 

1837. 1S42 
1 
Ah why deceive ourselves ! by no mere fit 
Of sudden passion roused shall men attain 
True freedom where for ages they have lain 
Bound in a dark abominable pit, 



With life's best sinews more and more un- 

knit. 
Here, there, a banded few who loathe the 

chain 
May rise to break it; effort worse than vain 
For thee, O great Italian nation, split 
Into those jarring fractions. — Let thy scope 
Be one fixed mind for all ; thy rights approve 
To thy own conscience gradually renewed; 
Learn to make Time the father of wise Hope ; 



758 "WHAT IF OUR NUMBERS BARELY COULD DEFY" 



Then trust thy cause to the arm of Fortitude, 
The light of Knowledge, and the warmth of 
Love. 

CONTINUED 

II 

Hard task ! exclaim the undisciplined, to 
lean 

On Patience coupled with such slow en- 
deavour, 

That long-lived servitude must last for ever. 

Perish the grovelling few, who, prest be- 
tween 

Wrongs and the terror of redress, would 
wean 

Millions from glorious aims. Our chains to 
sever 

Let us break forth in tempest now or 
never ! — 

What, is there then no space for golden 
mean 

And gradual progress ? — Twilight leads to 
day, 

And, even within the burning zones of earth, 

The hastiest sunrise yields a temperate 
ray; 

The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives 
birth: 

Think not that Prudence dwells in dark 
abodes, 

She scans the future with the eye of gods. 

CONCLUDED 



As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow 
And wither, every human generation 
Is, to the Being of a mighty nation, 
Locked in our world's embrace through 

weal and woe; 
Thought that should teach the zealot to 

forego 
Rash schemes, to abjure all selfish agitation, 
And seek through noiseless pains and mod- 
eration 
The unblemished good they only can bestow. 
Alas ! with most, who weigh futurity 
Against time present, passion holds the 

scales : 
Hence equal ignorance of both prevails, 
And nations sink ; or, struggling to be 

free, 
Are doomed to flounder on, like wounded 

whales 
Tossed on the bosom of a stormy sea. 



"WHAT IF OUR NUMBERS 
BARELY COULD DEFY" 

1837- 1837 

What if our numbers barely could defy 
The arithmetic of babes, must foreign 

hordes, 
Slaves, vile as ever were befooled by words, 
Striking through English breasts the an- 
archy 
Of Terror, bear us to the ground, and tie 
Our hands behind our backs with felon 

cords ? 
Yields every thing to discipline of swords ? 
Is man as good as man, none low, none 

high ? — 
Nor discipline nor valour can withstand 
The shock, nor quell the inevitable rout, 
When in some great extremity breaks out 
A people, on their own beloved Land 
Risen, like one man, to combat in the sight 
Of a just God for liberty and right. 



A NIGHT THOUGHT 

1837. 1842 

These verses were thrown off extempore 
upon leaving Mrs. Luff's house at Fox-Ghyll, 
one evening'. The good woman is not disposed 
to look at the bright side of things, and there 
happened to be present certain ladies who had 
reached the point of life where youth is ended, 
and who seemed to contend with each other in 
expressing their dislike of the country and cli- 
mate. One of them had been heard to say she 
could not endure a country where there was 
" neither sunshine nor cavaliers." 

Lo ! where the Moon along the sky 
Sails with her happy destiny; 
Oft is she hid from mortal eye 

Or dimly seen, 
But when the clouds asunder fly 

How bright her mien 1 

Far different we — a f roward race, 
Thousands though rich in Fortune's grace 
With cherished sullenness of pace 

Their way pursue, 
Ingrates who wear a smileless face 

The whole year through. 

If kindred humours e'er would make 
My spirit droop for drooping's sake, 



HARK! 'TIS THE THRUSH, UNDAUNTED, UNDEPREST" 759 



From Fancy following in thy wake, 
Bright ship of heaven ! 

A counter impulse let me take 
And be forgiven. 



TO THE PLANET VENUS 

Upon its approximation (as an Evening 
Star) to the Earth, Jan. 183S. 

1838. 1838 

What strong allurement draws, what 

spirit guides, 
Thee, Vesper ! brightening still, as if the 

nearer 
Thou com'st to man's abode the spot grew 

dearer 
Night after night ? True is it Nature hides 
Her treasures less and less. — Man now 

presides 
In power, where once he trembled in his 

weakness; 
Science advances with gigantic strides ; 
But are we aught enriched in love and 

meekness ? 
Aught dost thou see, bright Star ! of pure 

and wise 
More than in humbler times graced human 

story; 
That makes our hearts more apt to sym- 
pathise 
With heaven, our souls more fit for future 

glory, 
When earth shall vanish from our closing 

eyes, 
Ere we lie down in our last dormitory ? 



COMPOSED AT RYDAL ON MAY 
MORNING, 1838 



This and the sonnet entitled " The Pillar 
of Trajan," p. 646, were composed on what 
we call the "Far Terrace" at Rydal Mount, 
where I have murmured out many thousands 
of verses. 

If with old love of you, dear Hills ! I 

share 
New love of many a rival image brought 
From far, forgive the wanderings of my 

thought : 
Nor art thou wronged, sweet May ! when I 

compare 



Thy present birth-morn with thy last, so 

fair, 
So rich to me in favours. For my lot 
Then was, within the famed Egerian Grot 
To sit and muse, fanned by its dewy air 
Mingling with thy soft breath ! That morn- 
ing too, 
Warblers I heard their joy unbosoming 
Amid the sunny, shadowy, Colyseum; 
Heard them, michecked by aught of sadden- 
ing hue, 
For victories there won by flower-crowned 

Spring, 
Chant in full choir their innocent Te Deum. 



COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 
1838 

1838. 1838 

Life with yon Lambs, bike day, is just be- 
gun, 

Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. 

Does joy approach ? they meet the coming 
tide; 

And sullenness avoid, as now they shun 

Pale twilight's lingering glooms, — and in 
the sun 

Couch near their dams, with quiet satis- 
fied; 

Or gambol — each with his shadow at his 
side, 

Varying its shape wherever he may run. 

As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy 
dew 

All turn, and court the shining and the 
green, 

Where herbs look up, and opening flowers 
are seen; 

Why to God's goodness cannot We be 
true, 

And so, His gifts and promises between, 

Feed to the last on pleasures ever new ? 



"HARK! 'TIS THE THRUSH, UN- 
DAUNTED, UNDEPREST" 

1838. 1838 

Hark ! 't is the Thrush, undaunted, unde- 

prest, 
By twilight premature of cloud and rain; 
Nor does that roaring wind deaden his 

strain 



7 6o "'TIS HE WHOSE YESTER-EVENING'S HIGH DISDAIN" 



Who carols thinking of his Love and nest, 
And seems, as more incited, still more blest. 
Thanks; thou hast snapped a fireside 

Prisoner's chain, 
Exulting Warbler ! eased a fretted brain, 
And in a moment charmed my cares to 

Yes, I will forth, bold Bird ! and front the 

blast, 
That we may sing together, if thou wilt, 
So loud, so clear, my Partner through life's 

day, 
Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love- 
built 
Like thine, shall gladden, as hi seasons past, 
Thrilled by loose snatches of the social Lay. 



"'TIS HE WHOSE YESTER- 
EVENING'S HIGH DISDAIN" 

1838. 1838 

'TiS He whose yester-evening's high dis- 
dain 

Beat back the roaring storm — but how 
subdued 

His day-break note, a sad vicissitude ! 

Does the hour's drowsy weight his glee 
restrain ? 

Or, like the nightingale, her joyous vein 

Pleased to renounce, does this dear Thrush 
attune 

His voice to suit the temper of yon Moon 

Doubly depressed, setting, and in her wane ? 

Rise, tardy Sun ! and let the Songster prove 

(The balance trembling between night and 
morn 

No longer) with what ecstasy upborne 

He can pour forth his spirit. In heaven 
above, 

And earth below, they best can serve true 
gladness 

Who meet most feelingly the calls of sad- 
ness. 



"OH WHAT 
CHANGED 
SPEECH!" 



A. WRECK! 

IN MIEN 



HOW 

AND 



1838 (?). 1838 



The sad condition of poor Mr9. Southey put 
me upon writing this. It has afforded comfort 
to many persons whose friends have been simi- 
larly affected. 



Oh what a Wreck ! how changed in mien 

and speech ! 
Yet — though dread Powers, that work in 

mystery, spin 
Entanglmgs of the brain; though shadows 

stretch 
O'er the chilled heart — reflect; far, far 

within 
Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin. 
She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch; 
But delegated Spirits comfort fetch 
To Her from heights that Reason may not 

win. 
Like Children, She is privileged to hold 
Divine communion; both do live and move, 
Whate'er to shallow Faith their ways unfold, 
Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love; 
Love pitying innocence not long to last, 
In them — in Her our sins and sorrows past. 



A PLEA FOR AUTHORS, 
MAY 1838 

1838. 1838 

Failing impartial measure to dispense 
To every suitor, Equity is lame; 
And social Justice, stript of reverence 
For natural rights, a mockery and a shame ; 
Law but a servile dupe of false pretence, 
If, guarding grossest things from common 

claim 
Now and for ever, She, to works that came 
From mind and spirit, grudge a short-lived 

fence. 
" What ! lengthened privilege, a lineal tie, 
For Books ! " Yes, heartless Ones, or be it 

proved 
That 't is a fault in Us to have lived and 

loved 
Like others, with like temporal hopes to 

die; 
No public harm that Genius from her course 
Be turned ; and streams of truth dried up, 

even at their source ! 



A POET TO HIS GRANDCHILD 

SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING 

1838. 1838. 

" Son of my buried Son, while thus thy 

hand 
Is clasping mine, it saddens me to think 



SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH 



761 



How Want may press thee down, and with 

thee sink 
Thy children left unfit, tlirough vain demand 
Of culture, even to feel or understand 
My simplest Lay that to their memory 
May cling; — hard fate ! which haply need 

not be 
Did Justice mould the statutes of the Land. 
A Book time-cherished and an honoured 

name 
Are high rewards ; but bound they Nature's 

claim 
Or Reason's ? No — hopes spun in timid 

line 
From out the bosom of a modest home 
Extend through unambitious years to come, 
My careless Little-one, for thee and thine ! " 



"BLEST STATESMAN HE, WHOSE 
MIND'S UNSELFISH WILL" 

1838. 1S38 

Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unself- 
ish will 
Leaves him at ease among grand thoughts: 

whose eye 
Sees that, apart from magnanimity, 
Wisdom exists not; nor the humbler skill 
Of Prudence, disentangling good and ill 
With patient care. What tho' assaults run 

high, 
They daunt not him who holds his ministry, 
Resolute, at all hazards, to fulfil 
Its duties ; — prompt to move, but firm to 

wait, — 
Knowing, things rashly sought are rarely 

found ; 
That, for the functions of an ancient State — 
Strong by her charters, free because im- 

bound, 
Servant of Providence, not slave of Fate — 
Perilous is sweeping change, all chance un- 
sound. 

VALEDICTORY SONNET 
1838. 1838 

Closing the Volume of Sonnets published in 

1838. 

Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have 

here 
Disposed some cultured Flowerets (drawn 

from spots 



Where they bloomed singly, or in scattered 

knots), 
Each kind in several beds of one parterre; 
Both to allure the casual Loiterer, 
And that, so placed, my Nurslings may 

requite 
Studious regard with opportune delight, 
Nor be unthanked, unless I fondly err. 
But metaphor dismissed, and thanks apart, 
Reader, farewell ! My last words let them 

be — 
If in this book Fancy and Truth agree; 
If simple Nature framed by careful Art 
Through It have won a passage to thy heart; 
Grant me thy love, I crave no other fee ! 



PROTEST AGAINST THE 
BALLOT 

1838. 1838 

Forth rushed from Envy sprung and Self- 
conceit, 
A Power misnamed the Spirit of Reform, 
And through the astonished Island swept 

in storm, 
Threatening to lay all orders at her feet 
That crossed her way. Now stoops she to 

entreat. 
Licence to hide at intervals her head 
Where she may work, safe, undisquieted, 
In a close Box, covert for Justice meet. 
St. George of England ! keep a watchful 

eye 
Fixed on the Suitor; frustrate her request — 
Stifle her hope; for, if the State comply, 
From such Pandorian gift may come a Pest 
Worse than the Dragon that bowed low his 

crest, 
Pierced by thy spear in glorious victory. 



SONNETS 

UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH 

IN SERIES 

1839-40. 1 84 1 

I 

SUGGESTED BY THE VIEW OF LANCAS- 
TER CASTLE (ON THE ROAD FROM 
THE SOUTH) 

This Spot — at once unfolding sight so fair 
Of sea and land, with yon grey towers that 
still 



762 



SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH 



Rise up as if to lord it over air — 

Might soothe in human breasts the sense of 

ill, 
Or charm it out of memory ; yea, might fill 
The heart with joy and gratitude to God 
For all his bounties upon man bestowed: 
Why bears it then the name of " Weeping 

Hill " ? 
Thousands, as toward yon old Lancastrian 

Towers, 
A prison's crown, along this way they past 
For lingering durance or quick death with 

shame, 
From this bare eminence thereon have cast 
Their first look — blinded as tears fell in 

showers 
Shed on their chains; and hence that dole- 
ful name. 



Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law 
For worst offenders : though the heart will 

heave 
With indignation, deeply moved we grieve, 
In after thought, for Him who stood in 

awe 
Neither of God nor man, and only saw, 
Lost wretch, a horrible device enthroned 
On proud temptations, till the victim 

groaned 
Under the steel his hand had dared to 

draw. 
But oh, restrain compassion, if its course, 
As oft befalls, prevent or turn aside 
Judgments and aims and acts whose higher 

source 
Is sympathy with the unforewarned, who 

died 
Blameless — with them that shuddered o'er 

his grave, 
And all who from the law firm safety crave. 

Ill 

The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die 
Who had betrayed their country. The 

stern word 
Afforded (may it through all time afford) 
A theme for praise and admiration high. 
Upon the surface of humanity 
He rested not; its depths his mind explored; 
He felt; but his parental bosom's lord 
Was Duty, — Duty calmed his agony. 
And some, we know, when they by wilful 

act 
A single human life have wrongly taken, 



Pass sentence on themselves, confess the 

fact, 
And, to atone for it, with soul unshaken 
Kneel at the feet of Justice, and, for faith 
Broken with all mankind, solicit death. 



Is Death, when evil against good has fought 
With such fell mastery that a man may dare 
By deeds the blackest purpose to lay bare ; 
Is Death, for one to that condition brought, 
For him, or any one, the thing that ought 
To be most dreaded ? Lawgivers, beware, 
Lest, capital pains remitting till ye spare 
The murderer, ye, by sanction to that 

thought 
Seemingly given, debase the general mind ; 
Tempt the vague will tried standards to 

disown, 
Nor only palpable restraints unbind, 
But upon Honour's head disturb the crown, 
Whose absolute rule permits not to with- 
stand 
In the weak love of life his least command. 



Not to the object specially designed, 
Howe'er momentous in itself it be, 
Good to promote or curb depravity, 
Is the wise Legislator's view confined. 
His Spirit, when most severe, is oft most 

kind ; 
As all Aiithority in earth depends 
On Love and Fear, their several powers he 

blends, 
Copying with awe the one Paternal mind. 
Uncaught by processes in show humane, 
He feels how far the act would derogate 
From even the humblest functions of the 

State ; 
If she, self-shorn of Majesty, ordain 
That never more shall hang upon her breath 
The last alternative of Life or Death. 



Ye brood of conscience — Spectres ! that 

frequent 
The bad Man's restless walk, and haunt 

his bed — 
Fiends in your aspect, yet beneficent 
In act, as hovering Angels when they spread 
Their wings to guard the unconscious 

Innocent — 
Slow be the Statutes of the land to share 
A laxity that could not but impair 



SONNETS UPON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH 



763 



Your power to punish crime, and so pre- 
vent. 
And ye, Beliefs ! coiled serpent-like about 
The adage on all tongues, "Murder will 

out," 
How shall your ancient warnings work for 

good 
In the full might they hitherto have shown, 
If for deliberate shedder of man's blood 
Survive not Judgment that requires his 
own? 

VII 

Before the world had past her time of 

youth 
While polity and discipline were weak, 
The precept eye for eye, and tooth for tooth, 
Came forth — a light, though but as of day- 
break, 
Strong as could then be borne. A Master 

meek 
Proscribed the spirit fostered by that rule, 
Patience his law, long-suffering his school, 
And love the end, which all through peace 

must seek. 
But lamentably do they err who strain 
His mandates, given rash impulse to con- 
trol 
And keep vindictive thirstings from the 

soul, 
So far that, if consistent in their scheme, 
They must forbid the State to inflict a pain, 
Making of social order a mere dream. 

VIII 

Fit retribution, by the moral code 
Determined, lies beyond the State's em- 
brace, 
Yet, as she may, for each peculiar case 
She plants well-measured terrors in the road 
Of wrongful acts. Downward it is and 

broad, 
And, the mam fear once doomed to banish- 
ment, 
Far oftener then, bad ushering worse event, 
Blood would be spilt that in his dark abode 
Crime might lie better hid. And, should 

the change 
Take from the horror due to a foul deed, 
Pursuit and evidence so far must fail, 
And, guilt escaping, passion then might 

plead 
In angry spirits for her old free range, 
And the " wild justice of revenge " pre- 
vail. 



IX 

Though to give timely warning and deter 
Is one great aim of penalty, extend 
Thy mental vision further and ascend 
Far higher, else full surely shalt thou err. 
What is a State ? The wise behold in her 
A creature born of time, that keeps one 

eye 
Fixed on the statutes of Eternity, 
To which her judgments reverently defer. 
Speaking through Law's dispassionate voice 

the State 
Endues her conscience with external life 
And being, to preclude or quell the strife 
Of individual will, to elevate 
The grovelling mind, the erring to recall, 
And fortify the moral sense of all. 



Our bodily life, some plead, that life the 

shrine 
Of an immortal spirit, is a gift 
So sacred, so informed with light divine, 
That no tribunal, though most wise to sift 
Deed and intent, should turn the Being 

adrift 
Into that world where penitential tear 
May not avail, nor prayer have for God's 

ear 
A voice — that world whose veil no hand 

can lift 
For earthly sight. " Eternity and Time," 
They urge, " have interwoven claims and 

rights 
Not to be jeopardised through foulest 

crime : 
The sentence rule by mercy's heaven-born 

lights." 
Even so ; but measuring not by finite sense 
Infinite Power, perfect Intelligence. 

XI 

Ah, think how one compelled for life to 

abide 
Locked in a dungeon needs must eat the 

heart 
Out of his own humanity, and part 
With every hope that mutual cares provide; 
And, should a less unnatural doom confide 
In life-long exile on a savage coast, 
Soon the relapsing penitent may boast 
Of yet more heinous guilt, with fiercer pride. 
Hence thoughtful Mercy, Mercy sage and 

pure, 
Sanctions the forfeiture that Law demands, 



764 



ON A PORTRAIT OF I. F. 



Leaving the final issue in His hands 
Whose goodness knows no change, whose 

love is sure, 
Who sees, foresees ; who cannot judge amiss, 
And wafts at will the contrite soul to bliss. 



See the Condemned alone within his cell 
And prostrate at some moment when re- 
morse 
Stings to the quick, and, with resistless force, 
Assaults the pride she strove in vain to 

quell. 
Then mark him, him who could so long rebel, 
The crime confessed, a kneeling Penitent 
Before the Altar, where the Sacrament 
Softens his heart, till from his eyes outwell 
Tears of salvation. Welcome death ! while 

Heaven 
Does in this change exceedingly Tejoice; 
While yet the solemn heed the State hath 

given 
Helps him to meet the last Tribunal's voice 
In faith, which fresh offences, were he cast 
On old temptations, might for ever blast. 

XIII 

CONCLUSION 

Yes, though He well may tremble at the 

sound 
Of his own voice, who from the judgment- 
seat 
Sends the pale Convict to his last retreat 
In death; though Listeners shudder all 

around, 
They know the dread requital's source pro- 
found ; 
Nor is, they feel, its wisdom obsolete — 
(Would that it were !) the sacrifice unmeet 
For Christian Faith. But hopeful signs 

abound ; 
The social rights of man breathe purer air, 
Religion deepens her preventive care; 
Then, moved by needless fear of past abuse, 
Strike not from Law's firm hand that awful 

rod, 
But leave it thence to drop for lack of use : 
Oh, speed the blessed hour, Almighty God ! 

XIV 

APOLOGY 

The formal World relaxes her cold chain 
For One who speaks in numbers; ampler 
scope 



His utterance finds; and, conscious of the 

gain, 
Imagination works with bolder hope 
The cause of grateful reason to sustain; 
And, serving Truth, the heart more strongly 

beats 
Against all barriers which his labour meets 
In lofty place, or humble Life's domain. 
Enough; — before us lay a painful road, 
And guidance have I sought in duteous love 
From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence 

hath flowed 
Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way 
Each takes in this high matter, all may 

move 
Cheered with the prospect of a brighter 

day. 



ON A PORTRAIT OF I. F., 
PAINTED BY MARGARET GIL- 
LIES 

1840. 1 85 1 

We gaze — nor grieve to think that we 
must die, 

But that the precious love this friend hath 
sown 

Within our hearts, the love whose flower 
hath blown 

Bright as if heaven were ever in its eye, 

Will pass so soon from human memory; 

And not by strangers to our blood alone, 

But by our best descendants be unknown, 

Unthought of — this may surely claim a 
sigh. 

Yet, blessed Art, we yield not to dejection; 

Thou against Time so feelingly dost strive. 

Where'er, preserved in this most true re- 
flection, 

An image of her soul is kept alive, 

Some lingering fragrance of the pure affec- 
tion, 

Whose flower with us will vanish, must 
survive. 

TO I. F. 
1840. 1851 

The star which comes at close of day to 

shine 
More heavenly bright than when it leads 

the morn, 
Is friendship's emblem, whether the forlorn 
She vigiteth, or, shedding light benign 



ON A PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON 765 



Through shades that solemnize Life's calm 

decline, 
Doth make the happy happier. This have we 
Learnt, Isabel, from thy society, 
Which now we too unwillingly resign 
Though for brief absence. But farewell ! 

the page 
Glimmers before my sight through thankful 

tears, 
Such as start forth, not seldom, to approve 
Our truth, when we, old yet unchilled by age, 
Call thee, though known but for a few fleet 

years, 
The heart-affianced sister of our love ! 



POOR ROBIN 
1840. 1842 

I often ask myself what will become of Rydal 
Mount after our day. Will the old walls and 
steps remain in front of the house and about 
the grounds, or will they be swept away with 
all the beautiful mosses and ferns and wild 
geraniums and other flowers which their rude 
construction suffered and encouraged to grow 
among them ? — This little wild flower — 
''Poor Robin" — is here constantly courting 
my attention, and exciting what may be called 
a domestic interest with the varying aspects of 
its stalks and leaves and flowers. Strangely 
do the tastes of men differ according to their 
employment and habits of life. " What a nice 
well would that be," said a labouring man to 
me one day, " if all that rubbish was cleared 
off." The "rubbish" was some of the most 
beautiful mosses and lichens and ferns and 
other wild growths that could possibly be seen. 
Defend us from the tyranny of trinmess and 
neatness showing itself in this way! Chatter- 
ton says of freedom — "Upon her head wild 
weeds were spread ; " and depend upon it if 
I the marvellous boy " had undertaken to give 
Flora a garland, lie would have preferred what 
we are apt to call weeds to garden-flowers. 
True taste has an eye for both. Weeds have 
been called flowers out of place. I fear the 
place most people would assign to them is too 
limited. Let them come near to our abodes, 
as surely they may without impropriety or dis- 
order. 

Now when the primrose makes a splendid 

show, 
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, 
And humbler growths as moved with one 

desire 
Pit on, to welcome spring, their best attire, 
Poor Robm is yet flowerless; but bow gay 



With his red stalks upon this sunny day ! 
And, as his tufts of leaves he spreads, con- 
tent 
With a bard bed and scanty nourishment, 
Mixed with the green, some shine not lack- 

ing power 
To rival summer's brightest scarlet flower; 
And flowers they well might seem to 
passers-by , r 

If looked at only with a careless eye; 
Flowers — or a richer produce (did it suit 
The season) sprinklings of ripe strawberry 

fruit. 
But while a thousand pleasures come un- 
sought, 
Why fix upon his wealth or want a thought ? 
Is the string touched in prelude to a lay 
Of pretty fancies that woidd round him play 
When all the world acknowledged elfin 

sway ? 
Or does it suit our humour to commend 20 
Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend, 
Whose practice teaches, spite of names, to 

show 
Bright colours whether they deceive or 

no? — 
Nay, we would simply praise the free good- 
will 
With which, though slighted, he, on naked 

bill 
Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill; 
Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now, 
Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow: 
Yet more, we wish that men by men de- 
spised, 
And such as lift their foreheads over- 
prized, 30 
Should sometimes think, where'er they 

chance to spy 
This child of Nature's own humility, 
What recompence is kept in store or left 
For all that seem neglected or bereft; 
With what nice care equivalents are given, 
How just, how bountiful, the hand of 
Heaven. 

ON A PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE 
OF WELLINGTON UPON THE 
FIELD OF WATERLOO, BY HAY- 
DON 

1840. 1842 

This was composed while I was ascending 
Helvellyn in company with my daughter and 
her husband. She was on horseback and rode 



766 



TO A PAINTER 



to the top of the hill without once dismounting-, 
a feat which it was scarcely possible to perform 
except during- a season of dry weather ; and a 
guide, with whom we fell in on the mountain, 
told us he believed it had never been accom- 
plished before by any one. 

By Art's bold privilege Warrior and War- 
horse stand 
On ground yet strewn with their last battle's 

wreck; 
Let the Steed glory while his Master's hand 
Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck; 
But by the Chieftain's look, though at his 

side 
Hangs that day's treasured sword, how firm 

a check 
Is given to triumph and all human pride ! 
Yon trophied Mound shrinks to a shadowy 

speck 
In his calm presence ! Him the mighty 

deed 
Elates not, brought far nearer the grave's 

rest, 
As shows that time-worn face, for he such 

seed 
Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of 

fame 
In Heaven; hence no one blushes for thy 

name, 
Conqueror, 'mid some sad thoughts, divinely 

blest ! 



TO A PAINTER 

1841(F). 1842 

The picture which gave occasion to this and 
the following Sonnet was from the pencil of 
Miss M. Gillies, who resided for several weeks 
under our roof at Rydal Mount. 

All praise the Likeness by thy skill por- 
trayed; 

But 't is a f raitless task to paint for me, 

Who, yielding not to changes Time has 
made, 

By the habitual light of memory see 

Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot 
fade, 

And smiles that from their birth-place ne'er 
shall flee 

Into the land where ghosts and phantoms 
be; 

And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. 

Couldst thou go back into far-distant years, 



Or share with me, fond thought ! that in- 
ward eye, 
Then, and then only, Painter ! could thy Art 
The visual powers of Nature satisfy, 
Which hold, whate'er to common sight 

appears, 
Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart. 



ON THE SAME SUBJECT 
1841. 1842 

Though I beheld at first with blank sur- 
prise 

This Work, I now have gazed on it so long 
I see its truth with imreluctant eyes; 
O, my Beloved ! I have done thee wrong, 
Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it 

sprung, 
Ever too heedless, as I now perceive: 
Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, 
And the old day was welcome as the young, 
As welcome, and as beautiful — in sooth 
More beautiful, as being a thing more holy: 
Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth 
Of all thy goodness, never melancholy; 
To thy large heart and humble mind, that 

cast 
Into one vision, future, present, past. 



"WHEN SEVERN'S SWEEPING 
FLOOD HAD OVERTHROWN" 

1842. 1S42 

When Severn's sweeping flood had over- 
thrown 

St. Mary's Church, the preacher then 
would cry: — 

" Thus, Christian people, God his might 
hath shown 

That ye to him your love may testify; 

Haste, and rebuild the pile." — But not a 
stone 

Resumed its place. Age after age went by, 

And Heaven still lacked its due, though 
piety 

In secret did, we trust, her loss bemoan. 

But now her Spirit hath put forth its claim 

In Power, and Poesy would lend her voice ; 

Let the new Church be worthy of its aim, 

That in its beauty Cardiff may rejoice ! 

Oh ! in the past if cause there was for 
shame, 

Let not our times halt in their better choice. 



PRELUDE 



767 



"INTENT ON GATHERING WOOL 
FROM HEDGE AND BRAKE" 

1842. 1842 

Suggested by a conversation with Miss Fen- 
wick, who along with her sister had, during 
their childhood, found much delight in such 
gatherings for the purposes here alluded to. 

Intent on gathering wool from hedge and 

brake 
Yon busy Little-ones rejoice that soon 
A poor old Dame will bless them for the 

boon: 
Great is their glee while flake they add to 

flake 
With rival earnestness; far other strife 
Than will hereafter move them, if they 

make 
Pastime their idol, give their day of life 
To pleasure snatched for reckless pleasure's 

sake. 
Can pomp and show allay one heart-born 

grief ? 
Pains which the World inflicts can she 

requite ? 
Not for an interval however brief; 
The silent thoughts that search for stedfast 

light, 
Love from her depths, and Duty in her 

might, 
And Faith — these only yield secure relief. 



PRELUDE 

PREFIXED TO THE VOLUME ENTITLED 
''POEMS CHIEFLY OF EARLY AND LATE 
YEARS " 

1842. 1842 

These verses were begun while I was on a 
visit to my son John at Brigham, and were 
finished at Rydal. As the contents of the vol- 
ume, to which they are now prefixed, will be 
assigned to their respective classes when my 
poems shall he collected in one volume. I should 
he at a loss where with propriety to place this 
prelude, being too restricted in its bearing to 
serve for a preface for the whole. The lines 
towards the conclusion allnde to the discontents 
then fomented through the country by the agi- 
tators of the Anti-Corn-Law League : the par- 
ticular causes of such troubles are transitory, 
but disposition to excite and liability to be ex- 
cited are nevertheless permanent, and therefore 
proper objects for the poet's regard. 



In desultory walk through orchard grounds, 
Or some deep chestnut grove, oft have I 

paused 
The while a Thrush, urged rather than 

restrained 
By gusts of vernal storm, attuned his song 
To his own genial instincts ; and was heard 
(Though not without some plaintive tones 

between) 
To utter, above showers of blossom swept 
From tossing boughs, the promise of a calm, 
Which the unsheltered traveller might re- 
ceive 
With thankful spirit. The descant, and the 
wind 10 

That seemed to play with it in love or scorn, 
Encouraged and endeared the strain of 

words 
That haply flowed from me, by fits of si- 
lence 
Impelled to livelier pace. But now, my 

Book! 
Charged with those lays, and others of like 

mood, 
Or loftier pitch if higher rose the theme, 
Go, single — yet aspiring to be joined 
With thy Forerunners that through many 

a year 
Have faithfully prepared each other's 

way — 
Go forth upon a mission best fulfilled 20 
When and wherever, in this changeful 

world, 
Power hath been given to please for higher 

ends 
Than pleasure only; gladdening to prepare 
For wholesome sadness, troubling to refine, 
Calming to raise; and, by a sapient Art 
Diffused through all the mysteries of our 

Being, 
Softening the toils and pains that have not- 
ceased 
To cast their shadows on our mother Earth 
Since the primeval doom. Such is the 

grace 
Which, though unsued for, fails not to de- 
scend 30 
With heavenly inspiration; such the aim 
That Reason dictates; and, as even the wish 
Has virtue in it, why should hope to me 
Be wanting that sometimes, where fancied 

ills 
Harass the mind and strip from off the 

bowers 
Of private life their natural pleasantness, 



768 



FLOATING ISLAND 



A Voice — devoted to the love whose seeds 
Are sown in every human breast, to beauty- 
Lodged within compass of the humblest 

sight, 
To cheerful intercourse with wood and 

field, 40 

And sympathy with man's substantial 

griefs — 
Will not be heard hi vain ? And in those 

days 
When unforeseen distress spreads far and 

wide 
Among a People mournfully cast down, 
Or into anger roused by venal words 
In recklessness flung out to overturn 
The judgment, and divert the general heart 
From mutual good — some strain of thine, 

my Book ! 
Caught at propitious intervals, may win 
Listeners who not unwillingly admit 50 

Kindly emotion tending to console 
And reconcile; and both with young and 

old 
Exalt the sense of thoughtful gratitude 
For benefits that still survive, by faith 
In progress, under laws divine, maintained. 



FLOATING ISLAND 

1842. 1842 

My poor sister takes a pleasure in repeating 
these verses, which she composed not long' be- 
fore the beginning of her sad illness. 

These lines are by the author of the " Ad- 
dress to the Wind," etc., published heretofore 
along with my Poems. 

Harmonious Powers with Nature work 
On sky, earth, river, lake and sea; 
Sunshine and cloud, whirlwind and breeze, 
All in one duteous task agree. 

Once did I see a slip of earth 
(By throbbing waves long undermined) 
Loosed from its hold; how, no one knew, 
But all might see it float, obedient to the 
wind; 

Might see it, from the mossy shore 
Dissevered, float upon the Lake, 
Float with its crest of trees adorned 
On which the warbling birds their pastime 
take. 



Food, shelter, safety, there they find; 
There berries ripen, flowerets bloom; 
There insects live their lives, anil die; 
A peopled world it is; in size a tiny room. 

And thus through many seasons' space 
Thb little Island may survive; 
But Nature, though we mark her not, 
Will take away, may cease to give. 

Perchance when you are wandering forth 
Upon some vacant sunny day, 
Without an object, hope, or fear, 
Thither your eyes may turn — the Isle is 
passed away; 

Buried beneath the glittering Lake f 
Its place no longer to be found; 
Yet the lost fragments shall remain 
To fertilize some other ground. 



"THE CRESCENT-MOON, THE 
STAR OF LOVE" 

1842. 1842 

The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love, 
Glories of evening, as ye there are seen 
With but a span of sky between — 
Speak one of you, my doubts remove, 

Which is the attendant Page and which the 
Queen ? 



TO A REDBREAST — (IN SICK- 
NESS) 

(?). 1842 

Almost the only verses by our lamented Sis-" 
ter Sara Hutchinson. 

Stay, little cheerful Robin ! stay, 

And at my casement sing, 
Though it should prove a farewell lay 

And this our parting spring. 

Though I, alas ! may ne'er enjoy 

The promise in thy song; 
A charm, that thought can not destroy > 

Doth to thy strain belong. 

Methinks that in my dying hour 
Thy song would still be dear, 

And with a more than earthly power 
My passing Spirit cheer. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS 



769 



Then, little Bird, this boon confer, 
Come, and my requiem sing, 

Nor fail to be the harbinger 
Of everlasting Spring. 



MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS 
1842(F). 1842 

1 

I was impelled to write this Sonnet by the 
disgusting frequency with which the word ar- 
tistieal, imported with other impertinences from 
the Germans, is employed by writers of the 
present day : for artistical let them substitute 
artificial, and the poetry written on this system, 
both at home and abroad, will be for the most 
part much better characterised. 

A Poet! — He hath put his heart to school, 
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff 
Which Art hath lodged within his hand — 

must laugh 
By precept only, and shed tears by rule. 
Thy Art be Nature; the live cm-rent quaff, 
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, 
In fear that else, when Critics grave and 

cool 
Have killed him, Scorn should write his 

epitaph. 
How does the Meadow-flower its bloom un- 
fold ? 
Because the lovely little flower is free 
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, 

bold; 
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree 
Comes not by casting in a formal mould, 
But from its own divine vitality. 



Hundreds of times have I seen, hanging 1 about 
and above the vale of Rydal, clouds that might 
have given birth to this Sonnet, which was 
thrown off on the impulse of the moment one 
evening when I was returning home from the 
favourite walk of ours, along the Rotha, under 
Loughrigg. 

The most alluring clouds that mount the 

sky 
Owe to a troubled element their forms, 
Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye 
We watch their splendour, shall we covet 

storms, 
And wish the Lord of day his slow decline 



Would hasten, that such pomp may float on 

high ? 
Behold, already they forget to shine, 
Dissolve — and leave, to him who gazed, a 

sigh. 
Not loth to thank each moment for its boon 
Of pure delight, come whencesoe'er it may, 
Peace let us seek, — to stedfast things 

attune 
Calm expectations — leaving to the gay 
And volatile their love of transient bowers, 
The house that cannot pass away be ours. 



ill 

This Sonnet is recommended to the perusal of 
all those who consider that the evils under which 
we groan are to be removed or palliated by mea- 
sures ungoverned by moral and religious prin- 
ciples. 

Feel for the wrongs to universal ken 
Daily exposed, woe that unshrouded lies; 
And seek the Sufferer in his darkest den, 
Whether conducted to the spot by sighs 
And moanings, or he dwells (as if the wren 
Taught him concealment) hidden from all 

eyes 
In silence and the awful modesties 
Of sorrow ; — feel for all, as brother Men ! 
Rest not in hope want's icy chain to thaw 
By casual boons and formal charities; 
Learn to be just, just through impartial 

law; 
Far as ye may, erect and equalise; 
And, what ye cannot reach by statute, draw 
Each from his fountain of self-sacrifice ! 



IV 

IN ALLUSION TO VARIOUS RECENT 
HISTORIES AND NOTICES OF THE 
FRENCH REVOLUTION 

Portentous change when History can ap- 
pear 

As the cool Advocate of foul device; 

Reckless audacity extol, and jeer 

At consciences perplexed with scruples 
nice ! 

They who bewail not, must abhor, the 
sneer 

Born of Conceit, Power's blind Idolater; 

Or haply sprung from vaunting Cowardice 

Betrayed by mockery of holy fear. 

Hath it not long been said the wrath of 
Man 



77° 



THE NORMAN BOY 



Works not the righteousness of God ? Oh 

bend, 
Bend, ye Perverse ! to judgments from on 

High, 
Laws that lay under Heaven's perpetual ban, 
All principles of action that transcend 
The sacred limits of bumanity. 



CONTINUED 

Who ponders National events shall find 
An awful balancing of loss and gam, 
Joy based on sorrow, good with ill com- 
bined, 
And proud deliverance issuing out of pain 
And direful throes ; as if the All-ruling Mind, 
With whose perfection it consists to ordain 
Volcanic burst, earthquake, and hurricane, 
Dealt hi like sort with feeble human kind 
By laws immutable. But woe for him 
Who thus deceived shall lend an eager hand 
To social havoc. Is not Conscience ours, 
And Truth, whose eye guilt only can make 

dim; 
And Will, whose office, by divine command, 
Is to control and check disordered Powers ? 

VI 
CONCLUDED 

Long-favoured England ! be not thou 

misled 
By monstrous theories of alien growth, 
Lest alien frenzy seize thee, waxing wroth, 
Self-smitten till thy garments reek dyed red 
With thy own blood, which tears in torrents 

shed 
Fail to wash out, tears flowing ere thy troth 
Be plighted, not to ease but sullen sloth, 
Or wan despair — the ghost of false hope fled 
Into a shameful grave. Among thy youth, 
My Country ! if such warning be held dear, 
Then shall a Veteran's heart be thrilled 

with joy, 
One who would gather from eternal truth, 
For time and season, rules that work to 

cheer — 
Not scourge, to save the People — not de- 
stroy. 

VII 

Men of the Western World ! in Fate's dark 

book 
Whence these opprobrious leaves of dire 

portent ? 



Think ye your British Ancestors forsook 
Their native Land, for outrage provident; 
From unsubmissive necks the bridle shook 
To give, in their Descendants, freer vent 
And wider range to passions turbulent, 
To mutual tyramiy a deadlier look ? 
Nay, said a voice, soft as the south wind's 

breath, 
Dive through the stormy surface of the 

flood 
To the great current flowing underneath; 
Explore the countless springs of silent 

good; 
So shall the truth be better understood, 
And thy grieved Spirit brighten strong in 

faith. 



Lo ! where she stands fixed in a saint-like 
trance, 

One upward hand, as if she needed rest 

From rapture, lying softly on her breast ! 

Nor wants her eyeball an ethereal glance; 

But not the less — nay more — that counte- 
nance, 

While thus illumined, tells of painful strife 

For a sick heart made weary of this life 

By love, long crossed with adverse circum- 
stance. 

— Would She were now as when she hoped 
to pass 

At God's appointed hour to them who tread 

Heaven's sapphire pavement, yet breathed 
well content, 

Well pleased, her foot should print earth's 
common grass, 

Lived thankful for day's light, for daily 
bread, 

For health, and time in obvious duty spent. 



THE NORMAN BOY 

1842. 1842 

The subject of this poem was sent me by Mrs. 
Ogle, to whom I was personally unknown, with 
a hope on her part that I might be induced to 
relate the incident in verse ; and I do not reg'ret 
that I took the trouble ; for not improbably the 
fact is illustrative of the boy's "early piety, and 
may concur with my other little pieces on 
children to produce profitable reflection among 
my youthful readers. This is said however 
with an absolute conviction that children will 
derive most benefit from books which are not 
unworthy the perusal of persons of any age. I 



THE POET'S DREAM 



771 



protest with my whole heart against those pro- 
ductions, so abundant in the present day, in 
which the doings of children are dwelt upon 
as if they were incapable of being" interested in 
anything else. On this subject I have dwelt at 
length in the poem on the growth of my own 
mind. 

High on a broad unfertile tract of forest- 
skirted Down, 

Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made 
by man his own, 

From home and company remote and every 
playful joy, 

Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a 
ragged Norman Boy. 

Him never saw I, nor the spot; but from 

an English Dame, 
Strange* to me and yet my friend, a simple 

notice came, 
With suit that I would speak in verse of 

that secmestered child 
Whom, one bleak winter's day, she met 

upon the dreary Wild. 

His flock, along the woodland's edge with 
relics sprinkled o'er 

Of last night's snow, beneath a sky threat- 
ening the fall of more, 10 

Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were 
busy at their feed, 

And the poor Boy was busier still, with 
work of anxious heed. 

There was he, where of branches rent and 

withered and decayed, 
For covert from the keen north wind, his 

hands a hut had made. 
A tiny tenement, forsooth, and frail, as 

needs must be 
A thing of such materials framed, by a 

builder such as he. 

The hut stood finished by his pains, nor 

seemingly lacked aught 
That skill or means of his could add, but 

the architect had wrought 
Some limber twigs into a Cross, well-shaped 

with fingers nice, 
To be engrafted on the top of his small 

edifice. 20 

That Cross he now was fastening there, as 
the surest power and best 

For supplying all deficiencies, all wants of 
the rude nest 



In which, from burning heat, or tempest 

driving far and wide, 
The innocent Boy, else shelterless, his lonely 

head must hide. 

That Cross belike he also raised as a stand- 
ard for the true 

And faithful service of his heart in the 
worst that might ensue 

Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the 
houseless waste 

Where he, in his poor self so weak, by 
Providence was placed. 

Here, Lady ! might I cease ; but nay, 

let us before we part 
With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe 

a prayer of earnest heart, 30 

That unto him, where'er shall lie his life's 

appointed way, 
The Cross, fixed in his soul, may prove an 

all-sufficing stay. 



THE POET'S DREAM , 

SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOY 

1842. 1842 

Just as those final words were penned, the 

sun broke out in power, 
And gladdened all things; but, as chanced, 

within that very hour, 
Air blackened, thunder growled, fire flashed 

from clouds that hid the sky, 
And, for the Subject of my Verse, I heaved 

a pensive sigh. 

Nor could my heart by second thoughts 
from heaviness be cleared, 

For bodied forth before my eyes the cross- 
crowned hut appeared ; 

And, while ar sund it storm as fierce seemed 
troubling earth and air, 

I saw, within, the Norman Boy kneeling 
alone in prayer. 

The Child, as if the thunder's voice spake 
with articidate call, 

Bowed meekly in submissive fear, before 
the Lord of All; 10 

His lips were moving; and his eyes, up- 
raised to sue for grace, 

With soft illumination cheered the dimness 
of that place. 



772 



THE POET'S DREAM 



How beautiful is holiness ! — what wonder 

if the sight, 
Almost as vivid as a dream, produced a 

dream at night ? 
It came with sleep and showed the Boy, no 

cherub, not transformed, 
But the poor ragged Thing whose ways my 

human heart had warmed. 

Me had the dream equipped with wings, so 

I took him in my arms, 
And lifted from the grassy floor, stilling his 

faint alarms, 
And bore him high through yielding air my 

debt of love to pay, 
By giving him, for both our sakes, an hour 

of holiday. 20 

I whispered, " Yet a little while, dear 

Child ! thou art my own, 
To show thee some delightful thing, in 

country or in town. 
What shall it be ? a mirthful throng ? or 

that holy place and calm 
St. Denis, filled with royal tombs, or the 

Church of Notre Dame ? 

St. Ouen's golden Shrine ? Or choose what 

else would please thee most 
Of any wonder Normandy, or all proud 

France, can boast ! " 
"My Mother," said the Boy, "was born 

near to a blessed Tree, 
The Chapel Oak of Allonville; good Angel, 

show it me ! " 

On wings, from broad and stedfast poise 

let loose by this reply, 
For Allonville, • 'er down and dale, away 

then did we fly; 30 

O'er town and t.wer we flew, and fields in 

May's fresh verdure drest; 
The wings they did not flag; the Child, 

though grave, was not deprest. 

But who shall show, to waking sense, the 

gleam of light that broke 
Forth from- his eyes, when first the Boy 

looked down on that huge oak, 
For length of days so much revered, so 

famous where it stands 
For twofold hallowing — Nature's care, and 

work of human hands ? 



Strong as an Eagle with my charge I glided 

round and round 
The wide-spread boughs, for view of door, 

window, and stair that wound 
Gracefully up the gnarled trunk; nor left 

we unsurveyed 
The pointed steeple peering forth from the 

centre of the shade. 40 

I lighted — opened with soft touch the 
chapel's iron door, 

Past softly, leading in the Boy; and, while 
from roof to floor 

From floor to roof all round his eyes the 
Child with wonder cast, 

Pleasure on pleasure crowded in, each live- 
lier than the last. 

For, deftly framed within the trunk, the 

sanctuary showed, 
By light of lamp and precious stones, that 

glimmered here, there glowed, 
Shrine, Altar, Image, Offerings hung in 

sign of gratitude ; 
Sight that inspired accordant thoughts; 

and speech I thus renewed: 

" Hither the Afflicted come, as thou hast 

heard thy Mother say, 
And, kneeling, supplication make to our 

Lady de la Paix; 50 

What mournful sighs have here been heard, 

and, when the voice was stopt 
By sudden pangs; what bitter tears have 

on this pavement dropt ! 

Poor Shepherd of the naked Down, a 

favoured lot is thine, 
Far happier lot, dear Boy, than brings full 

many to this shrine; 
From body pains and pains of soul thou 

needest no release, 
Thy hours as they flow on are spent, if not 

in joy, in peace. 

Then offer up thy heart to God in thank- 
fulness and praise, 

Give to Him prayers, and many thoughts, 
in thy most busy days; 

And in His sight the fragile Cross, on thy 
small hut, will be 

Holy as that which long hath crowned the 
Chapel of this Tree; 60 



THE WIDOW ON WINDERMERE SIDE 



773 



Holy as that far seen which crowns the 

sumptuous Church in Rome 
Where thousands meet to worship God 

under a mighty Dome; 
He sees the bending multitude, he hears 

the choral rites, 
Yet not the less, in children's hymns and 

lonely prayer, delights. 

God for his service needeth not proud work 

of human skill; 
They please him best who labour most to 

do in peace his will: 
So let us strive to live, and to our Spirits 

will be given 
Such wings as, when our Saviour calls, shall 

bear us up to heaven." 

The Boy no answer made by words, but, 
so earnest was his look, 

Sleep fled, and with it fled the dream — re- 
corded hi this book, 70 

Lest all that passed should melt away in 
silence from my mind, 

As visions still more bright have done, and 
left no trace behind. 

But oh ! that Country-man of thine, whose 

eye, loved Child, can see 
A pledge of endless bliss hi acts of early 

piety, 
In verse, which to thy ear might come, 

would treat this simple theme, 
Nor leave untold our happy flight in that 

adventurous dream. 

Alas the dream, to thee, poor Boy ! to thee 
from whom it flowed, 

Was nothing, scarcely can be aught, yet 
't was bounteously bestowed, 

If I may dare to cherish hope that gentle 
eyes will read 

Not loth, and listening Little-ones, heart- 
touched, their fancies feed. 80 



THE WIDOW ON WINDERMERE 
SIDE 

1842. 1S42 

The facts recorded in this Poem were given 
me, and the character of the person described, 
by my friend the Rev. R. P. Graves, who has 
long officiated as curate at Bowness, to the 
great benefit of the parish and neighbourhood. 



The individual was well known to him. She 
died before these verses were composed. It is 
scarcely worth while to notice that the stanzas 
are written in the sonnet form, which was 
adopted when I thought the matter might be 
included in twenty-eight lines. 



How beautiful when up a lofty height 
Honour ascends among the humblest poor, 
And feeling sinks as deep ! See there the 

door 
Of One, a Widow, left beneath a weight 
Of blameless debt. On evil Fortune's spite 
She wasted no complaint, but strove to 

make 
A just repayment, both for conscience-sake 
And that herself and hers should stand 

upright 
In the world's eye. Her work when day- 
light failed 
Paused not, and through the depth of night 
she kept 10 

Such earnest vigils, that belief prevailed 
With some, the noble Creature never slept; 
But, one by one, the hand of death assailed 
Her children from her inmost heart be- 
wept. 

II 

The Mother mourned, nor ceased her tears 

to flow, 
Till a winter's noonday placed her buried 

Son 
Before her eyes, last child of many gone — 
His raiment of angelic white, and lo ! 
His very feet bright as the dazzling snow 
Which they are touching; yea far brighter, 

even 20 

As that which conies, or seems to come, 

from heaven, 
Surpasses aught these elements can show. 
Much she rejoiced, trusting that from that 

hour 
Whate'er befell she could not grieve or pine; 
But the Transfigured, hi and out of season, 
Appeared, and spiritual presence gained a 

power 
Over material forms that mastered reason. 
Oh, gracious Heaven, in pity make her 

thine ! 



But why that prayer? as if to her could 

come 
No good but by the way that leads to bliss 



774 



AIREY-FORCE VALLEY 



Through Death, — so judging we should 

judge amiss. 31 

Since reason failed want is her threatened 

doom, 
Yet frequent transports mitigate the gloom: 
Nor of those maniacs is she one that kiss 
The air or laugh upon a precipice ; 
No, passing through strange sufferings to- 
ward the tomb 
She smiles as if a martyr's crown were won: 
Oft, when light breaks through clouds or 

waving trees, 
With outspread arms and fallen upon her 

knees 
The Mother hails in her descending Son 40 
An Angel, and in earthly ecstasies 
Her own angelic glory seems begun. 



AIREY-FORCE VALLEY 
1842(F). 1842 

Not a breath of air 

Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen. 
From the brook's margin, wide around, the 

trees 
Are stedfast as the rocks; the brook itself, 
Old as the hills that feed it from afar, 
Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm 
Where all things else are still and motion- 
less. 
And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance 
Escaped from boisterous winds that rage 

without, 
Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt, 
But to its gentle touch how sensitive 
Is the light ash ! that, pendent from the 

brow 
Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes 
A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs, 
Powerful almost as vocal harmony 
To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe his 
thoughts. 



"LYRE! THOUGH SUCH POWER 
DO IN THY MAGIC LIVE" 

1842(F). 1842 

Lyre ! though such power do in thy magic 
live 
As might from India's farthest plain 
Recall the not unwilling Maid, 
Assist me to detain 
The lovely Fugitive: 



Check with thy notes the impulse which, 

betrayed 
By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to 

aid. 
Here let me gaze enrapt upon that eye, 
The impregnable and awe-inspiring fort 
Of contemplation, the calm port 10 

By reason fenced from whids that sigh 
Among the restless sails of vanity. 
But if no wish be hers that we should part, 
A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart. 

Where all things are so fair, 
Enough by her dear side to breathe the air 

Of this Elysian weather; 
And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy 
Shade upon the sunshine lying 

Faint and somewhat pensively; 20 
And downward Image gaily vying 
With its upright living tree 
'Mid silver clouds, and openings of blue 

sky 
As soft almost and deep as her cerulean eye. 

Nor less the joy with many a glance 
Cast vip the Stream or down at her be- 
seeching, 
To mark its eddying foam-balls prettily 

distrest 
By ever-changing shape and want of rest; 
Or watch, with mutual teachhig, 
The current as it plays 30 

In flashing leaps and stealthy 

creeps 
Adown a rocky maze; 
Or note (translucent summer's happiest 

chance !) 
In the slope-channel floored with pebbles 

bright, 
Stones of all hues, gem emulous of gem, 
So vivid that they take from keenest sight 
The liquid veil that seeks not to hide them. 

TO THE CLOUDS 

1842 (?). 1842 

These verses were suggested while I was 
walking on the foot-road between Rydal Mount 
and Grasmere. The clouds were driving over 
the top of Nab-Scar across the vale : they set 
my thoughts agoing, and the rest followed al- 
most immediately. 

Army of Clouds ! ye winged Hosts in 

troops 
Ascending from behind the motionless brow 



TO THE CLOUDS 



775 



Of that tall rock, as from a hidden world, 
Oh whither with such eagerness of speed ? 
What seek ye, or what shun ye ? of the gale 
Companions, fear ye to he left beliind, 
Or racing o'er your blue ethereal held 
Contend ye with each other ? of the sea 
Children, thus post ye over va]e and height 
To sink upon your mother's lap — and rest ? 
Or were ye rightlier hailed, when first mine 

eyes « 

Beheld in your impetuous inarch the like- 
ness 
Of a wide army pressing on to meet 
Or overtake some unknown enemy ? — 
But your smooth motions suit a peaceful 

aim ; 
And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, compares 
Your squadrons to an endless flight of birds 
Aerial, upon due migration bound 
To milder climes; or rather do ye urge 
In caravan your hasty pilgrimage 20 

To pause at last on more aspiring heights 
Than these, and utter your devotion there 
With thunderous voice ? Or are ye jubi- 
lant, 
And would ye, tracking your proud lord 

the Sim, 
Be present at his setting; or the pomp 
Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and 

stand 
Poising your splendours high above the 

heads 
Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen 

God? 
Whence, whence, ye Clouds ! this eagerness 

of spaed ? 
Speak, silent creatures. — They are gone, 

are fled, 30 

Buried together in yon gloomy mass 
That loads the middle heaven; and clear 

and bright 
And vacant doth the region which they 

thronged 
Appear; a calm descent of sky conducting 
Down to the unapproachable abyss, 
Down to that hidden gulf from which they 

rose 
To vanish — fleet as days and months and 

years, 
Fleet as the generations of mankind, 
Power, glory, empire, as the world itself, 
The lingering world, when time hath ceased 

to be. 40 

But the winds roar, shaking the rooted 

trees, 



And see ! a bright precursor to a train 
Perchance as numerous, overpeers the rock 
That sullenly refuses to partake 
Of the wild impulse. From a fount of life 
Invisible, the long procession moves 
Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale 
Which they are entering, welcome to mine 

eye 
That sees them, to my soul that owns hi 

them, 
And hi the bosom of the firmament 50 

O'er which they move, wherein they are 

contained, 
A type of her capacious self and all 
Her restless progeny. 

A humble walk 
Here is my body doomed to tread, this 

path, 
A little hoary line and faintly traced, 
Work, shall we call it, of the shepherd's 

foot 
Or of his flock ? — joint vestige of them 

both. 
I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts 
Admit no bondage and my words have 

wings. 
Where is the Orphean lyre, or Druid harp, 
To accompany the verse ? The mountain 

blast 6 ( 

Shall be our hand of music; he shall sweep 
The rocks, and quivering trees, and billowy 

lake, 
And search the fibres of the caves, and they 
Shall answer, for our song is of the Clouds. 
And the wind loves them; and the gentle 

gales — 
Which by their aid re-clothe the naked 

lawn 
With annual verdure, and revive the woods, 
And moisten the parched lips of thirsty 

flowers — 
Love them ; and every idle breeze of air 70 
Bends to the favourite burthen. Moon and 

stars 
Keep their most solemn vigils when the 

Clouds 
Watch also, shifting peaceably their place 
Like bands of ministering Spirits, or when 

they lie, 
As if some Protean art the change had 

wrought, 
In listless quiet o'er the ethereal deep 
Scattered, a Cyclades of various shapes 
And all degrees of beauty. O ye Lights 

nings ! 



776 "WANSFELL! THIS HOUSEHOLD HAS A FAVOURED LOT" 



Ye are their perilous offspring; and the 

Sun — 
Source inexhaustible of life and joy, So 

And type of man's far-darting reason, there- 
fore 
In old time worshipped as the god of verse, 
A blazing intellectual deity — 
Loves his own glory in their looks, and 

showers 
Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood 
Visions with all but beatific light 
Enriched — too transient were they not re- 
newed 
From age to age, and did not, while we gaze 
In silent rapture, credulous desire 
Nourish the hope that memory lacks not 
power 9 o 

To keep the treasure unimpaired. Vain 

thought ! 
Yet why rephie, created as we are 
For joy and rest, albeit to find them only 
Lodged in the bosom of eternal things ? 



"WANSFELL! THIS HOUSEHOLD 
HAS A FAVOURED LOT" 

1842. 1845 

Wansfell ! this Household has a favoured 

lot, 
Living with liberty on thee to gaze, 
To watch while Morn first crowns thee 

with her rays, 
Or when along thy breast serenely float 
Evening's angelic clouds. Yet ne'er a note 
Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard !) thy 

praise 
For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast 

brought 
Of glory lavished on our quiet days. 
Bountiful Son of Earth ! when we are gone 
From every object dear to mortal sight, 
As soon we shall be, may these words attest 
How oft, to elevate our spirits, shone 
Thy visionary majesties of light, 
How in thy pensive glooms our hearts found 

rest. 



THE EAGLE AND THE DOVE 

1842. 1842 

Shade of Caraetacus, if spirits love 
The cause they fought for in their earthly 
home 



To see the Eagle ruffled by the Dove 
May soothe thy memory of the chains of 
Rome. 

These children claim thee for their sire; the 

breath 
Of thy renown, from Cambrian mountains, 

fans 
A flame within them that despises death 
And glorifies the truant youth of Vannes. 

With thy own scorn of tyrants they ad- 
vance, 

But truth divine has sanctified their rage, 

A silver cross enchased with flowers of 
France 

Their badge, attests the holy fight they 
wage. 

The shrill defiance of the young crusade 
Their veteran foes mock as an idle noise ; 
But unto Faith and Loyalty comes aid 
From Heaven, gigantic force to beardless 
boys. 

GRACE DARLING 

1843. 1845 

Among the dwellers in the silent fields 
The natural heart is touched, and public 

way 
And crowded street resound with ballad 

strains, 
Inspired by ONE whose very name bespeaks 
Favour divine, exalting human love; 
Whom, since her birth on bleak Northum- 

bria's coast, 
Known unto few but prized as far as known, 
A single Act endears to high and low 
Through the whole land — to Manhood, 

moved in spite 
Of the world's freezing cares — to generous 

Youth — 10 

To Infancy, that lisps her praise — to Age 
Whose eye reflects it, glistening through a 

tear 
Of tremulous admiration. Such true fame 
Awaits her now; but, verily, good deeds 
Do not imperishable record find 
Save in the rolls of heaven, where hers may 

live 
A theme for angels, when they celebrate 
The high-souled virtues which forgetful 

earth 



GRACE DARLING 



777 



Has witnessed. Oh ! that winds and waves 

could speak 
Of things which their united power called 

forth 20 

From the pure depths of her humanity ! 
A Maiden gentle, yet, at duty's call, 
Firm and unflinching, as the Lighthouse 

reared 
On the Island-rock, her lonely dwelling- 
place ; 
Or like the invincible Rock itself that 

braves, 
Age after age, the hostile elements, 
As when it guarded holy Cuthbert's cell. 
All night the storm had raged, nor 

ceased, nor paused, 
When, as day broke, the Maid, through 

misty air, 
Espies far off a Wreck, amid the surf, 30 
Beating on one of those disastrous isles — 
Half of a Vessel, half — no more; the 

rest 
Had vanished, swallowed up with all that 

there 
Had for the common safety striven in vain, 
Or thither thronged for refuge. With cpiick 

glance 
Daughter and Sire through optic-glass 

discern, 
Clinging about the remnant of this Ship, 
Creatures — how precious in the Maiden's 

sight ! 
For whom, belike, the old Man grieves 

still more 
Than for their fellow-sufferers engulfed 40 
Where every parting agony is hushed, 
And hope and fear mix not in further strife. 
" But courage, Father ! let us out to sea — 
A few may yet be saved." The Daughter's 

words, 
Her earnest tone, and look beaming with 

faith, 
Dispel the Father's doubts: nor do they 

lack 
The noble-minded Mother's helping hand 
To launch the boat; and with her blessing 

cheered, 
And inwardly sustained by silent prayer, 
Together they put forth, Father and Child ! 
Each grasps an oar, and struggling on they 

go— . Si 

Rivals in effort; and, alike intent 
Here to elude and there surmount, they 

watch 
The billows lengthening, mutually crossed 



And shattered, and re-gathering their 

might; 
As if the tumult, by the Almighty's will 
Were, in the conscious sea, roused and 

prolonged 
That woman's fortitude — so tried, so 

proved — 
May brighten more and more ! 

True to the mark, 
They stem the current of that perilous 

gorge, 60 

Their arms still strengthening with the 

strengthening heart, 
Though danger, as the Wreck is neared, 

becomes 
More imminent. Not unseen do they 

approach ; 
And rapture, with varieties of fear 
Incessantly conflicting, thrills the frames 
Of those who, in that dauntless energy, 
Foretaste deliverance; but the least per- 
turbed 
Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he per- 
ceives 
That of the pair — tossed on the waves to 

bring 
Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, life — 70 
One is a Woman, a poor earthly sister, 
Or, be the Visitant other than she seems, 
A guardian Spirit sent from pitying Heaven, 
In woman's shape. But why prolong the 

tale, 
Casting weak words amid a host of thoughts 
Armed to repel them ? Every hazard faced 
And difficulty mastered, with resolve 
That no one breathing should be left to 

perish, 
This last remainder of the crew are all 
Placed hi the little boat, then o'er the 

deep 80 

Are safely borne, landed upon the beach, 
And, in fulfilment of God's mercy, lodged 
Within the sheltering Lighthouse. — Shout, 

ye Waves, 
Send forth a song of triumph. Waves and 

Winds, 
Exult in this deliverance wrought through 

faith 
In Him whose Providence your rage hath 

served ! 
Ye screaming Sea-mews, in the concert 

join! 
And would that some immortal Voice — a 

Voice 
Fitly attuned to all that gratitude 



77 8 



WHILE BEAMS OF ORIENT LIGHT" 



Breathes out from floor or couch, through 

pallid lips 90 

Of the survivors — to the clouds might 

bear — 
Blended with praise of that parental love, 
Beneath whose watchful eye the Maiden 

grew 
Pious and pure, modest and yet so brave, 
Though young so wise, though meek so 

resolute — 
Might carry to the clouds and to the stars, 
Yea, to celestial Choirs, Grace Darling's 

name ! 



"WHILE BEAMS OF ORIENT 
LIGHT SHOOT WIDE AND 
HIGH" 

1843. 1845 

While beams of orient light shoot wide 

and high, 
Deep in the vale a little rural Town 
Breathes forth a cloud-like creature of its 

own, 
That mounts not toward the radiant 

morning sky, 
But, with a less ambitious sympathy, 
Hangs o'er its Parent waking to the cares 
Troubles and toils that every day prepares. 
So Fancy, to the musing Poet's eye, 
Endears that Lingerer. And how blest her 

sway 
(Like influence never may my soul reject) 
If the calm Heaven, now to its zenith decked 
With glorious forms in numberless array, 
To the lone shepherd on the hills disclose 
Gleams from a world in which the saints 

repose. 

TO THE REV. CHRISTOPHER 
WORDSWORTH, D. D., MASTER 
OF HARROW SCHOOL 

After the perusal of his Theophilus Angli- 
canus, recently published. 

1843. l84S 

Enlightened Teacher, gladly from thy 

hand 
Have I received this proof of pains bestowed 
By Thee to guide thy Pupils on the road 
Tbat, in our native isle, and every land, 
The Church, when trusting in divine com- 
mand 
&.nd in her Catholic attributes, hath trod: 



O may these lessons be with profit scanned 
To thy heart's wish, thy labour blest bv 

God ! 
So the bright faces of the young and gay 
Shall look more bright — the happy, happier 

still; 
Catch, in the pauses of their keenest play, 
Motions of thought which elevate the will 
And, like the Spire that from your classic 

Hill 
Points heavenward, indicate the end and 

way. 

INSCRIPTION 

FOR A MONUMENT IN CROSTHWAITE 
CHURCH, IN THE VALE OF KESWICK 

1843. 1845 

Ye vales and hills whose beauty hither drew 
The poet's steps, and fixed him here, on you 
His eyes have closed ! And ye, loved books, 

no more 
Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore, 
To works that ne'er shall forfeit their re- 
nown, 
Adding immortal labours of his own — 
Whether he traced historic truth, with zeal 
For the State's guidance, or the Church's 

weal, 
Or Fancy, disciplined by studious art, 
Informed his pen, or wisdom of the heart, 
Or judgments sanctioned in the Patriot's 

mind 
By reverence for the rights of all mankind. 
Wide were his aims, yet hi no human breast 
Could private feelings meet for holier rest. 
His joys, his griefs, have vanished like a 

cloud 
From Skiddaw's top; but he to heaven was 

vowed 
Through his industrious life, and Christian 

faith 
Calmed hi his soul the fear of change and 

death. 



ON THE PROJECTED KENDAL 
AND WINDERMERE RAILWAY 

1844. 1S45 

Is then no nook of English ground secure 
From rash assault ? Schemes of retire- 
ment sown 
In youth, and 'mid the busy world kept pure 



" FORTH FROM A JUTTING RIDGE, AROUND WHOSE BASE " 779 



As when their earliest flowers of hope were 

blown, 
Must perish ; — how can they this blight 

endure ? 
And must he too the ruthless change bemoan 
Who scorns a false utilitarian lure 
'Mid his paternal fields at random thrown ? 
Baffle the threat, bright Scene, from Orrest- 

head 
Given to the pausing traveller's rapturous 

glance : 
Plead for thy peace, thou beautiful romance 
Of nature ; and, if human hearts be dead, 
Speak, passing winds; ye torrents, with 

your strong 
And constant voice, protest against the 

wrong. 



"PROUD WERE YE, MOUNTAINS, 
WHEN, IN TIMES OF OLD" 

1844. 1845 

Proud were ye, Mountains, when, in times 

of old, 
Your patriot sons, to stem invasive war, 
Intrenched your brows; ye gloried in each 

scar: 
Now, for your shame, a Power, the Thirst 

of Gold, 
That rules o'er Britain like a baneful star, 
Wills that your peace, your beauty, shall be 

sold, 
And clear way made for her triumphal car 
Through the beloved retreats your arms 

enfold ! 
Heard ye that Whistle ? As her long-linked 

Tram 
Swept onwards, did the vision cross your 

view ? 
Yes, ye were startled ; — and, in balance true, 
Weighing the mischief with the promised 

gain, 
Mountains, and Vales, and Floods, I call on 

you 
To share the passion of a just disdain. 

AT FURNESS ABBEY 
1844. 1845 

Here, where, of havoc tired and rash un- 
doing, 

Man left this Structure to become Time's 
prey 



A soothing spirit follows hi the way 
That Nature takes, her counter-work pur- 
suing, 
See how her Ivy clasps the sacred Ruin 
Fall to prevent or beautify decay; 
And, on the mouldered walls, how bright, 

how gay, 
The flowers in pearly dews their bloom 

renewing ! 
Thanks to the place, blessings upon the hour ; 
Even as I speak the rising Sun's first smile 
Gleams on the grass-crowned top of yon 

tall Tower 
Whose cawing occupants with joy proclaim 
Prescrij^tive title to the shattered pile 
Where, Cavendish, thine seems nothing but 
a name ! 



"FORTH FROM A JUTTING 
RIDGE, AROUND WHOSE BASE" 

1845. 1845 

Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose 

base 
Winds our deep Vale, two heath-clad Rocks 

ascend 
In fellowship, the loftiest of the pair 
Rising to no ambitious height; yet both, 
O'er lake and stream, mountain and flowery 

mead, 
Unfolding prospects fair as human eyes 
Ever beheld. Up-led with mutual help, 
To one or other brow of those twin Peaks 
Were two adventurous Sisters wont to 

climb, 
And took no note of the hour while thence 

they gazed, 
The blooming heath their couch, gazed, side 

by side, 
In speechless admiration. I, a witness 
And frequent sharer of their calm delight 
With thankful heart, to either Eminence 
Gave the baptismal name each Sister bore. 
Now are they parted, far as Death's cold 

hand 
Hath power to part the Spirits of those who 

love 
As they did love. Ye kindred Pinnacles — 
That, while the generations of mankind 
Follow each other to their hiding-place 
In time's abyss, are privileged to endure 
Beautiful in yourselves, and richly graced 
With like command of beauty — grant your 

aid 



780 



THE WESTMORELAND GIRL 



For Mary's humble, Sarah's silent claim, 
That their pure joy in nature may sur- 
vive 
From age to age in blended memory. 



THE WESTMORELAND GIRL 

TO MY GRANDCHILDREN 
1845. 1845 

PART I 

Seek who will delight in fable 
I shall tell you truth. A Lamb 
Leapt from this steep bank to follow 
'Cross the brook its thoughtless dam. 

Far and wide on hill and valley 
Rain had fallen, unceasing rain, 
And the bleating mother's Young-one 
Struggled with the flood in vain: 

But, as chanced, a Cottage-maiden 
(Ten years scarcely had she told) 
Seeing, plunged into the torrent, 
Clasped the Lamb and kept her hold. 

Whirled adown the rocky channel, 
Sinking, rising, on they go, 
Peace and rest, as seems, before them 
Only in the lake below. 

Oh ! it was a frightful current 
Whose fierce wrath the Girl had braved; 
Clap your hands with joy my Hearers, 
Shout in triumph, both are saved; : 

Saved by courage that with danger 
Grew, by strength the gift of love, 
And belike a guardian angel 
Came with succour from above. 

PART II 

Now, to a maturer Audience, 
Let me speak of this brave Child 
Left among her native mountains 
With wild Nature to run wild. 

So, unwatched by love maternal, 
Mother's care no more her guide, 
Fared this little bright-eyed Orphan 
Even while at her father's side. 



Spare your blame, — remembrance makes 

him 
Loth to rule by strict command; 10 

Still upon his cheek are living 
Touches of her infant hand, 

Dear caresses given in pity, 
Sympathy that soothed his grief, 
As the dying mother witnessed 
To her thankful mind's relief. 

Time passed on; the Child was happy, 
Like a Spirit of air she moved, 
Wayward, yet by all who knew her 
For her tender heart beloved. 20 

Scarcely less than sacred passions, 
Bred in house, in grove, and field, 
Link her with the inferior creatures, 
Urge her powers their rights to shield. 

Anglers, bent on reckless pastime, 
Learn how she can feel alike 
Both for tiny harmless minnow 
And the fierce and sharp-toothed pike. 

Merciful protectress, kindling 
Into anger or disdain ; JO 

Many a captive hath she rescued, 
Others saved from lingering pain. 

Listen yet awhile ; — with patience 
Hear the homely truths I tell, 
She in Grasmere's old church-steeple 
Tolled this day the passing-bell. 

Yes, the wild Girl of the mountains 

To their echoes gave the sound, 

Notice punctual as the minute, 

Warning solemn and profound. 4 o 

She, fulfilling her sire's office, 
Rang alone the far-heard knell, 
Tribute, by her hand, in sorrow, 
Paid to One who loved her well. 

When his spirit was departed 
On that service she went forth; 
Nor will fail the like to render 
When his corse is laid in earth. 

What then wants the Child to temper, 
In her breast, unruly fire, 50 

To control the froward impulse 
And restrain the vague desire ? 



TO A LADY 



781 



Easily a pious training 

And a stedfast outward power 

Would supplant the weeds and cherish, 

In their stead, each opening flower. 

Thus the fearless Lamb-deliv'rer, 
Woman-grown, meek-hearted, sage, 
May become a blest example 
For her sex, of every age. 

Watchfid as a wheeling eagle, 
Constant as a soaring lark, 
Should the country need a heroine, 
She might prove our Maid of Arc. 

Leave that thought; and here be uttered 
Prayer that Grace divine may raise 
Her humane courageous spirit 
Up to heaven, thro' peaceful ways. 



AT FURNESS ABBEY 
1845. 1845 

Well have yon Railway Labourers to this 

ground 
Withdrawn for noontide rest. They sit, 

they walk 
Among the Ruins, but no idle talk 
Is heard ; to grave demeanour all are bound ; 
And from one voice a Hymn with tuneful 

sound 
Hallows once more the long-deserted Quire 
And thrills the old sepulclual earth, around. 
Others look up, and with fixed eyes ad- 
mire 
That wide-spanned arch, wondering how it 

was raised, 
To keep, so high in air, its strength and 

grace: 
All seem to feel the spirit of the place, 
And by the general reverence God is praised : 
Profane Despoilers, stand ye not reproved, 
While thus these simple-hearted men are 

moved ? 



"YES! THOU ART FAIR, YET 
BE NOT MOVED" 

1845. 1845 

Yes ! thou art fair, yet be not moved 

To scorn the declaration, 
That sometimes I in thee have loved 

My fancy's own creation. 



Imagination needs must stir; 

Dear Maid, this truth believe, 
Minds that have nothing to confer 

Find little to perceive. 

Be pleased that nature made thee fit 
To feed my heart's devotion, 

By laws to which all Forms submit 
In sky, air, earth, and ocean. 



"WHAT HEAVENLY SMILES! O 
LADY MINE" 

1845. i84S 

What heavenly smiles ! O Lady mine 
Through my very heart they shine; 
And, if my brow gives back their light, 
Do thou look gladly on the sight; 
As the clear Moon with modest pride 

Beholds her own bright beams 
Reflected from the mountain's side 

And from the headlong streams. 



TO A LADY 

IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I 
WOULD WRITE HER A POEM UPON 
SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE 
OF FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF MA- 
DEIRA 

1845. 1845 

Fair Lady ! can I sing of flowers 

That in Madeira bloom and fade, 
I who ne'er sate within their bowers. 

Nor through their sunny lawns have 
strayed ? 
How they in sprightly dance are worn 

By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen, 
Or holy festal pomps adorn, 

These eyes have never seen. 

Yet tho' to me the pencil's art 

No like remembrances can give, 10 

Your portraits still may reach the heart 

And there for gentle pleasure live; 
While Fancy ranging with free scope 

Shall on some lovely Alien set 
A name with us endeared to hope, 

To peace, or fond regret. 

Still as we look with nicer care, 

Some new resemblance we may trace: 



782 



"GLAD SIGHT WHEREVER NEW WITH OLD" 



A Hearts-ease will perhaps be there, 

A Speedwell may not want its place. 20 

And so may we, with charmed mind 
Beholding what your skill has wrought, 

Another Star-of-Bethlehem find, 
A new Forget-me-not. 

From earth to heaven with motion fleet 

From heaven to earth our thoughts will 
pass, 
A Holy-thistle here we meet 

And there a Shepherd's weather-glass; 
And haply some familiar name 

Shall grace the fairest, sweetest plant 30 
Whose presence cheers the drooping frame 

Of English Emigrant. 

Gazing she feels its powers beguile 

Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier 
breath ; 
Alas ! that meek, that tender smile 

Is but a harbinger of death: 
And pointing with a feeble hand 

She says, in faint words by sighs broken, 
Bear for me to my native land 

This precious Flower, true love's last 
token. 40 



"GLAD SIGHT WHEREVER 
NEW WITH OLD " 

1845 (?). tS 45 

Glad sight wherever new with old 

Is joined through some dear homeborn tie; 

The life of all that we behold 

Depends upon that mystery. 

Vain is the glory of the sky, 

The beauty vain of field and grove, 

Unless, while with admiring eye 

We gaze, we also learn to love. 



LOVE LIES BLEEDING 

1845 (?). 1845 

It has been said that the English, though 
their country has produced so many great poets, 
is now the most unpoetical nation in Europe. 
It is probably true ; for they have more temp-: 
tation to become so than any other European 
people. Trade, commerce, and manufactures, 
physical science, and mechanic arts, out of 
which so much wealth has arisen, have made 
our countrymen infinitely less sensible to move- 
ments of .imagination and fancy than were oun 



forefathers in their simple state of society. 
How touching and beautiful were, in most in- 
stances, the names they gave to our indigenous 
flowers, or any other they were familiarly ac- 
quainted with ! — Every month for many years 
have we been importing plants and flowers 
from all quarters of the globe, many of which 
are spread through our gardens, and some per- 
haps likely to be met with on the few Commons 
which we have left. Will their botanical 
names ever be displaced by plain English ap- 
pellations, which will bring them home to our 
hearts by connection with our joys and sorrows ? 
It can never be, unless society treads back her 
steps towards those simplicities which have 
been banished by the undue influence of towns 
spreading and spreading in every direction, so 
that city-life with every generation takes more 
and more the lead of rural. Among the an- 
cients, villages were reckoned the seats of bar- 
barism. Refinement, for the most part false, 
increases the desire to accumulate wealth ; and 
while theories of political economy are boast- 
fully pleading for the practice, inhumanity 
pervades all our dealings in buying and selling. 
This selfishness wars against disinterested 
imagination in all directions, and, evils coming 
round in a circle, barbarism spreads in every 
quarter of our island. Oh for the reign of jus- 
tice, and then the humblest man among us 
would have more power and dignity in and 
about him than the highest have now ! 

You call it, " Love lies bleeding," — so you 

may, 
Though the red Flower, not prostrate, 

only droops, 
As we have seen it here from day to day, 
From month to month, life passing not 

away: 
A flower how rich in sadness ! Even thus 

stoops, 
(Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvellous 

power) , 

Thus leans, with hanging brow and body 

bent 
Earthward in uncomplaining languishment 
The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower ! 
('T is Fancy guides me willing to be led, 
Though by a slender thread) 
So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew 
Of his death-wound, when he from hmocent 

air 
The gentlest breath of resignation drew; 
While Venus in a passion of despair 
Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair 
Spangled with drops of that celestial 

shower. 



THE CUCKOO-CLOCK 



733 



She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do; 
But pangs more lasting far, that Lover 

knew 
Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some 

lone bower 
Did press this semblance of unpitied 

smart 
Into the service of his constant heart, 
His own dejection, downcast Flower ! could 

share 
With thine, and gave the mournful name 

which thou wilt ever bear. 



COMPANION TO THE FORE- 
GOING 

1845 (?)• 1845 

Never enlivened with the liveliest ray 
That fosters growth or checks or cheers 

decay, 
Nor by the heaviest rain -drops more 

deprest, 
This Flower, that first appeared as sum- 
mer's guest, 
Preserves her beauty 'mid autumnal leaves 
And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves. 
When files of stateliest plants have ceased 

to bloom, 
One after one submitting to their doom, 
When her coevals each and all are tied, 
What keeps her thus reclined upon her 

lonesome bed ? 
The old mythologists, more impressed 

than we 
Of this late day by character in tree 
Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy, 
Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear, 
Or with the language of the viewless air 
By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause 
To solve the mystery, not in Nature's 

laws 
But in Man's fortunes. Hence a thousand 

tales 
Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales. 
Nor doubt that something of their spirit 

swayed 
The fancy-stricken Youth or heart-sick 

Maid, 
Who, while each stood companionless and 

eyed 
This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed, 
Thought of a wound which death is slow to 

cure, 
A fate that has endured and will endure, 



And, patience coveting yet passion feeding, 
Called the dejected Lingerer, Loves lies 
bleeding. 



THE CUCKOO-CLOCK 

1845. 1845 

Of this clock I have nothing further to say 
than what the poem expresses, except that it 
must be here recorded that it was a present 
from the dear f rieud for whose sake these notes 
were chiefly undertaken, and who has written 
them from my dictation. 

Wouldst thou be taught, when sleep has 

taken flight, 
By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell, 
How far off yet a glimpse of morning light, 
And if to lure the truant back be well, 
Forbear to covet a Repeater's stroke, 
That, answering to thy touch, will sound 

the hour ; 
Better provide thee with a Cuckoo-clock 
For service hung behind thy chamber-door; 
And in due time the soft spontaneous shock, 
The double note, as if with living power, 10 
Will to composure lead — or make thee 

blithe as bird in bower. 

List, Cuckoo — Cuckoo ! — oft tho' tem- 
pests howl, 
Or nipping frost remind thee trees are bare, 
How cattle pine, and droop the shivering 

fowl, 
Thy spirits will seem to feed on balmy air; 
I speak with knowledge, — by that Voice 

beguiled, 
Thou wilt salute old memories as they 

throng 
Into thy heart; and fancies, running wild 
Through fresh green fields, and budding 

groves among, 
Will make thee happy, happy as a child: 20 
Of sunshine wilt thou think, and flowers, 

and song, 
And breathe as in a world where nothing 

can go wrong. 

And know — that, even for him who shuns 

the day 
And nightly tosses on a bed of pain; 
Whose joys, from all but memory swept 

away, 
Must come unhoped for, if thej come again; 



784 "SO FAIR, SO SWEET, WITHAL SO SENSITIVE" 



Know — that, for him whose waking 

thoughts, severe 
As his distress is sharp, would scorn my 

theme, 
The mimic notes, striking upon his ear 
In sleep, and intermingling with his 

dream, 30 

Could from sad regions send him to a dear 
Delightful land of verdure, shower and 

gleam, 
To mock the wandering Voice beside some 

haunted stream. 

O bounty without measure ! while the grace 
Of Heaven doth in such wise, from humblest 

springs, 
Pour pleasure forth, and solaces that trace 
A mazy course along familiar things, 
Well may our hearts have faith that bless- 
ings come, 
Streaming from founts above the starry sky, 
With angels when their own untroubled 
home 40 

They leave, and speed on nightly embassy 
To visit earthly chambers, — and for whom? 
Yea, both for souls who God's forbearance 

try, 
And those that seek his help, and for his 
mercy sigh. 

"SO FAIR, SO SWEET, WITHAL 
SO SENSITIVE" 

1845- 1845 

So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive, 
Would that the little Flowers were born to 

live, 
Conscious of half the pleasure which they 

give; 

That to this mountain-daisy's self were 

known 
The beauty of its star -shaped shadow, 

thrown 
On the smooth surface of this naked stone ! 

And what if hence a bold desire should mount 
High as the Sun, that he could take account 
Of all that issues from his glorious fount ! 

So might he ken how by his sovereign aid 
These delicate companionships are made ; 
And how he rules the pomp of light and 
shade; 



And were the Sister-power that shines by 

night 
So privileged, what a countenance of delight 
Would through the clouds break forth on 

human sight ! 

Fond fancies ! wheresoe'er shall turn thine 

eye 
On earth, air, ocean, or the starry sky, 
Converse with Nature in pure sympathy; 

All vain desires, all lawless wishes quelled, 
Be Thou to love and praise alike impelled, 
Whatever boon is granted or withheld. 



TO THE PENNSYLVANIANS 

1845. 1845 

Days undefiled by luxury or sloth, 
Firm self-denial, manners grave and staid, 
Rights equal, laws with cheerfulness obeyed, 
Words that require no sanction from an 

oath, 
And simple honesty a common growth — 
This high repute, with bounteous Nature's 

aid, 
Won confidence, now ruthlessly betrayed 
At will, your power the measure of your 

troth ! — 
All who revere the memory of Penn 
Grieve for the land on whose wild woods 

his name 
Was fondly grafted with a virtuous aim, 
Renounced, abandoned by degenerate Men 
For state-dishonour black as ever came 
To upper air from Mammon's loathsome 

den. 



"YOUNG ENGLAND— WHAT IS 
THEN BECOME OF OLD" 

1845. 1845 

Young England — what is then become of 

Old, 
Of dear Old England ? Think they she is 

dead, 
Dead to the very name ? Presumption fed 
On empty air ! That name will keep its 

hold 
In the true filial bosom's inmost fold 
Forever. — The Spirit of Alfred, at the head 
Of all who for her rights watched, toiled 

and bled, 



SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF THE BIRD OF PARADISE 785 



Knows that this prophecy is not too bold. 

What — how ! shall she submit hi will and 
deed 

To Beardless Boys — an imitative race, 

The servurn pecus of a Gallic breed ? 

Dear Mother ! if thou must thy steps re- 
trace, 

Go where at least meek Innocency dwells; 

Let Babes and Sucklings be thy oracles. 



"THOUGH THE BOLD WINGS OF 
POESY AFFECT" 

1845 (?). 1845 

Though the bold wings of Poesy affect 
The clouds, and wheel around the mountain 

tops 
Rejoicing, from her loftiest height she drops 
Well pleased to skim the plain with wild 

flowers deckt 
Or muse hi solemn grove whose shades 

protect 
The lingering dew — there steals along, or 

stops 
Watching the least small bird that round 

her hops, 
Or creeping worm, with sensitive respect. 
Her functions are they therefore less divine, 
Her thoughts less deep, or void of grave 

intent 
Her simplest fancies ? Should that fear be 

thine, 
Aspiring Votary, ere thy hand present 
One offering, kneel before her modest 

shrine, 
With brow in penitential sorrow bent ! 



SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF 
THE BIRD OF PARADISE 

1845 (?). 1845 

This subject has been treated of in another 
note. I will here only by way of comment direct 
attention to the fact that pictures of animals 
and other productions of nature as seen in con- 
servatories, menageries, museums, etc., would 
do little for the national mind, nay they would 
be rather injurious to it, if the imagination were 
excluded by the presence of the object, more or 
less out of a state of nature. If it were not that 
we learn to talk and think of the lion and the 
eagle, the palm-tree and even the cedar, from 
the impassioned introduction of them so fre- 
quently into Holy Scripture and by great poets, 



and divines who write as poets, the spiritual part 
of our nature, and therefore the higher part of 
it, would derive no benefit from such intercourse 
with such objects. 

The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts en- 
dowed, 
And a true master of the glowing strain, 
Might scan the narrow province with disdain 
That to the Painter's skdl is here allowed. 
This, this the Bird of Paradise ! disclaim 
The daring thought, forget the name; 
This the Sun's Bird, whom Glendoveers 

might own 
As no unworthy Partner in their flight 
Through seas of ether, where the ruffling 

sway • 
Of nether air's rude billows is unknown; 10 
Whom Sylphs, if e'er for casual pastime 

they 
Through India's spicy regions wing their 

way, 
Might bow to as their Lord. What 

character, 
O sovereign Nature ! I appeal to thee, 
Of all thy feathered progeny 
Is so unearthly, and what shape so fair ? 
So richly decked in variegated down, 
Green, sable, shining yellow, shadowy 

brown, 
Tints softly with each other blended, 
Hues doubtfully begun and ended; 20 

Or intershooting, and to sight 
Lost and recovered, as the rays of light 
Glance on the conscious plumes touched 

here and there ? 
Full surely, when with such proud gifts of 

life 
Began the pencil's strife, 
O'erweening Art was caught as in a snare. 
A sense of seemingly presumptuous 

wrong 
Gave the first impulse to the Poet's song; 
But, of his scorn repenting soon, he drew 
A juster judgment from a calmer view; 30 
And, with a spirit freed from discontent, 
Thankfully took an effort that was meant 
Not with God's bounty, Nature's love to vie, 
Or made with hope to please that inward 

eye 
Which ever strives in vain itself to satisfy, 
But to recall the truth by some faint trace 
Of power ethereal and celestial grace, 
That in the living Creature find on earth a 

place. 



786 



SONNET 



SONNET 
1846. 1850 

Why should we weep or mourn, Angelic 
boy, 

For such thou wert ere from our sight 
removed, 

Holy, and ever dutiful — beloved 

From day to day with never-ceasing joy, 

And hopes as dear as could the heart em- 
ploy 

In aught to earth pertaining ? Death has 
proved 

His might, nor less his mercy, as behoved — 

Death conscious that he only could de- 
stroy 

The bodily frame. That beauty is laid 
low 

To moulder hi a far-off field of Rome; 

But Heaven is now, blest Child, thy Spirit's 
home: 

When such divine communion, which we 
know, 

Is felt, thy Roman burial place will be 

Surely a sweet remembrancer of Thee. 



" WHERE LIES THE TRUTH? HAS 
MAN, IN WISDOM'S CREED" 

1846. 1850 

Where lies the truth ? has Man, in wisdom's 

creed, 
A pitiable doom; for respite brief 
A care more anxious, or a heavier grief ? 
Is he ungrateful, and doth little heed 
God's bounty, soon forgotten; or indeed, 
Must Man, with labour born, awake to 

sorrow 
When Flowers rejoice and Larks with rival 

speed 
Spring from their nests to bid the Sun good 

morrow ? 
They mount for rapture as their songs pro- 
claim 
Warbled in hearing both of earth and 

sky; 
But o'er the contrast wherefore heave a 

sigh? 
Like those aspirants let us soar — our 

aim, 
Through life's worst trials, whether shocks 

or snares, 
A happier, brighter, purer Heaven than 

theirs. 



"I KNOW AN AGED MAN CON- 
STRAINED TO DWELL" 

1846. 1850 

I know an aged Man constrained to dwell 
In a large house of public charity, 
Where he abides, as in a Prisoner's cell, 
With numbers near, alas ! no company. 

When he could creep about, at will, though 

poor 
And forced to live on alms, this old Man fed 
A Redbreast, one that to his cottage door 
Came not, but in a lane partook his bread. 

There, at the root of one particular tree, 
An easy seat this worn-out Labourer found 
While Robin pecked the crumbs upon his 
knee u 

Laid one by one, or scattered on the ground. 

Dear intercourse was theirs, day after day; 
What signs of mutual gladness when they 

met ! 
Think of their common peace, their simple 

play, 
The parting moment and its fond regret. 

Months passed in love that failed not to 

fulfil, 
In spite of season's change, its own demand, 
By fluttering pinions here and busy bill; 
There by caresses from a tremulous hand. 20 

Thus in the chosen spot a tie so strong 
Was formed between the solitary pair, 
That when his fate had housed him 'mid a 

throng 
The Captive shunned all converse proffered 

there. 

Wife, children, kindred, they were dead and 

gone; 
But, if no evil hap his wishes crossed, 
One living Stay was left, and on that one 
Some recompence for all that he had lost. 

Oh that the good old Man had power to 

prove, 
By message sent through air or visible 

token, 30 

That still he loves the Bird, and still must 

love; 
That friendship lasts though fellowship is 

broken ! 



"THE UNREMITTING VOICE OF NIGHTLY STREAMS" 787 



"HOW BEAUTIFUL THE QUEEN 
OF NIGHT" 

1846(F). 1850 

How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high 
Her way pursuing among scattered clouds, 
Where, ever and anon, her head she shrouds 
Hidden from view in dense obscurity. 
But look, and to the watchful eye 
A brightening edge will indicate that soon 
We shall behold the struggling Moon 
Break forth, — again to walk the clear blue 
sky. 



EVENING VOLUNTARIES 

TO LUCA GIORDANO 

1846. 1850 

Giordano, verily thy Pencil's skill 

Hath here portrayed with Nature's happiest 

grace 
The fair Endymion couched on Latmos-hill; 
And Dian gazing on the Shepherd's face 
In rapture, — yet suspending her embrace, 
As not unconscious with what power the 

thrill 
Of her most timid touch his sleep would 

chase, 
And, with his sleep, that beauty calm and 

still. 
Oh may this work have found its last retreat 
Here in a Mountain-bard's secure abode, 
One to whom, yet a School-boy, Cynthia 

showed 
A face of love which he in love would greet, 
Fixed, by her smile, upon some rocky seat; 
Or lured along where greenwood paths he 

trod. 

" WHO BUT IS PLEASED TO WATCH THE 
MOON ON HIGH " 

1846. 1850 

Who but is pleased to watch the moon on 

high 
Travelling where she from time to time en- 
shrouds 
Her head, and nothing loth her Majesty 
Renounces, till among the scattered clouds 
One with its kindling edge declares that 

soon 
Will reappear before the uplifted eye 
A Form as bright, as beautiful a moon, 



To glide hi open prospect through clear 

sky. 
Pity that such a promise e'er should prove 
False in the issue, that yon seeming space 
Of sky should be in truth the stedfast face 
Of a cloud flat and dense, through which 

must move 
(By transit not unlike man's frequent doom) 
The Wanderer lost in more determined 

gloom. 



ILLUSTRATED BOOKS AND 
NEWSPAPERS 

1846. 1850 

Discourse was deemed Man's noblest at- 
tribute, 

And written words the glory of his hand; 

Then followed Printing with enlarged com- 
mand 

For thought — dominion vast and absolute 

For spreading truth, and making love 
expand. 

Now prose and verse sunk into disrepute 

Must lacquey a diunb Art that best can 
suit 

The taste of this once-intellectual Land. 

A backward movement surely have we here, 

From manhood, — back to childhood ; for 
the age — 

Back towards caverned life's first rude 
career. 

A vaunt this vile abuse of pictured page ! 

Must eyes be all in all, the tongue and ear 

Nothing ? Heaven keep us from a lower 
stage ! 



"THE UNREMITTING VOICE OF 
NIGHTLY STREAMS" 

1846. 1850 

The unremitting voice of nightly streams 
That wastes so oft, we think, its tuneful 

powers, 
If neither soothing to the worm that gleams 
Through dewy grass, nor small birds hushed 

in bowers, 
Nor unto silent leaves and drowsy flowers, — 
That voice of unpretending harmony 
(For who what is shall measure by what 

seems 
To be, or not to be, 
Or tax high Heaven with prodigality 7) 



788 



SONNET 



Wants not a healing influence that can 

creep 
Into the human breast, and mix with sleep 
To regulate the motion of our dreams 
For kindly issues — as through every clime 
Was felt near murmuring brooks in earliest 

time ; 
As at this day, the rudest swains who dwell 
Where torrents roar, or hear the tinkling 

knell 
Of water-breaks, with grateful heart could 

tell. 

SONNET 

TO AN OCTOGENARIAN 
1846. 1850 

Affections lose their object; Time brings 

forth 
No successors; and, lodged in memory, 
If love exist no longer, it must die, — 
Wanting accustomed food, must pass from 

earth, 
Or never hope to reach a second birth. 
This sad belief, the happiest that is left 
To thousands, share not Thou; howe'er 

bereft, 
Scorned, or neglected, fear not such a 

dearth. 
Though poor and destitute of friends thou 

art, 
Perhaps the sole survivor of thy race, 
One to whom Heaven assigns that mourn- 
ful part 
The utmost solitude of age to face, 
Still shall be left some corner of the heart 
Where Love for living Thing can find a 

place. 



ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY 
STREAM 

1846. 1849 

Behold an emblem of our human mind 
Crowded with thoughts that need a settled 

home, 
Yet, like to eddying balls of foam 
Within this whirlpool, they each other 

chase 
Round and round, and neither find 
An outlet nor a resting-place ! 
Stranger, if such disquietude be thine, 
Fall on thy knees and sue for help divine. 



ODE ON THE INSTALLATION OF 
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE 
ALBERT AS CHANCELLOR OF 
THE UNIVERSITY OF CAM- 
BRIDGE, JULY 1847 

1847. 1847 

INTRODUCTION and chorus 
For thirst of power that Heaven dis- 
owns, 
For temples, towers, and thrones, 
Too long insulted by the Spoiler's shock, 
Indignant EurojDe cast 
Her stormy foe at last 
To reap the whirlwind on a Libyan rock. 

SOLO — (TENOR) 
War is passion's basest game 
Madly played to win a name; 
Up starts some tyrant, Earth and Heaven 
to dare, 
The servile million bow; 10 

But will the lightning glance aside to spare 
The Despot's laurelled brow ? 



War is mercy, glory, fame, 
Waged in Freedom's holy cause; 
Freedom, such as Man may claim 
Under God's restraining laws. 
Such is Albion's fame and glory: 
Let rescued Europe tell the story. 

recit. {accompanied) — (contralto) 
But lo, what sudden cloud has darkened 
all 
The land as with a funeral pall ? 20 
The Rose of England suffers blight, 
The flower has drooped, the Isle's delight, 

Flower and bud together fall — 
A Nation's hopes lie crushed in Claremont's 
desolate hall. 

air — (soprano) 
Time a chequered mantle wears ; — 

Earth awakes from wintry sleep; 
Again the Tree a blossom bears — 

Cease, Britannia, cease to weep ! 
Hark to the peals on this bright May morn ! 
They tell that your future Queen is born. 30 

SOPRANO SOLO AND CHORUS 
A Guardian Angel fluttered 
Above the Babe, unseen; 



ODE 



789 



One word he softly uttered — 
It named the future Queen: 
And a joyful cry through the Island rang, 
As clear and bold as the trumpet's clang, 
As bland as the reed of peace — 
" VICTORIA be her name ! " 
For righteous triumphs are the base 
Whereon Britannia rests her peaceful fame. 

QUARTET 

Time, hi his mantle's sunniest fold, 41 

Uplifted in his arms the child; 

And, while the fearless Infant smiled, 

Her happier destiny foretold : — 
" Infancy, by Wisdom mild, 
Trained to health and artless beauty; 
Youth, by pleasure unbeguiled 
From the lore of lofty duty; 
Womanhood is pure renown, 
Seated on her lineal throne: 50 

Leaves of myrtle in her Crown, 
Fresh with lustre all their own. 
Love, the treasure worth possessing, 
More than all the world beside, 
This shall be her choicest blessing, 
Oft to royal hearts denied." 

recit. (accompanied} — (bass) 
That eve, the Star of Brunswick shone 

With stedfast ray benign 
On Gotha's ducal roof, and on 

The softly flowing Leine; 60 

Nor failed to gild the spires of Bonn, 

And glittered on the Rhine — 
Old Camus, too, on that prophetic night 

Was conscious of the ray; 
And his willows whispered in its light, 

Not to the Zephyr's sway, 
But with a Delphic life, in sight 

Of this auspicious day: 



This day, when Granta hails her chosen Lord, 
And proud of her award, 7 o 

Confiding in the Star serene, 

Welcomes the Consort of a happy Queen. 

AIR — (CONTRALTO) 
Prince, in these Collegiate bowers, 
Where Science, leagued with holier truth, 



Guards the sacred heart of youth, 

Solemn monitors are ours. 

These reverend aisles, these hallowed 

towers, 
Raised by many a hand august, 
Are haunted by majestic Powers, 
The memories of the Wise and Just, 8c 
Who, faithful to a pious trust, 
Here, in the Founder's spirit sought 
To mould and stamp the ore of thought 
In that bold form and impress high 
That best betoken patriot loyalty. 
Not in vain those Sages taught, — 
True disciples, good as great, 
Have pondered here their country's weal, 
Weighed the Future by the Past, 
Learned how social frames may last, 90 
And how a Land may rule its fate 
By constancy inviolate, 
Though worlds to their foundations reel 
The sport of factious Hate or godless Zeal. 

AIR — (bass) 
Albert, in thy race we cherish 
A Nation's strength that will not perish 
While England's sceptred Line 
True to the King of Kings is found; 
Like that Wise ancestor of thine 
Who threw the Saxon shield o'er Luther's 
life, 100 

When first above the yells of bigot strife 

The trumpet of the Living Word 
Assumed a voice of deep portentous sound, 
From gladdened Elbe to startled Tiber 
heard. 

CHORUS 
What shield more sublime 
E'er was blazoned or sung ? 
And the PRINCE whom we greet 
From its Hero is sprung. 

Resound, resound the strain, 

That hails him for our own ! no 

Again, again, and yet again, 
For the Church, the State, the Throne ! 
And that Presence fair and bright, 
Ever blest wherever seen, 
Who deigns to grace our festal rite, 
The pride of the Islands, VICTORIA 
THE QUEEN. 



PREFACE " 

1800 



Much the greatest part of the foregoing Poems 
has been so long before the Public that no pre- 
fatory matter, explanatory of any portion of 
them or of the arrangement which has been 
adopted, appears to be required ; and had it not 
been for the observations contained in those Pre- 
faces upon the principles of Poetry in general, 
they would not have been reprinted even as an 
Appendix in this Edition. 

PREFACE 

TO THE SECOND EDITION OF SEVERAL OF THE 
FOREGOING POEMS, PUBLISHED, WITH AN AD- 
DITIONAL VOLUME, UNDER THE TITLE OF 
" LYRICAL BALLADS " 

Note. — In succeeding Editions, when the Collection 
was much enlarged and diversified, this Preface was 
transferred to the end of the Volumes as having little 
of a special application to their contents. 

The first Volume of these Poems has already 
been submitted to general perusal. It was pub- 
lished as an experiment, which, I hoped, might 
be of some use to ascertain how far, by fitting 
to metrical arrangement a selection of the real 
language of men in a state of vivid sensation, 
that sort of pleasure and that quantity of plea- 
sure may be imparted, which a Poet may ration- 
ally endeavour to impart. 

I had formed no very inaccurate estimate of 
the probable effect of those Poems : I flattered 
myself that they who should be pleased with 
them would read them with more than common 
pleasure : and, on the other hand, I was well 
aware, that by those who should dislike them 
they would be read with more than common 
dislike. The result has differed from my ex- 
pectation in this only, that a greater number 
have been pleased than I ventured to hope I 
should please. 

Several of my Friends are anxious for the 
success of these Poems, from a belief that, 
if the views with which they were composed 
were indeed realised, a class of Poetry would 
be produced, well adapted to interest mankind 
permanently, and not unimportant in the qual- 
ity and in the multiplicity of its moral relations : 
and on this account they have advised me to 
prefix a systematic defence of the theory upon 

1 The ideas which were expanded into the following Prefaces and Essays first appeared as a Preface to the 
second edition of the Lyrical Ballads, 1800. In the edition of 1802 the Preface to that of 1800 was enlarged, 
and there was added an Appendix on " Poetic Diction." These were repeated in successive editions of the poet's 
wirks — with alterations, insertions, and omissions — until they received their last revision in the Edition of 
1845. — Ed. 



which the Poems were written. But I was un- 
willing to undertake the task, knowing that on 
this occasion the Reader would look coldly upon 
my arguments, since I might be suspected of 
having been principally influenced by the selfish 
and foolish hope of reasoning him into an ap- 
probation of these particular Poems : and I was 
still more unwilling to undertake the task, be- 
cause adequately to display the opinions, and 
fully to enforce the arguments, would require 
a space wholly disproportionate to a preface. 
For, to treat the subject with the clearness and 
coherence of which it is susceptible, it would be 
necessary to give a full account of the present 
state of the public taste in this country, and to 
determine how far this taste is healthy or de- 
praved ; which, again, could not be determined 
without pointing out in what manner language 
and the human mind act and re-act on each 
other, and without retracing the revolutions, 
not of literature alone, but likewise of society 
itself. I have therefore altogether declined to 
enter regularly upon this defence ; yet I am 
sensible that there would be something like im- 
propriety in abruptly obtruding upon the Pub- 
lic, without a few words of introduction, Poems 
so materially different from those upon which 
general approbation is at present bestowed. 

It is supposed that by the act of writing in 
verse an Author makes a formal engagement 
that he will gratify certain known hahits of 
association ; that he not only thus apprises the 
Reader that certain classes of ideas and expres- 
sions will be found in his book, but that others 
will be carefully excluded. This exponent or 
symbol held forth by metrical language must 
in different eras of literature have excited very 
different expectations : for example, in the age 
of Catullus, Terence, and Lucretius, and that 
of Statins or Claudian ; and in our own coun- 
try, in the age of Shakspeare and Beaumont 
and Fletcher, and that of Donne and Cowley, 
or Dryden, or Pope. I will not take upon me 
to determine the exact impc?t of the promise 
which, by the act of writing in verse, an Author 
in the present day makes to his reader ; but it 
will undoubtedly appear to many persons that I 
have not fulfilled the terms of an engagement 
thus voluntarily contracted. They who have 
been accustomed to the gaudiness and inane 
phraseology of many modern writers, if they per- 
sist in reading this book to its conclusion, will, no 



iSoo 



PREFACE 



791 



doubt, frequently have to struggle with feelings 
of strangeness and awkwardness : they will 
look round for poetry, and will be induced to 
inquire by what species of courtesy these at- 
tempts can be permitted to assume that title. 
I hope, therefore, the reader will not censure 
me for attempting to state what I have proposed 
to myself to perform ; and also (as far as the 
limits of a preface will permit) to explain some 
of the chief reasons which have determined me 
in the choice of my purpose: that at least he 
may be spared any unpleasant feeling of disap- 
pointment, and that I myself may be protected 
from one of the most dishonourable accusations 
which can be brought against an Author ; 
namely, that of an indolence which prevents 
him from endeavouring to ascertain what is his 
duty, or, when his duty is ascertained, prevents 
him from performing it. 

The principal object, then, proposed in these 
Poems, was to choose incidents and situations 
from common life, and to relate or describe 
them throughout, as far as was possible, in a 
selection of language really used by men, and, 
at the same time, to throw over them a cer- 
tain colouring of imagination, whereby ordi- 
nary things should be presented to the mind in 
an unusual aspect ; and further, and above all, 
to make these incidents and situations inter- 
esting by tracing in them, truly though not 
ostentatiously, the primary laws of our nature : 
chiefly, as far as regards the manner in which 
we associate ideas in a state of excitement. 
Humble and rustic life was generally chosen, 
because in that condition the essential passions 
of the heart find a better soil in which they can 
attain their maturity, are less under restraint, 
and speak a plainer and more emphatic lan- 
guage ; because in that condition of life our 
elementary feelings co-exist in a state of greater 
simplicity, and, consequent ly, may be more 
accurately contemplated, and more forcibly 
communicated ; because the manners of rural 
life germinate from those elementary feelings, 
and, from the necessary character of rural oc- 
cupations, are more easily comprehended, and 
are more durable ; and, lastly, because in that 
condition the passions of men are incorporated 
with the beautiful and permanent forms of na- 
ture. The language, too, of these men has been 
adopted (purified indeed from what appear to 
be its real defects, from all lasting and rational 
causes of dislike or disgust), because such men 
hourly communicate with the best objects from 
which the best part of language is originally 
derived ; and because, from their rank in soci- 
ety and the sameness and narrow circle of their 
intercourse, being less under the influence of 
social vanity, they convey their feelings and 
notions in simple and unelaborated expressions. 
Accordingly, such a language, arising out of re- 
peated experience and regular feelings, is a more 
permanent, and a far more philosophical lan- 
guage, than that which is frequently substituted 
for it by Poets, who think that they are confer- 
ring honour upon themselves and their art in 
proportion as they separate themselves from the 



sympathies of men, and indulge in arbitrary 
and capricious habits of expression, in order to 
furnish food for fickle tastes and fickle appetites 
of their own creation. 1 

I cannot, however, be insensible to the present 
outcry against the triviality and meanness, both 
of thought and language, which some of my 
contemporaries have occasionally introduced 
into their metrical compositions ; and I acknow- 
ledge that this defect, where it exists, is more 
dishonourable to the Writer's own character 
than false refinement or arbitrary innovation, 
though I should contend at the same time that 
it is far less pernicious in the sum of its conse- 
quences. From such verses the Poems in these 
volumes will be found distinguished at least by 
one mark of difference, that each of them has 
a worthy purpose. Not that I always began to 
write with a distinct purpose formally con- 
ceived, but habits of meditation have, 1 trust, 
so prompted and regulated my feelings, that 
my descriptions of such objects as strongly 
excite those feelings will be found to carry 
along with them a purpose. If this opinion be 
erroneous, I can have little right to the name 
of a Poet. For all good poetry is the sponta- 
neous overflow of powerful feelings : and though 
this be true, Poems to which any value can be 
attached were never produced on any variety 
of subjects but by a man who, being possessed 
of more than usual organic sensibility, had also 
thought long and deeply. For our continued 
influxes of feeling are modified and directed 
by our thoughts, which are indeed the repre- 
sentatives of all our past feelings ; and as, by 
contemplating the relation of these general re- 
presentatives to each other, we discover what is 
really important to men, so, by the repetition 
and continuance of this act, our feelings will 
be connected with important subjects, till at 
length, if we be originally possessed of much 
sensibility, such habits of mind will be produced 
that, by obeying blindly and mechanically the 
impulses of those habits, we shall describe 
objects, and utter sentiments, of such a nature, 
and in such connection with each other, that the 
understanding of the Reader must necessarily 
be in some degree enlightened, and his affec- 
tion strengthened and purified. 

It has been said that each of these Poems has 
a purpose. Another circumstance must be 
mentioned which distinguishes these Poems 
from the popular Poetry of the day ; it is this, 
that the feeling therein developed gives im- 
portance to the action and situation, and not 
the action and situation to the feeling. 

A sense of false modesty shall not prevent 
me from asserting that the Reader's attention 
is pointed to this mark of distinction, far less 
for the sake of these particular Poems than 
from the general importance of the subject. 
The subject is indeed important ! For the 
human mind is capable of being excited without 

1 It is worth while here to observe that the affecting 
parts of Chaucer are almost always expressed in lan- 
guage pure and universally intelligible even to this day. 



792 



PREFACE 



1800 



the application of gross and violent stimulants ; 
and he must have a very faint perception of 
its beauty and dignity who does not know this, 
and who does not further know, that one being 
is elevated above another in proportion as he 
possesses this capability. It has therefore ap- 
peared to me, that to endeavour to produce or 
enlarge this capability is one of the best ser- 
vices in which, at any period, a Writer can be 
engaged ; but this service, excellent at all 
times, is especially so at the present day. For 
a multitude of causes, unknown to former 
times, are now acting with a combined force to 
blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, 
and, unfitting it for all voluntary exertion, to 
reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor. 
The most effective of these causes are the great 
national events which are daily taking place, 
and the increasing accumulation of men in 
cities, where the uniformity of their occupa- 
tions produces a craving for extraordinary 
incident which the rapid communication of 
intelligence hourly gratifies. To this tendency 
of life and manners the literature and theatrical 
exhibitions of the country have conformed 
themselves. The invaluable works of our 
elder writers, 1 had almost said the works of 
Shakspeare and Milton, are driven into neglect 
by frantic novels, sickly and stupid German 
Tragedies, and deluges of idle and extravagant 
stories in verse. — When I think upon this 
degrading thirst after outrageous stimulation, 
I am almost ashamed to have spoken of the 
feeble endeavour made in these volumes to 
counteract it ; and, reflecting upon the magni- 
tude of the general evil, I should be oppressed 
with no dishonourable melancholy, had I not a 
deep impression of certain inherent and inde- 
structible qualities of the human mind, and 
likewise of certain powers in the great and 
permanent objects that act upon it, which are 
equally inherent and indestructible ; and were 
there not added to this impression a belief that 
the time is approaching when the evil will be 
S5'stematically opposed by men of greater pow- 
ers, and with far more distinguished success. 

Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and 
aim of these Poems, I shall request the Read- 
er's permission to apprise him of a few circum- 
stances relating to their style, in order, among 
other reasons, that he may not censure me for 
not having performed what I never attempted. 
The Reader will find that personifications of 
abstract ideas rarely occur in these volumes, 
and are utterly rejected as an ordinary device 
to elevate the style and raise it above prose. 
My purpose was to imitate, and, as far as is 
possible, to adopt the very language of men ; 
and assuredly such personifications do not make 
any natural or regular part of that language. 
They are, indeed, a figure of speech occasionally 
prompted by passion, and I have made use of 
them as such ; but have endeavoured utterly to 
reject them as a mechanical device of style, or 
as a family language which Writers in metre 
seem to lay claim to by prescription. I have 
wished to keep the Reader iu the company of 



flesh and blood, persuaded that by so doing I 
shall interest him. Others who pursue a 
different track will interest him likewise ; I do 
not interfere with their claim, but wish to 
prefer a claim of my own. There will also be 
found in these volumes little of what is usually 
called poetic diction ; as much pains has been 
taken to avoid it as is ordinarily taken to pro- 
duce it ; this has been done for the reason 
already alleged, to bring my language near to 
the language of men ; and further, because the 
pleasure which I have proposed to myself to 
impart is of a kind very different from that 
which is supposed by many persons to be the 
proper object of poetry. Without being culpa- 
bly particular, I do not know how to give my 
Reader a more exact notion of the style in 
which it was my wish and intention to write, 
than by informing him that I have at all times 
endeavoured to look steadily at my subject ; 
consequently there is, I hope, in these Poems 
little falsehood of description, and my ideas are 
expressed in language fitted to their respective 
importance. Something must have been gained 
by this practice, as it is friendly to one property 
of all good poetry, namely, good sense : but it 
has necessarily cut me off from a large portion 
of phrases and figures of speech which from 
father to son have long been regarded as the 
common inheritance of Poets. I have also 
thought it expedient to restrict myself still 
further, having abstained from the use of many 
expressions, in themselves proper and beau- 
tiful, but which have been foolishly repeated 
by bad Poets, till such feelings of disgust are 
connected with them as it is scarcely possible 
by any art of association to overpower. 

If in a poem there should be found a series 
of lines, or even a single line, in which the 
language, though naturally arranged, and ac- 
cording to the strict laws of metre, does not 
differ from that of prose, there is a numerous 
class of critics, who, when they stumble upon 
these prosaisms, as they call them, imagine that 
they have made a notable discovery, and exult 
over the Poet as over a man ignorant of his own 
profession. Now these men would establish a 
canon of criticism which the Reader will con- 
clude he must utterly reject, if he wishes to be 
pleased with these volumes. And it would 
be a most easy task to prove to him that not 
only the language o£ a large portion of ever}' 
good poem, even of the most elevated character, 
must necessarily, except with reference to the 
metre, in no respect differ from that of good 
prose, but likewise that some of the most 
interesting parts of the best poems will be 
found to be strictly the language of prose when 
prose is well written. The truth of this 
assertion might be demonstrated by innumer- 
able passages from almost all the poetical 
writings, even of Milton himself. To illustiate 
the subject in a general manner, I will here 
adduce a. short composition of Gray, who was at 
the head of those who, by their reasonings, 
have attempted to widen the space of separa- 
tion betwixt Prose and Metrical composition. 



i8oo 



PREFACE 



793 



and was more than any other man curiously 
elaborate in the structure of his ovvu poetic 
diction. 

" In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, 
And reddening Pluvbus lifts his golden fire ; 
The birds in vain their amorous descant join, 
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire. 
These ears, alas ! for other notes repine ; 
A different object do these eyes require ; 
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; 
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire! 
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, 
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men ; 
The fields to all their wonted tribute Lear ; 
To warm their little loves the birds complain. 
1 fruitless mourn to him thai cannot hear, 
And weep t .e more because 1 weep in vain." 

It will easily he perceived, that the only part 
of this Sonnet which is of any value is the lines 
printed in Italics ; it is equally obvious that, 
except in the rhyme and in the use of the single 
word "fruitless" for fruitlessly, which is so 
far a defect, the language of these lines does 
in no respect differ from that of prose. 

By the foregoing quotation it has been shown 
that the language of Prose may yet be well 
adapted to Poetry ; and it was previously 
asserted that a large portion of the language of 
every good poem can in no respect differ from 
that of good Prose. We will go further. It 
may be safely affirmed that there neither is, 
nor can he, any essential difference between the 
language of prose and metrical composition. 
We are fond of tracing the resemblance be- 
tween Poetry and Painting, and, accordingly, 
we call them Sisters : but where shall we find 
bonds of connection sufficiently strict to typify 
the affinity betwixt metrical and prose com- 
position '? They both speak by and to the 
same organs ; the bodies in which both of them 
are clothed may be said to be of the same 
substance, their affections are kindred, and 
almost identical, not necessarily differing even 
in degree; Poetry 1 sheds no tears "such as 
Angels weep," hut natural and human tears; 
she can boast of no celestial ichor that distin- 
guishes her vital juices from those of Prose ; 
the same hitman blood circulates through the 
veins of them both. 

If it be affirmed that rhyme and metrical 
arrangement of themselves constitute a dis- 
tinction which overturns what has just been 
said on the strict affinity of metrical language 
with that of Prose, and paves the way for 
other artificial distinctions which the mind 
voluntarily admits, I answer that the language 
of such Poetry as is here recommended is, as 

1 I here use the word "Poetry " (though against my 
own judgment) as opposed to the word Prose, and 
Bynonymous with metrical composition. But much 
confusion has been introduced into criticism by this 
contradistinction of Poetry and Prose, instead of the 
more philosophical one of Poetry and Matter of Fact, 
er Science. The only strict antithesis to Prose is 
Metre ; nor is this, in truth, a strict antithesis, because 
lines and passages of metre so naturally occur in writ- 
ing prose, that it would be scarcely possible to avoid 
them, even were it desirable. 



far as is possible, a selection of the language 
really spoken by men ; that this selection, 
wherever it is made with true taste and feel- 
ing, will of itself form a distinction far greater 
than would at first be imagined, and will en- 
tirely separate the composition from the vul- 
garity and meanness of ordinary life ; and, 
if metre be superadded thereto, I believe that 
a dissimilitude will be produced altogether 
sufficient for the gratification of a rational 
mind. What other distinction would we have ? 
Whence is it to come ? And where is it to exist ? 
Mot, surely, where the Poet speaks through 
the mouths of his characters : it cannot be 
necessary here, either for elevation of style, or 
any of its supposed ornaments ; for, if the 
Poet's subject he judiciously chosen, it will 
naturally, and upon fit occasion, lead him to 
passions, the language of which, if selected 
truly and judiciously, must necessarily be dig- 
nified and variegated, and alive with metaphors 
and figures. I forbear to speak of an incon- 
gruity which would shock the intelligent 
Reader, should the Poet interweave any for- 
eign splendour of his own with that which the 
passion naturally suggests: it is sufficient to 
say that such addition is unnecessary. And, 
surely, it is more probable that those passages, 
which with propriety abound with metaphors 
and figures, will have their due effect if, upon 
other occasions where the passions are of a 
milder character, the style also be subdued and 
temperate. 

But, as the pleasure which I hope to give by 
the Poems now presented to the Reader must 
depend entirely on just notions upon this 
subject, and as it is in itself of high importance 
to our taste and moral feelings, I cannot content 
myself with these detached remarks. And if, 
in what I am about to say, it shall appear to 
some that my labour is unnecessary, and that 
I am like a man fighting a battle without 
enemies, such persons may be reminded that, 
whatever be the language outwardly holder) by 
men, a practical faith in the opinions which I 
am wishing to establish is almost unknown. If 
my conclusions are admitted, and carried as 
far as they must be carried if admitted at all, 
our judgments concerning the works of the 
greatest Poets, both ancient and modern, will 
be far different from what they are at present, 
both when we praise and when we censure : 
and our moral feelings influencing and influ- 
enced by these judgments will, I believe, be 
corrected and purified. 

Taking up the subject, then, upon general 
grounds, let me ask, what is meant by the 
word Poet ? What is a Poet ? To whom does 
he address himself ? And what language is to 
be expected from him ? — He is a man speaking 
to men : a man, it is true, endowed with more 
lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tender- 
ness, who has a greater knowledge of human 
nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than 
are supposed to be common among mankind ; a 
man pleased with his own passions and voli- 
tions, and who rejoices more than other men in 



794 



PREFACE 



1800 



the spirit of life that is in him ; delighting to 
contemplate similar volitions and passions as 
manifested in the goings-on of the Universe, 
and habitually impelled to create them where 
he does not find them. To these qualities he 
has added a disposition to be affected more 
than any other men by absent things as if they 
were present; an ability of conjuring up in 
himself passions, which are indeed far from 
being the same "as those produced by real 
events, yet (especially in those parts of the 
general sympathy which are pleasing and 
delightful) do more nearly resemble the pas- 
sions produced by real events than anything 
which, from the motions of their own minds 
merely, other men are accustomed to feel in 
themselves: — whence, and from practice, he 
has acquired a greater readiness and power in 
expressing what he thinks and feels, and es- 
pecially those thoughts and feelings which, by 
his own choice, or from the structure of his own 
mind, arise in him without immediate external 
excitement. 

But whatever portion of this faculty we may 
suppose even the greatest Poet to possess, there 
cannot be a doubt that the language which it 
will suggest to him must often, in liveliness and 
truth, fall short of that which is uttered by 
men in real life under the actual pressure of 
those passions, certain shadows of which the 
Poet thus produces, or feels to be produced, in 
himself. 

However exalted a notion we would wish to 
cherish of the character of a Poet, it is obvious 
that, while he describes and imitates passions, 
his employment is in some degree mechan- 
ical compared with the freedom and power of 
real and substantial action and suffering. So 
that it will be the wish of the Poet to bring his 
feelings near to those of the persons whose 
feelings he describes, nay, for short spaces of 
time, perhaps, to let himself slip into an entire 
delusion, and even confound and identify his 
own feelinsrs with theirs ; modifying only the 
language which is thus suggested to him by a 
consideration that he describes for a particular 
purpose, that of giving pleasure. Here, then, 
he will apply the principle of selection which 
has been already insisted upon. He will depend 
upon this for removing what would otherwise 
be painful or disgusting in the passion ; he will 
feel that there is no necessity to trick out or to 
elevate nature : and the more industriously he 
applies this principle the deeper will be his 
faith that no words, which his fancy or imagi- 
nation can suggest, will be to be compared with 
those which are the emanations of reality and 
truth. 

But it may be said by those who do not 
object to the general spirit of these remarks, 
that, as it is impossible for the Poet to produce 
upon all occasions language as exquisitely fitted 
for the passion as that which the real passion 
itself suggests, it is proper that he should con- 
sider himself as in the situation of a translator, 
who does not scruple to substitute excellences of 
another kind for those which are unattainable 



by him ; and endeavours occasionally to sur- 
pass his original, in order to make some amends 
for the general inferiority to which he feels he 
must submit. But this would be to encourage 
idleness and unmanly despair. Further, it is 
the language of men who speak of what they 
do not understand ; who talk of Poetry, as of a 
matter of amusement and idle pleasure ; who 
will converse with us as gravely about a taste for 
Poetry, as they express it, as if it were a thing 
as indifferent as a taste for rope-dancing, or 
Frontiniac or Sherry. Aristotle, I have been 
told, has said, that Poetry is the most philo- 
sophic of all writing: it is so: irs object is 
truth, not individual and local, but general and 
operative ; not standing upon external testi- 
mony, but carried alive into the heart by pas- 
sion ; truth which is its own testimony, which 
gives competence and confidence to the tribu- 
nal to which it appeals, and receives them from 
the same tribunal. Poetry is the image of 
man and nature. The obstacles which stand in 
the way of the fidelity of the Biographer and 
Historian, and of their consequent utility, are 
incalculably greater than those which are to 
be encountered by the Poet who comprehends 
the dignity of his art. The Poet writes under 
one restriction only, namely, the necessity of 
giving immediate pleasure to a human Being 
possessed of that information which may be 
expected from him, not as a lawyer, a physi- 
cian, a mariner, an astronomer, or a natural 
philosopher, but as a Man. Except this one 
restriction, there is no object standing between 
the Poet and the image of things ; between this, 
and the Biographer and Historian, there are a 
thousand. 

Nor let this necessity of producing immediate 
pleasure be considered as a degradation of the 
Poet's art. It is far otherwise. It is an ac- 
knowledgment of the beauty of the universe, 
an acknowledgment the more sincere because 
not formal, but indirect ; it is a task light and 
easy to him who looks at the world in the spirit 
of love: further, it is a homage paid to the 
native and naked dignity of man, to the grand 
elementary principle of pleasure, by which he 
knows, and feels, and lives, and moves. We 
have no sympathy but what is propagated by 
pleasure : I would not be misunderstood ; but 
wherever we sympathise with pain, it will be 
found that the sympathy is produced and car- 
ried on by subtle combinations with pleasure. 
We have no knowledge, that is, no general 
principles drawn frorn the contemplation of 
particular facts, but what has been built up by 
pleasure, and exists in us by pleasure alone. 
The Man of science, the Chemist and Mathema- 
tician, whatever difficulties and disgusts they 
may have had to struggle with, know and feel 
this. However painfxd may be the objects with 
which the Anatomist's knowledge is connected, 
he feels that his knowledge is pleasure ; and 
where he has no pleasure he has no knowledge. 
What then does the Poet ? He considers man 
and the objects that surround him as acting and 
re-acting upon each other, so as to produce an 



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PREFACE 



795 



infinite complexity of pain and pleasure ; he 
considers man in his own nature and in his ordi- 
nary life as contemplating- this with a certain 
quantity of immediate knowledge, with cer- 
tain convictions, intuitions, and deductions, 
which from habit acquire the quality of intu- 
itions ; he considers him as looking upon this 
complex scene of ideas and sensations, and find- 
ing everywhere objects that immediately excite 
in him sympathies which, from the necessities 
of his nature, are accompanied by an overbal- 
ance of enjoyment. 

To this knowledge which all men carry about 
with them, and to these sympathies in which, 
without any other discipline than that of our 
daily life, we are fitted to take delight, the 
Poet principally directs his attention. He con- 
siders man and nature as essentially adapted to 
each other, and the mind of man as naturally 
the mirror of the fairest and most interesting 
properties of nature. And thus the Poet, 
prompted by this feeling of pleasure, which ac- 
companies him through the whole course of his 
studies, converses with general nature, with 
affections akin to those which, through labour 
and length of time, the Man of science has 
raised up in himself, by conversing with those 
particular parts of nature which are the ob- 
jects of his studies. The knowledge both of 
the Poet and the Man of science is pleasure; 
but the knowledge of the one cleaves to us as 
a necessary part of our existence, our natural 
and unalienable inheritance ; the other is a per- 
sonal and individual acquisition, slow to come 
to us, and by no habitual and direct sympathy 
connecting us with our fellow-beings. The Man 
of science seeks truth as a remote and unknown 
benefactor ; he cherishes and loves it in his soli- 
tude : the Poet, singing a song in which all 
human beings join with him, rejoices in the pre- 
sence of truth as our visible friend and hourly 
companion. Poetry is the breath and finer 
spirit of all knowledge ; it is the impassioned 
expression which is in the countenance of all 
Science. Emphatically may it be said of the 
Poet, as Shakspeare hath said of man, " that 
he looks before and after." He is the rock of 
defence for human nature ; an upholder and 
preserver, carrying everywhere with him rela- 
tionship and love. In spite of difference of soil 
and climate, of language and manners, of laws 
and customs : in spite of things silently gone 
out of mind, and things violently destroyed ; 
the Poet binds together by passion and know- 
ledge the vast empire of human society, as 
it is spread over the whole earth and over 
all time. The objects of the Poet's thoughts 
are everywhere ; though the eyes and. senses of 
man are, it is true, his favourite guides, yet he 
will follow wheresoever he can find an atmos- 
phere of sensation in which to move his wings. 
Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge — 
it is as immortal as the heart of man. If the 
labours of Men of science should ever create 
any material revolution, direct or indirect, in 
our condition, and in the impressions which we 
habitually receive, the Poet will sleep then no 



more than at present ; he will be ready to fol- 
low the steps of the Man of science, not only in 
those general indirect effects, but he will be at 
his side, carrying sensation into the midst of 
the objects of the science itself. The remotest 
discoveries of the Chemist, the Botanist, or 
Mineralogist, will be as proper objects of the 
Poet's art as any upon which it can be employed, 
if the time should ever come when these things 
shall be familiar to us, and the relations under 
which they are contemplated by the followers 
of these respective sciences shall be manifestly 
and palpably material to us as enjoying and suf- 
fering beings. If the time should ever come 
when what is now called science, thus familiar- 
ised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, 
a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend 
his divine spirit to aid the transfiguration, and 
will welcome the Being thus produced as a dear 
and genuine inmate of the household of man. — 
It is not, then, to be supposed that any one, 
who holds that sublime notion of Poetry which 
I have attempted to convey, will break in upon 
the sanctity and truth of his pictures by transi- 
tory and accidental ornaments, and endeavour 
to excite admiration of himself by arts, the ne- 
cessity of which must manifestly depend upon 
the assumed meanness of his subject. 

What has been thus far said applies to Poetry 
in general, but especially to those parts of com- 
positions where the Poet speaks through the 
mouths of his characters ; and upon this point 
it appears to authorise the conclusion that there 
are few persons of good sense who would not 
allow that the dramatic parts of composition 
are defective in proportion as they deviate from 
the real language of nature, and are coloured 
by a diction of the Poet's own, either peculiar 
to him as an individual Poet or belonging simply 
to Poets in general ; to a body of men who, 
from the circumstance of their compositions 
being in metre, it is expected will employ a 
particular langauge. 

It is not, then, in the dramatic parts of compo- 
sition that we look for this distinction of lan- 
guage ; but still it may be proper and necessary 
where the Poet speaks to us in his own person 
and character. To this I answer by referring 
the Reader to the description before given of a 
Poet. Among the qualities there enumerated 
as principally conducing to form a Poet, is im- 
plied nothing differing in kind from other men, 
but only in degree. The sum of what was said 
is, that the Poet is chiefly distinguished from 
other men by a greater promptness to think 
and feel without immediate external excite- 
ment, and a greater power in expressing such 
thoughts and feelings as are produced in him 
in that manner. But these passions and 
thoughts and feelings are the general passions 
and thoughts and feelings of men. And with 
what are they connected ? Undoubtedly with 
our moral sentiments and animal sensations, 
and with the causes which excite these ; with 
the operations of the elements, and the appear- 
ances of the visible universe ; with storm and 
sunshine, with the revolutions of the seasons, 



796 



PREFACE 



1800 



with cold and heat, with loss of friends and 
kindred, with injuries and resentments, grati- 
tude and hope, with fear and sorrow. These, 
and the like, are the sensations and objects 
which the Poet describes, as they are the sen- 
sations of other men and the objects which 
interest them. The Poet thinks and feels in 
the spirit of human passions. How, then, can 
his language differ in any material degree from 
that of all other men who feel vividly and see 
clearly ? It might be proved that it is impos- 
sible. But supposing that this were not the 
case, the Poet might then be allowed to use 
a peculiar language when expressing his feel- 
ings for his own gratification, or that of men 
like himself. But Poets do not write for Poets 
alone, but for men. Unless, therefore, we are 
advocates for that admiration which subsists 
upon ignorance, and that pleasure which arises 
from hearing what we do not understand, the 
Poet must descend from this supposed height ; 
and, in order to excite rational sympathy, he 
must express himself as other men express 
themselves. To this it may be added, that 
while he is only selecting from the real language 
of men, or, which amounts to the same thing, 
composing accurately in the spirit of such se- 
lection, he is treading upon safe ground, and 
we know what we are to expect from him. 
Our feelings are the same with respect to metre ; 
for, as it may be proper to remind the Reader, 
the distinction of metre is regular and uniform, 
and not, like that which is produced by what 
is usually called poetic diction, arbitrary, and 
subject to infinite caprices, upon which no cal- 
culation whatever can be made. In the one 
case, the Reader is utterly at the mercy of the 
Poet, respecting what imagery or diction he may 
choose to connect with the passion ; whereas, 
in the other, the metre obeys certain laws, to 
which the Poet and Reader both willingly sub- 
mit because they are certain, and because no 
interference is made by them with the passion 
but such as the concurring testimony of ages 
has shown to heighten and improve the pleasure 
which co-exists with it. 

It will now be proper to answer an obvious 
question, namely, Why, professing these opin- 
ions, have I written in verse ? To this, in ad- 
dition to such answer as is included in what has 
been already said, I reply, in the first place, 
Because, however I may have restricted my- 
self, there is still left open to me what confes- 
sedly constitutes the most valuable object of 
all writing, whether in prose or verse ; the great 
and universal passions of men, the most general 
and interesting of their occupations, and the 
entire world of nature before me — to supply 
endless combinations of forms and imagery. 
Now, supposing for a moment that whatever is 
interesting in these objects may be as vividly 
described in prose, why should I be condemned 
for attempting to superadd to such description 
the charm which, by the consent of all nations, 
is acknowledged to exist in metrical language ? 
To this, by such as are yet unconvinced, it may 
be answered that a very small part of the plea- 



sure given by Poetry depends upon the metre, 
and that it is injudicious to write in metre, un- 
less it be accompanied with the other artificial 
distinctions of style with which metre is usually 
accompanied, and that, by such deviation, more 
will be lost from the shock which will thereby 
be given to the Reader's associations than will 
be counterbalanced by any pleasure which he 
can derive from the general power of numbers. 
In answer to those who still contend for the 
necessity of accompanying metre with certain 
appropriate colours of style in order to thn 
accomplishment of its appropriate end, and who 
also, in my opinion, greatly under-rate the 
power of metre in itself, it might, perhaps, as 
far as relates to these Volumes, have been almost 
sufficient to observe, that poems are extant, 
written upon more humble subjects, and in a 
still more naked and simple style, which have 
continued to give pleasure from generation to 
generation. Now, if nakedness and simplicity 
be a defect, the fact here mentioned affords a 
strong presumption that poems somewhat less 
naked and simple are capable of affording plea- 
sure at the present day ; and, what I wished 
chiefly to attempt, at present, was to justify my- 
self for having written under the impression of 
this belief. 

But various causes might be pointed out why, 
when the style is manly, and the subject of 
some importance, words metrically arranged 
will long continue to impart such a pleasure to 
mankind as he who proves the extent of that 
pleasure will be desirous to impart. The end 
of poetry is to produce excitement in co-exist- 
ence with an overbalance of pleasure ; but, by 
the supposition, excitement is an unusual and 
irregular state of the mind ; ideas and feelings 
do not, in that state, succeed each other in ac- 
customed order. If the words, however, by 
which this excitement is produced be in them- 
selves powerful, or the images and feelings have 
an undue proportion of pain connected with 
them, there is some danger that the excitement 
may be carried beyond its proper bounds. Now 
the co-presence of something regular, something 
to which the mind has been accustomed in vari- 
ous moods and in a less excited state, cannot but 
have great efficacy in temperhig and restraining 
the passion by an intertexture of ordinal feel- 
ing, and of feeling not strictly and necessarily 
connected with the passion. This is unquestion- 
ably true ; and hence, though the opinion will 
at first appear paradoxical, from the tendency 
of metre to divest language, in a certain degree, 
of its reality, and thus to throw a sort of half- 
consciousness of unsubstantial existence over 
the whole composition, there can be little doubt 
but that more pathetic situations and senti- 
ments, that is, those which have a greater pro- 
portion of pain connected with them, may be 
endured in metrical composition, especially in 
rhyme, than in prose. The metre of _ the old 
ballads is very artless, yet they contain many 
passages which would illustrate this opinion ; 
and, I hope, if the following poems be atten- 
tively perused, similar instances will be found 



i8oo 



PREFACE 



797 



in them. This opinion may be further illus- 
trated by appealing to the Reader's own experi- 
ence of the reluctance with which he comes to 
the reperusal of the distressful parts of "Cla- 
rissa Hariowe," or the "Gamester"; while 
IShakspeare's writings, in the most pathetic 
scenes, never act upon us, as pathetic, beyond 
the bounds of pleasure — an effect which, in a 
much greater degree than might at first be im- 
agined, is to be ascribed to small, but continual 
and regular impulses of pleasurable surprise 
from the metrical arrangement. — On the other 
hand (what it must be allowed will much more 
frequently happen), if the Poet's words should 
be incommensurate with the passion, and inade- 
quate to raise the Reader to a height of desirable 
excitement, then (unless the Poet's choice of 
his metre has been grossly injudicious), in the 
feelings of pleasure which the Reader has been 
accustomed to connect with metre in general, 
and in the feeling, whether cheerful or melan- 
choly, which he has been accustomed to connect 
with that particular movement of metre, there 
will be found something which will greatly con- 
tribute to impart passion to the words, and to 
effect the complex end which the Poet proposes 
to himself. 

If I had undertaken a systematic defence 
of the theory here maintained, it would have 
been my duty to develop the various causes 
upon which the pleasure received from metrical 
language depends. Among the chief of these 
causes is to be reckoned a principle which must 
be well known to those who have made any 
of the Arts the object of accurate reflection ; 
namely, the pleasure which the mind derives 
from the perception of similitude in dissimili- 
tude. This principle is the great spring of the 
activity of our minds, and their chief feeder. 
From this principle the direction of the sexual 
appetite, and all the passions connected with 
it, take their origin: it is the life of our ordi- 
nary conversation ; and upon the accuracy with 
which similitude in dissimilitude, and dissimili- 
tude in similitude, are perceived, depend our 
taste and our moral feelings. It would not be 
a useless employment to apply this principle to 
the consideration of metre, and to show that 
metre is hence enabled to afford much pleasure, 
and to point out in what manner that pleasure 
is produced. Bnt my limits will not permit me 
to enter upon this subject, and I must content 
myself with a general summary. 

I have said that poetry is the spontaneous 
overflow of powerful feelings : it takes its 
origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity ; 
the emotion is contemplated till, by a species 
of re-action, the tranquillity gradually disap- 
pears, and an emotion, kindred to that which 
was before the subject of contemplation, is 
gradually produced, and does itself actually 
exist in the mind. In this mood successful 
composition generally begins, and in a mood 
similar to this it is carried on ; but the emotion, 
of whatever kind, and in whatever degree, 
from various causes, is qualified by various 
pleasures, so that in describing any passions 



whatsoever, which are voluntarily described, 
the mind will, upon the whole, be in a state of 
enjoyment. If Nature be thus cautions to 
preserve in a state of enjoyment a being so 
employed, the Poet ought to profit by the 
lesson held forth to him, and ought especially 
to take care that, whatever passions he com- 
municates to his Reader, those passions, if his 
Reader's mind be sound and vigorous, should 
always be accompanied with an over-balance of 
pleasure. Now the music of harmonious metri- 
cal language, the sense of difficulty overcome, 
and the blind association of pleasure which has 
been previously received from works of rhyme 
or metre of the same or similar construction, an 
indistinct perception perpetually renewed of 
language closely resembling that of real life, 
and yet, in the circumstance of metre, differing 
from it so widely — all these imperceptibly 
make up a complex feeling of delight, which is 
of the most important use in tempering the 
painful feeling always found intermingled with 
powerful descriptions of the deeper passions. 
This effect is always produced in pathetic and 
impassioned poetry ; while, in lighter composi- 
tions, the ease and gracefulness with w Inch the 
Poet manages his numbers are themselves con- 
fessedly a principal source of the gratification 
of the Reader. All that it is necessary to say, 
however, upon this subject, may be effected by 
affirming, what few persons will deny, that of 
two descriptions, either of passions, manners, 
or characters, each of them equally well exe- 
cuted, the one in prose and the other in verse, 
the verse will be read a hundred times where 
the prose is read once. 

Having thus explained a few of my reasons 
for writing in verse, and why I have chosen 
subjects from common life, and endeavoured to 
bring my language near to the real language 
of men, if I have been too minute in pleading 
my own cause, I have at the same time been 
treating a subject of general interest ; and for 
this reason a few words shall be added with re- 
ference solely to these particular poems, and 
to some defects which will probably be found 
in them. I am sensible that my associations 
must have sometimes been particular instead 
of general, and that, consequently, giving to 
things a false importance, I may have some- 
times written upon unworthy subjects ; but I 
am less apprehensive on this account, than that 
my language may frequently have suffered 
from those arbitrary connections of feelings and 
ideas with particular words and phrases from 
which no man can altogether protect himself. 
Hence I have no doubt that, in some instances, 
feelings, even of the ludicrous, may be given to 
my Readers by expressions which appeared to 
me tender and pathetic. Such faulty expres- 
sions, were I convinced they were faulty at 
present, and that they must necessarily continue 
to be so, I would willingly take all reasonable 
pains to correct. But it is dangerous to make 
these alterations on the simple authority of a 
few individuals, or even of certain classes of 
men ; for where the understanding of an author 



793 



PREFACE 



i8co 



i3 not convinced, or his feelings altered, this 
cannot he dona without great injury to himself : 
for his own feelings are his stay and support; 
and, if he set them aside in one instance, he 
may be induced to repeat this act till his mind 
shall lose all confidence in itself, and become 
utterly debilitated. To this it may be added, 
that the critic ought never to forget that he is 
himself exposed to the same errors as the Poet, 
and, perhaps, in a much greater degree : for 
there can be no presumption in saying of most 
readers, that it is not probahle they will be so 
well acquainted with the various stages of 
meaning through which words have passed, or 
with the fickleness or stability of the relations 
of particular ideas to each other ; and, above 
all, since they are so much less interested in 
the subject, they may decide lightly and care- 
lessly. 

Long as the reader has been detained, I hope 
he will permit me to caution him against a 
mode of false criticism which has been applied 
to poetry, in which the language closely re- 
sembles that of life and nature. Such verses 
have been triumphed over in parodies, of which 
Dr. Johnson's stanza is a fair specimen : — 

" I put ray hat upon my head 
And walked into the Strand, 
And there I met another man 
Whose hat was in his hand." 

Immediately under these lines let us place 
one of the most justly-admired stanzas of the 
"Babes in the Wood." 

" These pretty Babes with hand in hand 
Went wandering up and down ; 
But never more they saw the Man 
Approaching from the Town." 

In both these stanzas the words, and the 
order of the words, in no respect differ from 
the most unimpassioned conversation. There 
are words in both, for example, "the Strand," 
and " the Town," connected with none but the 
most familiar ideas ; yet the one stanza we 
admit as admirable, and the other as a fair 
example of the supprlatively contemptible. 
Whence arise3 this difference? Not from the 
metre, not from the language, not from the 
order of the words ; but the matter expressed in 
Dr. Johnson's stanza is contemptible. The 
proper method of treating trivial and simple 
verses, to which Dr. Johnson's stanza would 
be a fair parallelism, is not to say, this is a 
bad kind of poetry, or, this is not poetry ; but, 
this wants sense ; it is neither interesting in 
itself, nor can lead to anything interesting ; the 
images neither originate in that sane state of 
feeling which arises out of thought, nor can 
excite thought or feeling in the Reader. This 
is the only sensible manner of dealing with 
such verses. Why trouble yourself about the 
species till you have previously decided upon 
the genus ? Why take pains to prove that 
an ape is not a Newton, when it is self-evident 
that he is not a man ? 

One request I must make of my Reader, 
which is, that in judging these Poems he would 



decide by his own feelings genuinely, and not 
by reflection upon what will probably be the 
judgment of others. How common is it to 
hear a person say, I myself do not object to this 
style of composition, or this or that expression, 
but to such and such classes of people it will 
appear mean or ludicrous ! This mode of criti- 
cism, so destructive of all sound unadulterated 
judgment, is almost universal : let the Reader 
then abide, independently, by his own feelings, 
and, if lie finds himself affected, let him not 
suffer such conjectures to interfere with his 
pleasure. 

If an Author, by any single composition, has 
impressed us with respect for his talents, it is 
useful to consider this ;as affording a presump- 
tion that on other occasions where we have been 
displeased he, nevertheless, may not have 
written ill or absurdly ; and further, to give him 
so much credit for this one composition as may 
induce us to review what has displeased us 
with more care than we should otherwise have 
bestowed upon it. This is not only an act of 
justice, but, in our decisions upon poetry espe- 
cially, may conduce, in a high degree, to the 
improvement of our own taste : for an accurate 
taste in poetry, and in all the other arts, as Sir 
Joshua Reynolds has observed, is an acquired 
talent, which can only be produced by thought 
and a long-continued intercourse with the best 
models of composition. This is mentioned, not 
with so ridiculous a purpose as to prevent the 
most inexperienced Reader from judging for 
himself (I have already said that I wish him to 
judge for himself), but merely to temper the 
rashness of decision, and to suggest that, if 
Poetry be a subject on which much time has 
not been bestowed, the judgment may be 
erroneous ; and that, in many cases, it necessa- 
rily will be so. 

Nothing would, I know, have so effectually 
contributed to further the end which I have in 
view , as to have shown of what kind the 
pleasure is, and how that pleasure is produced, 
which is confessedly produced by metrical com- 
position essentially different from that which I 
have here endeavoured to recommend : for the 
Reader will say that he has been pleased by such 
composition ; and what more can be done for 
him ? The power of any art is limited ; and 
he will suspect that, if it be proposed to furnish 
him with new friends, that can be only upon 
condition of his abandoning his old friends. 
Besides, as I have said, the Reader is him- 
self conscious of the pleasure which he has 
received from such composition, composition 
to which he has peculiarly attached the en- 
dearing name of Poetry ; and all men feel 
an habitual gratitude, and something of an 
honourable bigotry, for the objects which have 
long continued to please them : we not only 
wish to be pleased, but to be pleased in that 
particular way in which we have been accus- 
tomed to be pleased. There is in these feelings 
enoutrh to resist a host of arguments ; and I 
should be the less able to combat them success- 
fully, as I am willing to allow that, in order 



APPENDIX 



799 



entirely to enjoy the Poetry which I am recom- 
mending, it would be necessary to give up much 
of what is ordinarily enjoyed. But would my 
limits have permitted me to point out how this 
pleasure is produced, many obstacles might 
have been removed, and the Reader assisted in 
perceiving that the powers of language are not 
so limited as be may suppose ; and that it is 
possible lor poetry to give other enjoyments, of 
a purer, more lasting, and more exquisite nature. 
This part of the subject has not been altogether 
neglected, but it has not been so much my 
present aim to prove, that the interest excited 
by some other kinds of poetry is less vivid, and 
less worthy of the nobler powers of the mind, 



as to offer reasons for presuming that if my 
purpose were fulfilled, a species of poetry 
would be produced which is genuine poetry ; in 
its nature well adapted to interest mankind 
permanently, and likewise important in the 
multiplicity and quality of its moral relations. 

From what has been said, and from a pe- 
rusal of the Poems, the Reader will be able 
clearly to perceive the object which I had in 
view : he will determine how far it has been 
attained, and, what is a much more important 
question, whether it be worth attaining : and 
upon the decision of these two questions will 
rest my claim to the approbation of the Public. 



APPENDIX 

1802 

See page 796 — " by what is usually called poetic diction." 



Perhaps, as I have no right to expect that 
attentive perusal, without which, confined, as 
I have been, to the narrow limits of a preface, 
my meaning cannot be thoroughly understood, I 
am anxious to give an exact notion of the sense 
in which the phrase poetic diction has been 
used ; and for this purpose, a few words shall 
here be added, concerning the origin and char- 
acteristics of the phraseology which I have con- 
demned under that name. 

The earliest poets of all nations generally 
wrote from passion excited by real events ; 
they wrote naturally, and as men : feeling pow- 
erfully as they did, their language was daring, 
and figurative. In succeeding times, Poets, 
and Men ambitious of the fame of Poets, per- 
ceiving the influence of such language, and de- 
sirous of producing the same effect without 
being animated by the same passion, set them- 
selves to a mechanical adoption of these figures 
of speech, and made use of them, sometimes 
with propriety, but much more frequently 
applied them to feelings and thoughts with 
which they had no natural connection whatso- 
ever. A language was thus insensibly produced, 
differing materially from the real language of 
men in any situation. The Reader or Hearer 
of this distorted language found himself in a 
perturbed and unusual state of mind : when 
affected by the genuine language of passion he 
had been in a perturbed and unusual state of 
mind also : in both cases he was willing that 
his common judgment and understanding 
should be laid asleep, and he had no instinctive 
and infallible perception of the true to make 
him reject the false ; the one served as a pass- 
port for the other. The emotion was in both 
cases delightful, and no wonder if he con- 
founded the one with the other, and believed 
them both to be produced by the same or similar 
causes. Besides, the Poet spake to him in the 
character of a man to be looked up to, a man 
of genius and authority. Thus, and from a 
variety of other causes, this distorted language 



was received with admiration ; and Poets, it is 
probable, who had before contented themselves 
for the most part with misapplying only ex- 
pressions which at first had been dictated by 
real passion, carried the abuse still further, 
and introduced phrases composed apparently in 
the spirit of the original figurative language of 
passion, yet altogether of their own invention, 
and characterised by various degrees of wanton 
deviation from good sense and nature. 

It is indeed true that the language of the 
earliest Poets was felt to differ materially from 
ordinary language, because it was the language 
of extraordinary occasions ; but it was really 
spoken by men, language which the Poet him- 
self had uttered when he had been affected by 
the events which he described, or which he had 
heard uttered by those around him. To this 
language it is probable that metre of some sort 
or other was early superadded. This separated 
the genuine language of Poetry still further 
from common life, so that whoever read or 
heard the poems of these earliest Poets felt 
himself moved in a way in which he had 
not been accustomed to be moved in real life, 
and by causes manifestly different from those 
which acted upon him in real life. This was 
the great temptation to all the corruptions 
which have followed : under the protection of 
this feeling succeeding Poets constructed a 
phraseology which had one thing, it is true, in 
common with the genuine language of poetry, 
namely, that it was not heard in ordinary 
conversation ; that it was unusual. But the 
first Poets, as I have said, spake a language 
which, though unusual, was still the lan- 
guage of men. This circumstance, however, 
was disregarded by their successors ; they 
found that they could please by easier means : 
they became proud of modes of expression 
which they themselves had invented, and 
which were uttered only by themselves. In 
process of time metre became a symbol or 
promise of this unusual language, and whoever 



8oo 



APPENDIX 



1802 



took upon him to write in metre, according as 
lie possessed more or less of true poetic genius, 
introduced less or more of this adulterated 
phraseology into his compositions, and the true 
and the false were inseparably interwoven un- 
til, the taste of men becoming gradually per- 
verted, this language was received as a natural 
language, and at length, by the influence of 
hooks upon men, did to a certain degree really 
become so. Abuses of this kind were imported 
from one nation to another, and with the pro- 
gress of refinement this diction became daily 
more and more corrupt, thrusting out of sight 
the plain humanities of nature by a motley mas- 
querade of tricks, quaintuesses, hieroglyphics, 
and enigmas. 

It would not be uninteresting to point out 
the causes of the pleasure given by this ex- 
travagant and absurd diction. It depends 
upon a great variety of causes, but upon none, 
perhaps, more than its influence in impressing 
a notion of the peculiarity and exaltation of the 
Poet's character, and in flattering the Reader's 
self-love by bringing him nearer to a sympathy 
with that character ; an effect which is accom- 
plished by unsettling ordinary habits of think- 
ing, and thus assisting the Reader to approach 
to that perturbed and dizzy state of mind in 
which if he does not find himself, he imagines 
that he is balked of a peculiar enjoyment 
which poetry can and ought to bestow. 

The sonnet quoted from Gray in the Preface, 
except the lines printed in Italics, consists of 
little else but this diction, though not of the 
worst kind ; and indeed, if one may be per- 
mitted to say so, it is far too common in the 
best writers, both ancient and modern. Per- 
haps in no way, by positive example, could 
more easily be given a notion of what I mean 
by the phrase poetic diction than by referring 
to a comparison between the metrical para- 
phrase which we have of passages in the Old 
and New Testament, and those passages as 
they exist in our common Translation. See 
Pope's " Messiah " throughout ; Prior's " Did 
sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue," 
etc. " Though I speak with the tongues of men 
and of angels," etc. 1st Corinthians, chap. xiii. 
By way of immediate example, take the follow- 
ing of Dr. Johnson : — 

" Turn on the prudent Ant thy heedless eyes, 
Observe her labours, Sluggard, and be wise ; 
No stern command, no monitory voice, 
Prescribes her duties, or directs her choice ; 
Yet, timely provident, she hastes away 
To snatch the blessings of a plenteous day ; 
When fruitful Summer loads the teeming plain, 
She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain. 
How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours, 
Unnerve thy vigour, and enchain thy powers ? 
While artful shades thy downy couch enclose, 
And soft solicitation courts repose, 
Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight, 
Year chases year with unremitted flight, 
Till Want now following, fraudulent and slow, 
Shall spring to seize thee, like an ambush'd foe." 

From this hubbub of words pass to the ori- 
ginal. "Goto the ant, thou sluggard; consider 



her ways, and be wise: which having no guide, 
overseer, or ruler, provideth her meat in the 
summer, and gathereth her food in the harvest. 
How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard ? when 
wilt thou arise out of thy sleep ? Yet a little 
sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the 
hands to sleep: so shall thy poverty come as one 
that travelleth, and thy want as an armed 
man." Proverbs, chap. vi. 

One more quotation, and I have done. It is 
from Cowper's Verses supposed to be written 
by Alexander Selkirk: — 

" Religion ! what treasure untold 
Besides in that heavenly word ! 
More precious than silver and gold, 
Or all that this earth can afford. 
But the sound of the church-going bell 
These valleys and rocks never heard, 
Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell, 
Or smiled when a sabbath appeared. 

Ye winds, that have made me your sport, 

Convey to this desolate shore 

Some cordial endearing report 

Of a land I must visit no more. 

My Friends, do they now and then send 

A wish or a thought after me ? 

O tell me I yet have a friend, 

Though a friend I am never to see " 

This passage is quoted as an instance of three 
different styles of composition. The first four 
lines are poorly expressed; some Critics would 
call the language prosaic ; the fact is, it would 
be bad prose, so bad, that it is scarcely worse 
in metre. The epithet " church-going " applied 
to a bell, and that by so chaste a writer as 
Cowper, is an instance of the strange abuses 
which Poets have introduced into their lan- 
guage, till they and their Readers take them as 
matters of course, if they do not single them 
out expressly as objects of admiration. The 
two lines "Ne'er sighed at the sound," etc., 
are, in my opinion, an instance of the language 
of passion wrested from its proper use, and, 
from the mere circumstance of the composition 
being in metre, applied upon an occasion that 
does not justify such violent expressions ; and 
I should condemn the passage, though perhaps 
few Readers will agree with me, as vicious 
poetic diction. The last stanza is throughout 
admirably expressed: it would be equally good 
whether in prose or verse, except that the 
Reader has an exquisite pleasure in seeing such 
natural language so naturally connected with 
metre. The beauty of this stanza tempts me 
to conclude with a principle which ought never 
to be lost sight of, and which has been my chief 
guide in all I have said, — namely, that in works 
of imagination and sentiment, for of these only 
have I been treating, in proportion as ideas and 
feelings are valuable, whether the composition 
be in prose or in verse, they require and exact 
one and the same language. Metre is but ad- 
ventitious to composition, and the phraseology 
for which that passport is necessary, even where 
it may be graceful at all, will be little valued 
by the judicious. 



PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1S15 



801 



DEDICATION 
PREFIXED TO THE EDITION OF 1815 



SIR GEORGE ROWLAND BEAUMONT, 
BART. 

My dear Sir George, 

Accept my thanks for the permission given me 
to dedicate these Volumes to you. In addition 
to a lively pleasure derived from general consid- 
erations, I feel a particular satisfaction ; for, by 
inscribing these Poems with your Name, I seem 
to myself in some degree to repay, by an appro- 
priate honour, the great obligation which I owe 
to one part of the Collection — as having been the 
means of first making us personally known to 
each other. Upon much of the remainder, also, 
you have a peculiar claim, — for some of the 
best pieces were composed under the shade of 
your own groves, upon the classic ground of 
Coleorton ; where I was animated by the recol- 
lection of those illustrious Poets of your name 
and family, who were born in that neighbour- 
hood ; and, we may be assured, did not wander 



with indifference by the dashing stream of 
Grace Dieu, and anions the rocks that diversify 
the forest of Charnwood. — Nor is there any one 
to whom such parts of this Collection as have 
been inspired or coloured by the beautiful Coun 
try from which I now address you, could be 
presented with more propriety than to yourself 
— to whom it has suggested so many admir- 
able pictures. Early in life, the sublimity and 
beauty of this region excited your admiration ; 
and I know that you are bound to it in mind by 
a still strengthening attachment. 

Wishing and hoping that this Work, with 
the embellishments it has received from your 
pencil, 1 may survive as a lasting memorial of a 
friendship, which I reckon among the blessings 
of my life, 

I have the honour to be, 
My dear Sir George, 
Yours' most affectionately and faithfully, 
William Wordsworth. 
Rtdal Mount, Y/estmoreland, 
February 1, 1815. 



PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1815 



The powers requisite for the production of 
poetry are : first, those of Observation and De- 
scription, — 1. e. the ability to observe with 
accuracy things as they are in themselves, and 
with fidelity to describe them, unmodified by 
any passion or feeling existing in the mind of 
the deseriber : whether the things depicted be 
actually present to the senses, or have a plnce 
only in the memory. This power, though indis- 
pensable to a Poet, is one which he employs 
only in submission to necessity, and never for a 
continuance of time: as its exercise supposes 
all the higher qualities of the mind to be passive, 
and in a state of subjection to external objects, 
much in the same way as a translator or en- 
graver ought to be to his original. 2dly, Sensi- 
bility, — which, the more exquisite it is. the 
wider will be the range of a poet's perceptions ; 
and the more will he be incited to observe ob- 
jects, both as they exist in themselves and as 
re-acted upon by his own mind. (The distinction 
between poetic and human sensibility has been 
marked in the character of the Poet delineated 
in the original preface.) 3dly, Reflection, — 
which makes the Poet acquainted with the value 
of actions, images, thoughts, and feelings ; and 
assists the sensibility in perceiving their connec- 
tion with each other. 4thly, Imagination and 
Funcy, — to modify, to create, and to associate. 
5fchly, Invention, — by which characters are 
composed out of materials supplied by observa- 
tion ; whether of the Poet's own heart and 
mind, or of external life and nature ; and such 
incidents and situations produced as are most 
impressive to the imagination, and most fitted 



to do justice to the characters, sentiments, and 
passions, which the poet undertakes to illus- 
trate. And, lastly, Judgment, — to decide how 
and where, and in what degree, each of these 
faculties ought to be exerted ; so that the less 
shall not be sacrificed to the greater ; nor the 
greater, slighting the less, arrogate, to its o\vn 
injury, more than its due. By judgment, also, 
is determined what are the laws and appropri- 
ate graces of every species of composition. 2 

The materials of Poeti-y, by these powers 
collected and produced, are cast, by means of 
various moulds, into divers forms. The moulds 
may be enumerated, and the forms specified, in 
the following order. 1st, The Narrative, — in- 
cluding the Epopceia, the Historic Poem, the 
Tale, the Romance, the Mock-heroic, and, if the 
spirit of Homer will tolerate such neighbour- 
hood, that dear production of our days, the 
metrical Novel. Of this Class, the distinguish- 
ing mark is, that the Narrator, however liberally 
his speaking agents be introduced, is himself 
the source from which everything primarily 
flows. Epic Poets, in order that their mode of 
composition may accord with the elevation of 
their subject, represent themselves as singing 
from the inspiration of the Muse, " Arma vi- 
rumque cano; " but this is a fiction, in modern 
times, of slight value : the Iliad or the "Paradise 

1 The state of the plates has, for some time, not al- 
lowed them to be repeated. 

2 As sensibility to harmony of numbers, and the 
power of producing it, are invariably attendants upon 
the faculties above specified, nothing has been said 
upon those requisites. 



802 



PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1815 



Lost " would gain little in our estimation by 
being chanted. The other poets who belong 
to this class are commonly content to tell their 
tale ; — so that of the whole it may be affirmed 
that the j' neither require nor reject the accom- 
paniment of music. 

2dly, The Dramatic. — consisting of Tragedy, 
Historic Drama, Comedy, and Masque, in 
which the poet does not appear at all in his own 
person, and where the whole action is carried 
on by speech and dialogue of the agents ; music 
being admitted only incidentally and rarely. 
The Opera may be placed here, inasmuch as it 
proceeds by dialogue ; though depending, to the 
degree that it does, upon music, it has a strong 
claim to be ranked with the lyrical. The char- 
acteristic and impassioned Epistle, of which 
Ovid and Pope have given examples, consid- 
ered as a species of monodrama, may, without 
impropriety, be placed in this class. 

odly, The Lyrical — containing the Hymn, 
the Ode, the Elegy, the .Song, and the Ballad ; 
in all which, for the production of their full 
effect, an accompaniment of music is indispens- 
able. 

4thly, The Idyllium, — descriptive chiefly 
either of the processes and appearances of ex- 
ternal nature, as the ' ' Seasons " ' of Thomson ; or 
of characters, manners, and sentiments, as are 
Shenstone's "Schoolmistress," "The Cotter's 
Saturday Night " of Burns, the " Twa Dogs" 
of the same Author ; or of these in conjunction 
with the appearances of Nature, as most of the 
pieces of Theocritus, the "Allegro" and " Pen- 
seroso" of Milton, Beattie's "Minstrel," Gold- 
smith's " Deserted Village." The Epitaph, the 
Inscription, the Sonnet, most of the epistles of 
poets writing in their own persons, and all loeo- 
descriptive poetry, belong to this class. 

5thly, Didactic, — the principal object of 
which is direct instruction ; as the Poem of 
Lucretius, the " Georgies " of Virgil, " The 
Fleece" of Dyer, Mason's " English Garden," 
etc. 

And, lastly, philosophical Satire, like that of 
Horace and Juvenal ; personal and occasional 
Satire rarely comprehending sufficient of the 
general in the individual to be dignified with 
the name of poetry. 

Out of the three last has been constructed 
a composite order, of which Young's "Night 
Thoughts," and Cowper's "Task," are excel- 
lent examples. 

It is deducible from the above, that poems, 
apparently miscellaneous, may with propriety 
be arranged either with reference to the powers 
of mind predominant in the production of them ; 
or to the mould in which they are cast ; or, 
lastly, to the subjects to which they relate. 
From each of these considerations, the following 
Poems have been divided into classes ; which, 
that the work may more obviously correspond 
with the course of human life, and for the sake 
of exhibiting in it the three reo;ni sites of a legiti- 
mate whole, a beginning, a middle, and an end, 
have been also arranged, as far as it was pos- 
sible, according to an order of time, commencing 



with Childhood, and terminating with Old Age, 
Death, and Immortality. My guiding wish was 
that the small pieces of which these volumes 
consist, thus discriminated, might be regarded 
under a two-fold view ; as composing an entire 
work within themselves, and as adjuncts to the 
philosophical Poem, " The Recluse." This ar- 
rangement has long presented itself habitually 
to my own mind. Nevertheless, I should have 
preferred to scatter the contents of these vol- 
umes at random, if I had been persuaded that, 
by the plan adopted, anything material would 
be taken from the natural effect of the pieces, 
individually, on the mind of the unreflecting 
Leader. I trust there is a sufficient variety iu 
each class to prevent this ; while, for him who 
reads with reflection, the arrangement will 
serve as a commentary unostentatiously direct- 
ing his attention to my purposes, both particular 
and general. But as I wish to guard against 
the possibility of misleading by this classifica- 
tion, it is proper first to remind the Reader that 
certain poems are placed according to the powers 
of mind, in the Author's conception, predomi- 
nant in the production of them; predominant, 
which implies the exertion of other faculties in 
less degree. U here there is more imagination 
than fancy in a poem, it is placed under the head 
of imagination, and vice versa. Both the above 
classes might without impropriety have been 
enlarged from that consisting of " Poems 
founded on the Affections ; " as might this lat- 
ter from those, and from the class " proceeding 
from Sentiment and Reflection." The most 
striking characteristics of each piece, mutual 
illustration, variety, and proportion, have gov- 
erned me throughout. 

None of the other Classes, except those of 
Fancy and Imagination, require any particular 
notice. But a remark of general application 
may be made. All Poets, except the dramatic, 
have been in the practice of feigning that their 
works were composed to the music of the harp 
or lyre: with what degree of affectation this 
has been done in modern times, I leave to the 
judicious to determine. For my own part, I 
have not been disposed to violate probability so 
far, or to make such a large demand upon the 
Reader's charity. Some of these pieces are 
essentially lyrical ; and, therefore, cannot have 
their due force without a supposed musical ac- 
companiment ; but, in much the greatest part, 
as a substitute for the classic lyre or romantic 
harp, I require nothing more than an animated 
or impassioned recitation, adapted to the sub- 
ject. Poems, however humble in their kind, if 
they be good in that kind, cannot read them- 
selves ; the law of long syllable and short must 
not be so inflexible, — the letter of metre must 
not be so impassive to the spirit of versification, 
— as to deprive the Reader of all voluntary 
power to modulate, in subordination to the 
sense, the- music of the poem ; — in the same 
manner as his mind is left at liberty, and even 
summoned, to act upon its thoughts and images. 
But, though the accompaniment of a musical 
instrument be frequently dispensed with, the 



PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1815 



803 



true Poet does not therefore abandon his privi- 
lege distinct from that of the mere Prosernan ; 

" He murmurs near the running brooks 
A music sweeter than their own." 

Let us come now to the consideration of the 
words Fancy and Imagination, as employed in 
the classification of the following Poems. " A 
man," says an intelligent author, " has imagina- 
tion in proportion as lie can distinctly copy in 
idea the impressions of sense : it is the faculty 
which images within the mind the phenomena of 
sensation. A man has fancy in proportion as he 
can call up, connect, or associate, at pleasure, 
those internal images (<f>afrd^eiv is to cause to 
appear), so as to complete ideal representations 
of absent objects. Imagination is the power of 
depicting, and fancy of evoking and combining. 
The imagination is formed by patient observa- 
tion; the fancy by a voluntary activity in shift- 
ing the scenery of the mind. The more accurate 
the imagination, the more safely may a painter, 
or a poet, undertake a delineation, or a descrip- 
tion, without the presence of the objects to be 
characterised. The more versatile the fancy, 
the more original and striking will be the deco- 
rations produced." —British Synonyms discrim- 
inated, by W. Taylor. 

Is not this as if a man should undertake to 
supply an account of a building, and be so intent 
upon what he had discovered of the foundation, 
as to conclude his task without once looking up 
at the superstructure ? Here, as in other in- 
stances throughout the volume, the judicious 
Author's mind is enthralled by Etymology; he 
takes up the original word as his guide and es- 
cort, and too often does not perceive how soon 
he becomes its prisoner, without liberty to tread 
in any path but that to which it confines him. 
It is not easy to find out how imagination, thus 
explained, differs from distinct remembrance of 
images ; or fancy from quick and vivid recollec- 
tion of them: each is nothing more than a mode 
of memory. If the two words bear the above 
meaning, and no other, what term is left to 
designate that faculty of which the Poet is " all 
compact ; " he whose eye glances from earth to 
heaven, -whose spiritual attributes body forth 
what his pen is prompt in turning to shape ; or 
what is left to characterise Fancy, as insinuating 
herself into the heart of objects with creative 
activity? — Imagination, in the sense of the 
word as giving title to a class of the following 
Poems, has no reference to images that are 
merely a faithful copy, existing in the mind, o£ 
absent external objects; but is a word of higher 
import, denoting operations of the mind upon 
those objects, and processes of creation or of 
composition, governed by certain fixed laws. I 
proceed to illustrate my meaning by instances. 
A parrot hangs from the wires of his cage by his 
beak or by his claws; or a monkey from the 
bongh of a tree by his paws or his tail. Each 
creature does so literally and actually. In the 
first Eclogue of Virgil, the shepherd, thinking 
of the time when he is to take leave of his farm, 
thus addresses his goats : — 



" Non ego voa posthac viridi projectus ir. antro 
Duuiosa pcudtre procul de rupe videbo." 

" half way down 



Hangs one who gathers samphire," 

is the well-known expression of Shakspeare, 
delineating an ordinary image upon the cliffs of 
Dover. In these two instances is a slight exer- 
tion of the faculty which I denominate imagi- 
nation, in the use of one word: neither the goats 
nor the samphire-gatherer do literally hang, 
as does the parrot or the monkey ; but, present- 
ing to the senses something of such an appear- 
ance, the mind in its activity, for its own 
gratification, contemplates them as hanging. 

"As when far off at sea a fleet descried 
Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial winds 
Close sailing from Bnngala, or the isles 
Of Ternate or Tidore, whence merchants bring 
Their spicy drugs ; they on the trading flood 
Through the wide Ethiopian to the Cape 
Ply, stemming nightly toward the Pole : so seemed 
Far off the flying Fiend." 

Here is the full strength of the imagination 
involved in the word hangs, and exerted upon 
the whole image: First, the fleet, an aggregate 
of many ships, is represented as one mighty 
person, whose track, we know and feel, is upon 
the waters ; but, taking advantage of its ap- 
pearance to the senses, the Poet dares to repre- 
sent it as hanging in the clouds, both for the 
gratification of the mind in contemplating the 
image itself, and in reference to the motion and 
appearance of the sublime objects to which it 
is compared. 

From impressions of sight we will pass to 
those of sound ; which, as they must neces- 
sarily be of a less definite character, shall be 
selected from these volumes : — 

" Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods," 

of the same bird, 

"His voice was buried among trees, 
Yet to be come at by the breeze ; " 

" O, Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice ? " 

The stock-dove is said to coo, a sound well 
imitating the note of the bird ; but, by the in- 
tervention of the metaphor broods, the affec- 
tions are called in by the imagination to assist 
in marking the maimer in which the bird reiter- 
ates and prolongs her soft note, as if herself 
delighting to listen to it, and participating of a 
still and quiet satisfaction, like that which may 
be supposed inseparable from the continuous 
process of incubation. " His voice was buried 
among trees," a metaphor expressing the love 
of seclusion by which this Bird is marked ; and 
characterising- its note as not partaking of the 
shrill and the piercing, and therefore more 
easily deadened by the intervening shade ; yet 
a note so peculiar and withal so pleasing, that 
the breeze, gifted with that love of the sound 
which the Poet feels, penetrates the shades in 



8o4 



PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1815 



which it is entombed, and conveys it to the ear 
of the listener. 

" Shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice ? " 

This concise interrogation characterises the 
seeming' ubiquity of the voice of the cuckoo, 
and dispossesses the creature almost of a cor- 
poreal existence ; the Imagination being tempted 
to this exertion of her power by a consciousness 
in the memory that the cuckoo is almost per- 
petually heard throughout the season of spring, 
but seldom becomes an object of sight. 

Thus far of images independent of each other, 
and immediately endowed by the mind with 
properties that do not inhere in them, upon an 
incitement from properties and qualities the 
existence of which is inherent and obvious. 
These processes of imagination are carried oil 
either by conferring additional properties upon 
an object, or abstracting from it some of those 
which it actually possesses, and thus enabling it 
to re-act upon the mind which hath performed 
the process like a new existence. 

I pass from the Imagination acting upon an 
individual image to a consideration of the same 
faculty employed upon images in a conjunction 
by which they modify each other. The Reader 
has already had a fine instance before him in 
the passage quoted from Virgil, where the ap- 
parently perilous situation of the goat, hanging 
upon the shaggy precipice, is contrasted with 
that of the shepherd contemplating it from 
the seclusion of the cavern in which he lies 
stretched at ease and in security. Take these 
images separately, and how unaffecting the pic- 
ture compared with that produced by their 
being thus connected with, and opposed to, each 
other ! 

" As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
Couched on the bald top of an eminence, 
Wonder to all who do the same espy 
By what moans it could thither come, and whence, 
So that it seems a thing endued with sense, 
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, which on a shelf 
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun himself. 

Such seemed this Man; not all alive or dead, 
Nor all asleep, in his extreme old age. 

Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, 

That heareth not the loud winds when they call, 

And nioveth altogether if it move at all." 

In these images, the conferring, the abstract- 
ing, and the modifying powers of the Imagina- 
tion, immediately and mediately acting, are all 
brought into conjunction. The stone is en- 
dowed with something of the power of life to 
approximate it to the sea-beast ; and the sea- 
beast stripped of some of its vital qualities to 
assimilate it to the stone ; which intermediate 
image is thus treated for the purpose of bring- 
ing the original image, that of the stone, to a 
nearer resemblance to the figure and condition 
of the asred Man ; who is divested of so much 
of the indications of life and motion as to bring 
him to the point where the two objects unite 



and coalesce in just comparison. After what 
has been said, the image of the cloud need not 
be commented upon. 

Thus far of an endowing or modifying power ; 
but the Imagination also shapes and creates ; 
and how? By innumerable processes; and in 
none does it more delight than in that of con- 
solidating numbers into unity, and dissolving 
and separating unity into number, — alternations 
proceeding from, and governed by, a sublime 
consciousness of the soui in her own mighty and 
almost divine powers. Recur to the passage 
already cited from Milton. When the compact 
Fleet, as one Person, has been introduced "Sail- 
ing from Bengala," "They," i, e. the "mer- 
chants," representing the fleet resolved into a 
multitude of ships, " ply " their voyage towards 
the extremities of the earth: "So" (refer- 
ring to the word "As" in the commencement) 
"seemed the flying Fiend ; " the image of his 
Person acting to recombine the multitude of 
ships into one body, — the point from which 
the comparison set out. "So seemed," and to 
whom seemed ? To the heavenly Muse who 
dictates the poem, to the eye of the Poet's 
mind, and to that of the Reader, present at one 
moment in the wide Ethiopian, and the next in 
the solitudes, then first broken in upon, of the 
infernal regions ! 

"Modo me Thebis, modo ponit Athenis." 

Hear again this mighty Poet, — speaking of 
the Messiah going forth to expel from heaven 
the rebellious angels, 

" Attended by ten thousand thousand Saints 
He onward came: far off his coming shone," — 

the retinue of Saints, and the Person of the 
Messiah himself, lost almost and merged in the 
splendour of that indefinite abstraction "His 
coming " ! 

As I do not mean here to treat this subject 
further than to throw some light upon the pre- 
sent Volumes, and especially upon one division 
of them, I shall spare myself and the Reader 
the trouble of considering the Imagination as it 
deals with thoughts and sentiments, as it regu- 
lates the composition of characters, and deter- 
mines the course of actions: I will not consider 
it (more than I have already done by implica- 
tion) as that power which, in the language of 
one of my most esteemed Friends, " draws all 
things to one ; which makes things animate or 
inanimate, beings with their attributes, sub- 
jects with their accessories, take one colour and 
serve to one effect." 1 The grand storehouses 
of enthusiastic and meditative Imagination, of 
poetical, as contradistinguished from human 
and dramatic Imagination, are the prophetic 
and lyrical parts of the Holy Scriptures, and 
the works of Milton ; to which I cannot forbear 
to add those of Spenser. I select these writers 
in preference to those of ancient Greece and 
Rome, because the anthropomorphism of the 
Pagan religion subjected the minds of the 

J Charles Lamb upon the genius of Hogarth. 



PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1815 



805 



greatest poets in those countries too much to 
the bondage of definite form ; from which the 
Hebrews were preserved by their abhorrence 
of idolatry. Tins abhorrence was almost as 
strong in our great epic Poet, both from cir- 
cumstances of his life, and from the constitu- 
tion of his mind. However imbued the surface 
might be with classical literature, he was a 
Hebrew in soul ; and all things tended in him 
towards the sublime. Spenser, of a gentler 
nature, maintained his freedom by aid of his 
allegorical spirit, at one time inciting him to 
create persons out of abstractions ; and, at an- 
other, by a superior effort of genius, to give 
the universality and permanence of abstractions 
to his human beings, by means of attributes 
and emblems that belong- to the highest moral 
truths and the purest sensations, — of which 
his character of Una is a glorious example. Of 
the human and dramatic Imagination the works 
of Shakspeare are an inexhaustible source. 

" I tax not you, ye Elements, with unkindness, 
I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you Daughters ! " 

And if, bearing in mind the many Poets dis- 
tinguished by this prime quality, whose names 
I omit to mention, yet justified by recollection 
of the insults which the ignorant, the incapable, 
and the presumptuous, have heaped upon these 
and my other writings, I may be permitted to 
anticipate the judgment of posterity upon my- 
self, I shall declare (censurable, . I grant, if the 
notoriety of the fact above stated does not 
justify me) that I have given in these unfavour- 
able times evidence of exertions of this faculty 
upon its worthiest objects, the external universe, 
the moral and religious sentiments of Man, his 
natural affections, and his acquired passions ; 
which have the same ennobling tendency as the 
productions of men, in this kind, worthy to be 
holden in undying remembrance. 

To the mode in which Fancy has already 
been characterised as the power of evoking and 
combining, or, as my friend Mr. Coleridge has 
styled it, "the aggregative and associative 
power," my objection is only that the definition 
is too general. To aggregate and to associate, 
to evoke and to combine, belong as well to the 
Imagination as to the Fancy ; but either the 
materials evoked and combined are different, 
or they are brought together under a different 
law, and for a different purpose. Fancy does 
not require that the materials which she makes 
use of should be susceptible of change in their 
constitution from her touch ; and, where they 
admit of modification, it is enough for her 
purpose if it be slight, limited, and evanescent. 
Directly the reverse of these are the desires 
and demands of the Imagination. She recoils 
from everything but the plastic, the pliant, and 
the indefinite. She leaves it to Fancy to de- 
scribe Queen Mab as coming, 

" In gliape no nipper than an agate-stone 
On the fore-finger of an alderman." 

Having to speak of stature, she does not tell 
you that her gigantic Angel was as tall as 



Pompey's Pillar ; much less that he was twelve 
cubits or twelve hundred cubits high ; or that 
his dimensions equalled those of Teneriffe or 
Atlas ; — because these, and if they were a 
million times as high it would be the same, are 
bounded: The expression is, "His stature 
reached the sky!" the illimitable firmament! 
— When the Imagination frames a comparison, 
if it does not strike on the first presentation, a 
sense of the truth of the likeness, from the 
moment that it is perceived, grows — and con- 
tinues to grow — upon the mind ; the resem- 
blance depending less upon outline of form and 
feature than upon expression and effect ; less 
upon casual and outstanding than upon inherent 
and internal properties: moreover, the images 
invariably modify each other. — The law under 
which the processes of Fancy are carried on is 
as capricious as the accidents of things, and the 
effects are surprising, playful, ludicrous, amus- 
ing, tender, or pathetic, as the objects happen 
to be appositely produced or fortunately com- 
bined. Fancy depends upon the rapidity and 
profusion with which she scatters her thoughts 
and images ; trusting that their number, and 
the felicity with which they are linked together, 
will make amends for the want of individual 
value : or she prides herself upon the curious 
subtilty and the successful elaboration with 
which she can detect their lurking affinities. 
If she can win you over to her purpose, and 
impart to you her feelings, she cares not how 
unstable or transitory may be her influence, 
knowing that it will not be out of her power 
to resume it upon an apt occasion. But the 
Imagination is conscious of an indestructible 
dominion; — the Soul may fall away from it, 
not being able to sustain its grandeur; but, if 
once felt and acknowdedged, by 1:0 act of any 
other faculty of the mind can it he relaxed, 
impaired, or diminished. — Fancy is given to 
quicken and to beguile the temporal part of our 
nature, Imagination to incite and to support the 
eternal. — Yet it is not the less true that Fancy, 
as she is an active, is also, under her own laws 
and in her own spirit, a creative faculty. In 
what manner Fancy ambitiously aims at a 
rivalship with Imagination, and Imagination 
stoops to work with the materials of Fancy, 
might be illustrated from the compositions of 
all 1 loquent writers, whether in prose or verse ; 
and chiefly from those of our own Country. 
Scarcely a page of the impassioned parts of 
Bishop Taylor's Works can be opened that 
shall not afford examples. — Referring the 
Render to those inestimable volumes, I will 
content myself with placing a conceit (ascribed 
to Lord Chesterfield) in contrast with a passage 
from the " Paradise Lost : " — 

" The dews of the evening most carefully shun, 
Tliey are the tears of the sky for the loss of the 



After the transgression of Adam. Milton, with 
other appearances of sympathising Nature, thus 
marks the immediate consequence, 



8o6 



ESSAY, SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE 



1815 



" Sky lowered, ami, muttering thunder, some sad drops 
Wept at completing of the mortal sin." 

The associating link is the same in each in- 
stance : De w and rain, not distinguishable from 
the liquid substance of tears, are employed as 
indications of sorrow. A flash of surprise is 
the effect in the former case ; a Hash of surprise, 
and nothing- more ; for the nature of things 
does not sustain the combination. In the lat- 
ter, the effects from the act, of which there 
is this immediate consequence and visible sign, 
are so momentous that the mind acknowledges 
the justice and reasonableness of the sympathy 
in nature so manifested ; and the sky weeps 
drops of water as if with human eyes, as " Earth 
had before trembled from her entrails, and 
Nature given a second groan." 

Finally, I will refer to Cotton's "Ode upon 
Winter," an admirable composition, though 
stained with some peculiarities of the age in 
which he lived, for a general illustration of the 
characteristics of Fancy. The middle part of 
this ode contains a most lively description of 
the entrance of Winter, with his retinue, as "A 
palsied king," and yet a military monarch, — 
advancing for conquest with his army ; the 
several bodies of which, and their arms and 
equipments, are described with a rapidity of 
detail, and a profusion of fanciful comparisons, 
which indicate on the part of the poet extreme 
activity of intellect, and a correspondent hurry 
of delightful feeling. Winter retires from the 
foe into his fortress, where 

" a magazine 

Of sovereign juice is cellared in ; 
liquor that will the siege maintain 
Should Phoebus ne'er return again." 

Though myself a water-drinker, I cannot resist 
the pleasure of transcribing what follows, as 
an instance still more happy of Fancy employed 
in the treatment of feeling than, in its preceding 
passages, the Poem supplies of her management 
of forms. 

" "Tis that, that gives the poet rage, 
And thaws the gelly'd blood of age; 



Matures the young, restores the old, 
And makes the fainting coward bold. 

It lays the careful head to rest, 
Calms palpitations in the breast, 
Renders our lives' mislortune sweet ; 



Then let the chill Sirocco blow, 

And gird us round with hills of snow, 

Or elsa go whistle to the shore, 

And make the hollow mountains roar, 

Whilst we together jovial sit 
Careless, and crowned witli mirth and wit, 
Where, though bleak winds confine U3 home* 
Our fancies round the world shall roam. 

We '11 think of all the Friends we know, 
And drink to all wortli drinking to ; 
When having drunk all thine and mine, 
We rather shall want healths than wine. 

But where Friends fail us, we '11 supply 
Our friendships with our charity ; 
Men that remote in sorrows live, 
Shall by our lusty brimmers thrive. 

We '11 drink the wanting into wealth, 
And those that languish into health, 
The afflicted into joy; th' opprest 
Into security and rest. 

The worthy in disgrace shall find 
Favour return again move kind, 
And in restraint who stifled lie, 
Shall taste the air 01 liberty. 

The brave shall triumph in success, 
The lovers shall have mistresses, 
Poor unregarded Virtue, praise, 
And the neglected Poet, bays. 

Thus shall our healths do others good, 
Whilst we ourselves do all wo would ; 
For, freed from envy and from care, 
What would we be but what we are ? '• 

When I sate down to write this Preface, it 
was my intention to have made it more com- 
prehensive ; but, thinking that 1 ought rather 
to apologise for detaining the reader so long, I 
will here conclude. 



ESSAY, SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE 



1S15 



With the young of both sexes. Poetry is, like 
love, a passion ; but, for much the greater part 
of those who have been proud of its power over 
their minds, a necessity soon arises of breaking 
the pleasing bondage ; or it relaxes of itself ; — 
the thoughts being occupied in domestic cares, 
or the time engrossed by business. Poetry then 
becomes only an occasional recreation, while to 
those whose existence passes awfey in a course 
of fashionable pleasure, it is a species of luxu- 
rious amusement. In middle and declining 
age, a scattered number of serious persons re- 



sort to poetry, as to religion, for a protection 
against the pressure of trivial employments, 
and as a consolation for the afflictions of life. 
And, lastly, there are many who, having been 
enamoured of this art in their youth, have found 
leisure, after youth was spent, to cultivate gen- 
eral literature ; in which poetry lias continued 
to be comprehended us a study. 

Into the above classes the Readers of poetry 
may be divided ; Critics abound in them all ; 
but from the last only can opinions be collected 
of absolute value, and worthy to be depended 



1815 ESSAY, SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE 



S07 



upon, as prophetic of the destiny of a new work. 
The young, who in nothing- can escape delusion, 
are especially subject to it in their intercourse 
with Poetry. The cause, not so obvious as the 
fact is unquestionable, is the same as that from 
which erroneous judgments in this art, in tbe 
minds of men of all ages, chiefly proceed ; but 
upon Youth it operates with peculiar force. 
The appropriate business of poetry (which, 
nevertheless, if genuine, is as permanent as 
p ure science), her appropriate employment, her 
privilege and her duty, is to treat of things not 
as they are, but as they appear ; not as they 
exist in themselves, but as they seem to exist to 
the $ uses, and to the passions. What a world 
of delusion does this acknowledged obligation 
prepare for the inexperienced ! what tempta- 
tions to go astray are here held forth for them 
whose thoughts have been little disciplined by 
the understanding, and whose feelings revolt 
from the sway of reason ! — When a juvenile 
Header is in the height of his rapture with some 
vicious passage, should experience throw in 
doubts, or common sense suggest suspicions, a 
lurking consciousness that the realities of the 
Muse are but shows, and that her liveliest ex-, 
citements are raised by transient shocks of con- 
flicting- feeling and successive assemblages of 
contradictory thoughts — is ever at hand to 

i'ustify extravagance, and to sanction absurdity. 
Jut, it may he asked, as these illusions are un- 
avoidable, and, no doubt, eminently useful to 
the mind as a process, v\ hat good can be gained 
by making observations, the tendency of which 
is to diminish the confidence of youth in its 
feelings, and thus to abridge its innocent and 
even profitable pleasures ? The reproach im- 
plied in the question could not be warded off, 
if Youth were incapable of being delighted with 
what is truly excellent ; or if these errors always 
terminated of themselves in due season. But, 
with the majority, though their force be abated, 
they continue through life. Moreover, the fire 
of youth is too vivacious an element to be 
extinguished or damped by a philosophical re- 
mark ; and, while there is no danger that what 
has been said will be injurious or painful to the 
ardent and the confident, it may prove benefi- 
cial to those who, being enthusiastic, are, at the 
same time, modest and ingenuous. The intima- 
tion may unite with their own misgivings to 
regulate their sensibility, and to bring in, sooner 
than it would otherwise have arrived, a more 
discreet and sound judgment. 

If it should excite wonder that men of ability, 
in later life, whose understandings have been 
rendered acute by practice in affairs, should be 
so easily and so far imposed upon when they 
happen to take up a new work in verse, this 
appears to be the cause ; — that, having dis- 
continued their attention to poetry, whatever 
progress may have been made in other depart- 
ments of knowledge, they have not, as to this 
art. advanced in true discernment beyond the 
age of youth. If, then, a new poem fall in 
their way. whose attractions are of that kind 
which would have enraptured them during the 



heat of youth, the judgment not hLiug im- 
proved to a degree that they shall be disgusted, 
they are dazzled ; and prize and cherish the 
faults for having had power to make the present 
time vanish before them, and to throw the 
mind back, as by enchantment, into the happi- 
est season of life. As they read, powers seem 
to be revived, passions are regenerated, and 
pleasures restored. The Book was probably 
taken up after an escape from the burden of 
business, and with a wish to forget the world, 
and all its vexations and anxieties. Having 
obtained this wish, and so much more, it is 
natural that they should make report as they 
have felt. 

If Men of mature age, through want of prac- 
tice, be thus easily beguiled into admiration of 
absurdities, extravagances, and misplaced or- 
naments, thinking it proper that their under- 
standings should enjoy a holiday, while they are 
unbending their minds with verse, it may be 
expected that such Readers will resemble their 
former selves also in strength of prejudice, and 
an inaptitude to be moved by the unostenta- 
tious beauties of a pure style. In the higher 
poetry, an enlightened Critic chiefly looks for a 
reflection of the wisdom of the heart and the 
grandeur of the imagination. Wherever these 
appear, simplicity accompanies them ; Magnifi- 
cence herself, when legitimate, depending upon 
a simplicity of her own, to regulate her orna- 
ments. But it is a well-known property of 
human nature, that our estimates are ever gov- 
erned by comparisons, of which we are conscious 
with various degrees of distinctness. Is it not, 
then, inevitable (confining these observations to 
the effects of style merely) that an eye, accus- 
tomed to the glaring hues of diction by which 
such Headers are caught and excited, will for 
the most part be rather repelled than attracted 
by an original Work, the colouring of which is 
disposed according to a pure and refined scheme 
of harmony ? It is in the fine arts as in the 
affairs of life, no man can serve (t. e. obey with 
zeal and fidelity) two Masters. 

As Poetry is most just to its own divine 
origin when it administers the comforts and 
breathes the spirit of religion, they who have 
learned to perceive this truth, and who betake 
themselves to reading verse for sacred pur- 
poses, must be preserved from numerous illu- 
sions to which the two Classes of Readers, whom 
we have been considering, are liable. But as 
the mind grows serious from the weight of life, 
the range of its passions is contracted accord- 
ingly ; and its sympathies become so exclusive 
that many species of high_ excellence wholly 
escape, or but languidly excite, its notice. Be- 
sides, men who read from religious or moral 
inclinations, even when the subject is of that 
kind which they approve, are beset with mis- 
conceptions and mistakes peculiar to them- 
selves. Attaching so much importance to the 
truths which interest them, they are prone to 
over-rate the Authors by whom those truths 
are expressed and enforced. They come pre- 
pared to impart so much passion to the Poet's 



8o8 



ESSAY, SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE 



1815 



language, that they remain unconscious how 
little, in fact, they received from it. And, on 
the other hand, religious faith is to him who 
holds it so momentous a thing, and error ap- 
pears to be attended with such tremendous 
consequences, that, if opinions touching upon 
religion occur which the Reader condemns, he 
not only cannot sympathise with them, how- 
ever animated the expression, but there is, for 
the most part, an end put to all satisfaction 
and enjoyment. Love, if it before existed, is 
converted into dislike ; and the heart of the 
Reader is set against the Author and his book. 

— To these excesses they, who from their pro- 
fessions ought to be the most guarded against 
them, are perhaps the most liable ; I mean 
those sects whose religion, being from the cal- 
culating understanding, is cold and formal. 
For when Christianity, the religion of humility, 
is founded upon the proudest faculty of our 
nature, what can be expected but contradic- 
tions '? Accordingly, believers of this cast are 
at one time contemptuous ; at another, being 
troubled, as they are and must be, with inward 
misgivings, they are jealous and suspicious; 
and at all seasons they are under temptation 
to supply, by the heat with which they defend 
their tenets, the animation which is wanting 
to the constitution of the religion itself. 

Faith was given to man that his affections, 
detached from the treasures of time, might be 
inclined to settle upon those of eternity : — the 
elevation of his nature, which this habit pro- 
duces on earth, being to him a presumptive 
evidence of a future state of existence, and 
giving him a title to partake of its holiness. 
The religious man values what he sees chiefly 
as an " imperfect shadowing forth " of what 
he is incapable of seeing. The concerns of 
religion refer to indefinite objects, and are too 
weighty for the mind to support them without 
relieving itself by resting a great part of the 
burthen upon words and symbols. The com- 
merce between Man and his Maker cannot be 
carried on but by a process where much is 
represented in little, and the Infinite Being ac- 
commodates himself to a finite capacity. In all 
this may be perceived the affinity between re- 
ligion and poetry ; between religion — making 
up the deficiencies of reason by faith ; and 
poetry — passionate for the instruction of rea- 
son ; between religion — whose element is infin- 
itude, and whose ultimate trust is the supreme 
of things, submitting herself to circumscrip- 
tion, and reconciled to substitutions ; and poetry 

— ethereal and transcendent, yet incapable to 
sustain her existence without sensuous incar- 
nation. In this community of nature may be 
perceived also the lurking incitements of kin- 
dred error ; — so that we shall find that no 
poetry has been more subject to distortion than 
that species, the argument and scope of which 
is religious ; and no lovers of the art have gone 
farther astray than the pious and the devout. 

Whither then shall we turn for that union of 
qualifications which must necessarily exist be- 
fore the decisions of a critic can be of absolute 



value ? For a mind at once poetical and philo- 
sophical ; for a critic whose affections are as 
free and kindly as the spirit of society, and 
whose understanding is severe as that of dispas- 
sionate government ? Where are we to look 
for that initiatory composure of mind which 
no selfishness can disturb ? For a natural sen- 
sibility that has been tutored into correctness 
without losing anything of its quickness ; 
and for active faculties, capable of answer- 
ing the demands which an Author of original 
imagination shall make upon them, associated 
with a judgment that cannot be duped into 
admiration by aught that is unworthy of it '? 

— among those and those only, who, never hav- 
ing suffered their youthful love of poetry to 
remit much of its force, have applied to the 
consideration of the laws of this art the best 
power of their understandings. At the same 
time it must be observed that, as this Class 
comprehends the only judgments which are 
trustworthy, so does it include the most erro- 
neous and perverse. For to be mistaught is 
worse than to be untaught ; and no perverseness 
equals that which is supported by system, no 
errors are so difficult to root out as those 
which the understanding has pledged its credit 
to uphold. In this Class are contaiued censors, 
who, if they be pleased with what is good, are 
pleased with it only by imperfect glimpses, and 
upon false principles ; who, should the3' gen- 
eralise rightly to a certain point, are sure to 
suffer for it in the. end ; who, if they stumble 
upon a sound rule, are fettered by misapplying 
it, or by straining it too far ; being incapable 
of perceiving when it ought to yield to one of 
higher order. In it are found critics too petu- 
lant to be passive to a genuine poet, and too 
feeble to grapple with him ; men, who take upon 
them to report of the course which he holds 
whom they are utterly unable to accompany. — 
confounded if he turn quick upon the wing, dis- 
mayed if he soar steadily " into the region ; " 

— men of palsied imaginations and indurated 
hearts ; in whose minds all healthy action is 
languid, who therefore feed as the many direct 
them, or, with the many, are greedy after 
vicious provocatives ; — judges, whose censure 
is auspicious, and whose praise ominous ! In 
this class meet together the two extremes of 
best and worst. 

The observations presented in the foregoing 
series are of too ungracious a nature to have 
been made without reluctance ; atid, were it 
only on this account, I would invite the reader 
to try them by the test of comprehensive ex- 
perience. If the number of judges who can be 
confidently relied upon be in reality so small, it 
ought to follow that partial notice only, or 
neglect, perhaps long continued, or attention 
wholly inadequate to their merits, must have 
been the fate of most works in the higher de- 
partments of poetry ; and that, on the other 
hand, numerous productions have blazed into 
popularity, and have passed away, leaving 
scarcely a trace behind them : it will be fur- 
ther found, that when Authors shall have at 



i8i 5 



ESSAY, SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE 



809 



length raised themselves into general admira- 
tion and maintained their ground, errors and 
prejudices have prevailed concerning their gen- 
ius and their works, which the few who are 
conscious of those errors and prejudices would 
deplore ; if they were not recompensed by per- 
ceiving that there are select Spirits for whom 
it is ordained that their fame shall be in the 
world an existence like that of Virtue, which 
owes its being to the struggles it makes, and its 
vigour to the enemies whom it provokes ; — a 
vivacious quality, ever doomed to meet with 
opposition, and still triumphing over it ; and, 
from the nature of its dominion, incapable of 
being brought to the sad conclusion of Alex- 
ander, when he wept that there were no more 
worlds for him to conquer. 

Let us take a hasty retrospect of the poetical 
literature of this Country for the greater part 
of the last two centuries, and see if the facts 
support these inferences. 

Who is there that now reads the " Creation " 
of Dubartas ? Yet all Europe once resounded 
with his praise ; he was caressed by kings ; 
and, when his Poem was translated into our 
language, the " Faery Queen " faded before it. 
The name of Spenser, whose genius is of a 
higher order than even that of Ariosto. is at 
this day scarcely known beyond the limits of 
the British Isles. And if the value of his 
works is to be estimated from the attention 
now paid to them by his countrymen, com- 
pared with that which they bestow on those of 
some other writers, it must be pronounced 
small indeed. 

" The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors 
And poets sage " — 

are his own words ; but his wisdom has, in this 
particular, been his worst enemy : while its 
opposite, whether in the shape of folly or mad- 
ness, has been their best friend. But^ he was 
a great power, and bears a high name : the 
laurel has been awarded to him. 

A dramatic Author, if he write for the stage, 
must adapt himself to the taste of the audi- 
ence, or they will not endure him ; accordingly 
the mighty genius of Shakspeare was listened 
to. The people were delighted ; but I am not 
sufficiently versed in stage antiquities to deter- 
mine whether they did not flock as eagerly to 
the representation of many pieces of contem- 
porary Authors, wholly undeserving to appear 
upon the same boards. Had there been a 
formal contest for superiority among dramatic 
writers, that Shakspeare, like his predecessors 
Sophocles and Euripides, would have often been 
subject to the mortification of seeing the prize 
adjudged to sorry competitors, becomes too 
probable, when we reflect that the admirers of 
Settle and Shadwell were, in a later age, as 
numerous, and reckoned as respectable in point 
of talent, as those of Dryden. At all events, 
that Shakspeare stooped to accommodate him- 
self to the People, is sufficiently apparent ; and 
one of the most striking proofs of his almost 
omnipotent genius is, that he could turn to such 



glorious purpose those materials which the pre- 
possessions of the age compelled him to make 
use of. Yet even this marvellous skill appears 
not to have been enough to prevent his rivals 
from having some advantage over him in public 
estimation ; else how can we account for pas- 
sages and scenes that exist in his works, unless 
upon a supposition that some of the grossest of, 
them, a fact which in my own mind I have no 
doubt of .were foisted in by the Players, for the 
gratification of the many ? 

But that his Works, whatever might be 
their reception upon the stage, made but little 
impression upon the ruling Intellects of the 
time, may be inferred from the fact that Lord 
Bacon, in his multifarious writings, nowhere 
either quotes or alludes to him. 1 — His dra- 
matic excellence enabled him to resume pos- 
session of the stage after the Restoration ; but 
Dryden tells us that in his time two of the 
plays of Beaumont and Fletcher were acted for 
one of Shakspeare's. And so faint and limited 
was the perception of the poetic beauties of his 
dramas in the time of Pope, that, in his Edition 
of the Plays, with a view of rendering to the 
general reader a necessary service, he printed 
between inverted commas those passages which 
he thought most worthy of notice. 

At this day, the French Critics have abated 
nothing of their aversion to this darling of our 
Nation: "the English, with their bouffon de 
Shakspeare,"' is as familiar an expression among 
them as in the time of Voltaire. Baron Grimm 
is the only French writer who seems to have 
perceived his infinite superiority to the first 
names of the French Theatre ; an advantage 
which the Parisian critic owed to his German 
blood and German education. The most en- 
lightened Italians, though well acquainted with 
our language, are wholly incompetent to mea- 
sure the proportions of Shakspeare. The Ger- 
mans only, of foreign nations, are approaching 
towards a knowledge and feeling of what he 
is. In some respects they have acquired a 
superiority over the fellow-countrymen of the 
Poet : for among us it is a current, I might say 
an established opinion, that Shakspeare is justly 
praised when he is pronounced to be "a wild 
irregular genius, in whom great faults are com- 
pensated by great beauties." How long may it 
be before this misconception passes away, and 
it becomes universally acknowledged that the 
judgment of Shakspeare in the selection of his 
materials, and in the manner in which he has 
made them, heterogeneous as they often are, 
constitute a unity of their own, and contribute 
all to one great end, is not less admirable than 
his imagination, his invention, and his intuitive 
knowledge of human Nature ! 

There is extant a small Volume of miscella- 
neous poems, in which Shakspeare expresses 

1 The learned Hakewill (a third edition of whose 
book bears date 1635), writing to refute the error 
"touching Nature"s perpetual and universal decay," 
cites triumphantly the names of Ariosto, Tasso, Bartas, 
and Spenser, as instances that poetic genius had not 
degenerated ; but he makes no mention of Shakspeare. 



8io 



ESSAY, SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE 



1815 



his own feelings in his own person. It is not 
difficult to conceive that the Editor, George 
Steevens, should have been insensible to the 
beauties of one portion of that Volume, the 
Sonnets ; though in no part of the writings of 
this Poet is found, in an equal compass, a 
greater number of exquisite feelings felicitously 
expressed. But, from regard to the Critic's 
own credit, he would not have ventured to talk 
of an 1 act of parliament not being strong 
enough to compel the perusal of those little 
pieces, if he had not known that the people of 
England were ignorant of the treasures con- 
tained in them : and if he had not, moreover, 
shared the too common propensity of human 
nature to exult over a supposed fall into the 
mire of a genius whom he had been compelled 
to regard with admiration, as an inmate of the 
celestial regions — "there sitting where he 
durst not soar." 

Nine years before the death of Shakspeare, 
Milton was born ; and early in life he published 
several small poems, which, though on their 
first appearance they were praised by a few of 
the judicious, were afterwards neglected to that 
degree, that Pope in his youth could borrow 
from them without risk of its beine: known. 
Whether these poems are at this day justly 
appreciated, I will not undertake to decide: 
nor would it imply a severe reflection upon the 
mass of readers to suppose the contrary ; seeing 
that a man of the acknowledged genius of 
Voss, the German poet, could suffer their spirit 
to evaporate ; and could change their character, 
as is done in the translation made by him of 
the most popular of those pieces. At all events, 
it is certain that these Poems of Milton are now 
much read, and loudly praised ; yet were they 
little heard of till more than 150 years after 
their publication ; and of the Sonnets, Dr. 
Johnson, as appears from Boswell's Life of 
him, was in the habit of thinking and speak- 
ing as contemptuously as Steevens wrote upon 
those of Shakspeare. 

About the time when the Pindaric odes of 
Cowley and his imitators, and the productions 
of that class of curious thinkers whom Dr. 
Johnson has strangely styled metaphysical 
Poets, were beginning to lose something of 
that extravagant admiration which they had 
excited, the "Paradise Lost " made its appear- 
ance. " Fit audience find though few," was the 
petition addressed by the Poet to his inspiring 
Mnse. I have said elsewhere that he gained 
more than he asked ; this I believe to be true ; 
but Dr. Johnson has fallen into a gross mistake 
when he attempts to prove, by the sale of the 
work, that Milton's Countrymen were ''''just to 
it" upon its first appearance. Thirteen hun- 
dred Copies were sold in two years ; an uncom- 

1 This flippant insensibility was publicly reprehended 
by Mr. Coleridge in a course of Lectures upon Poetry 
given by him at the Royal Institution. For the various 
merits of thought and language in Shakspeire's Son- 
nets see Numbers 27, 29, 30. 32. 33. 64, 64, GG. OS, 73, 
76, 86, 91, 02, 93, 97, 98, 105, 107, 108, 109, 111, 113, 
114, 116, 117, 129, and many others. 



mon example, he asserts, of the prevalence of 
genius in opposition to so much recent enmity 
as Milton's public conduct had excited. But, 
be it remembered that, if Milton's political and 
religious opinions, and the manner in which he 
announced them, had raised him many enemies, 
they had procured him numerous friends; who, 
as all personal danger was passed away at the 
time of publication, woidd be eager to procure 
the master-work of a man whom they revered, 
and whom they would be proud of praising. 
Take, from the number of purchasers, p-rsons 
of this class, and also those who wished to 
possess the Poem as a religious work, and but 
few, I fear, would be left who sought for it on 
account of its poetical merits. The demand 
did not immediately increase ; " for," says Dr. 
Johnson, "many more readers" (he means 
persons in the habit of reading poetry) " thaa 
were supplied at first the Nation did not 
afford." How careless must a writer be who 
can make this assertion in the face of so many 
existing title-pages to belie it ! Turning to my 
own shelves, I find the folio of Cowley, seventh 
edition, 1681. A hook near it is Flatman's 
Poems, fourth edition, 1686; Waller, fifth edi- 
tion, same date. The Poems of Norris of Be- 
merton not long after went, I believe, through 
nine editions. What further demand there 
might be for these works I do not know ; but I 
well remember that, twenty-five years ago, the 
booksellers' stalls in London swarmed with the 
folios of Cowley. This is not mentioned in dis- 
paragement of that able writer and amiable 
man ; but merely to show that, if Milton's 
work were not more read, it was not because 
readers did not exist at the time. The early 
editions of the "Paradise Lost" were printed 
in a shape which allowed them to be sold at a 
low price, yet only three thousand copies of 
the Work were sold in eleven years ; and the 
Nation* says Dr. Johnson, had been satisfied 
from 1623 to 1664, that is, forty-one years, with 
only two editions of the Works of Shakspeare, 
which probably did not together make one 
thousand Copies ; facts adduced by the critic 
to prove the "paucity of Readers." — There 
were readers in multitudes ; but their money 
went for other purposes, as their admiration 
was fixed elsewhere. We are authorized, then, 
to affirm that the reception of the " Paradise 
Lost," and the slow progress of its fame, are 
proofs as striking as can be desired that the 
positions which I am attempting to establish 
are not erroneous. 1 — How amusing to shape to 
one's self such a critique as a Wit of Charles's 
days, or a Lord of the Miscellanies or trading 
Journalist of King William's time, would have 
brought forth, if he had set his faculties indus- 
triously to work upon this Poem, everywhere 
impregnated with original excellence. 

1 Hughes is express upon this subject : in his dedi- 
cation of Spenser's Works to Lord Somers, he writes 
thus : " It was your Lordship's encouraging a beau- 
tiful Edition of ' Pnradise Lost ' that first brought 
that incomparable Poem to be generally known and 
esteemed." 



iSi; 



ESSAY, SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE 



Sn 



So strange indeed are the obliquities of ad- 
miration, that they whose opinions are much 
influenced by authority will often be tempted 
to think that there are no fixed principles 1 in 
human nature for this art to rest upon. I 
have been honoured by being permitted to 
peruse in MS. a tract composed between the 
period of the Revolution and the close of that 
century. It is the Work of an English Peer of 
high accomplishments, its object to form the 
character and direct the studies of his son. 
Perhaps nowhere does a more beautiful treatise 
of the kind exist. The good sense and wisdom 
of the thoughts, the delicacy of the feelings, 
and the charm of the style, are throughout 
equally conspicuous. Yet the Author, select- 
ing among the Poets of his own country those 
whom he deems most worthy of his son's pe- 
rusal, particularises only Lord Rochester, Sir 
John Denham, and Cowley. Writing about the 
same time, Shaftesbury, an author at present un- 
justly depreciated, describes the English Muses 
as only yet lisping in their cradles. 

The arts by which Pope, soon afterwards, 
contrived to procure to himself a more general 
and a higher reputation than perhaps any Eng- 
lish Poet ever attained during his life-time, are 
known to the judicious. And as well known is 
it to them, that the undue exertion of those 
arts is the cause why Pope has for some time 
held a rank in literature, to which, if he had 
not been seduced by an over-love of immediate 
popularity, and had confided more in his native 
genius, he never could have descended. He 
bewitched the nation by his melody, and daz- 
zled it by his polished style, and was himself 
blinded by his own success. Having wandered 
from humanity in his Eclogues with boyish in- 
experience, the praise which these comnositions 
obtained tempted him into a belief that Nature 
was not to be trusted, at least in pastoral 
Poetry. To prove this by example, he put his 
friend Gay upon writing those Eclogues, which 
their author intended to be burlesque. The 
instigator of the work, and his admirers, could 
perceive in them nothing but what was ridicu- 
lous. Nevertheless, though these Poems con- 
tain some detestable passages, the effect, as 
Dr. Johnson well observes, " of reality and 
truth became conspicuous even when the in- 
tention was to show them grovelling and de- 
graded."' The Pastorals, ludicrous to such as 
prided themselves upon their refinement, in 
spite of those disgusting passages, " became 
popular, and were read with delight, as just 
representations of rural manners and occu- 
pations." 

Something less than sixty years after the 
publication of the " Paradise Lost " appeared 
Thomson's '* Winter ; " which was speedily fol- 
lowed by his other Seasons. It is a work of in- 
spiration ; much of it is written from hinisplf, 
and nobly from himself. How was it received ? 

1 This opinion seems actually to have been enter- 
tained by Adam Smith, the worst critic, David Hume 
not excepted, that Scotland, a soil to which this sort 
of weed seems natural, has produced. 



' It was no sooner read," says one of his con- 
temporary biographers, " than universally ad- 
mired : those only excepted who had not been 
used to feel, or to look for anything in poetry, 
beyond a, point of satirical or epigrammatic wit, 
a smart antithesis richly trimmed with rhyme, 
or the softness of an elegiac complaint. To 
such his manly classical spirit couid not readily 
commend itself ; till, after a more attentive 
perusal, they had got the better of their pre- 
judices, and either acquired or affected a truer 
taste. A few others stood aloof, merely be- 
cause they had long before fixed the articles of 
their poetical creed, and resigned themselves to 
an absolute despair of ever seeing anything new 
and original. These were somewhat mortified 
to find their notions disturbed by the appear- 
ance of a poet, who seemed to owe nothing but 
to nature and his own genius. But. in a short 
time, the applause became unanimous; every 
one wondering how so many pictures, and pic- 
tures so familiar, should have moved them but 
faintly to what they felt in his descriptions. Hs 
digressions too, the overflowings of a tender 
benevolent heart, charmed the reader no less ; 
leaving him in doubt, whether he should morj 
admire the Poet or love the Man." 

This case appears to bear strongly against 
us : — but we must distinguish between wonder 
and legitimate admiration. The subject of the 
work is the changes produced in the appear- 
ances of nature by the revolution of the year : 
and, by undertaking to write in verse, Thomson 
pledged himself to treat Ins subject as became 
a Poet. Now it is remarkable that, excepting 
the nocturnal "Reverie of Lady Winchilsea," 
and a passage or two in the " Windsor Forest " 
of Pope, the poetry of the period intervening be- 
tween the publication of the " Paradise Lost " 
and the "Seasons" does not contain a single 
new image of external nature, and scarcely 
presents a familiar one from which it can be in- 
ferred that the eye of the Poet had been stead- 
ily fixed upon his object, much less that his 
feelings had urged him to work upon it in the 
spirit of genuine imagination. To what a low 
state knowledge of the most obvious and im- 
portant phenomena had sunk, is evident from 
the style in which Drvden has executed a de- 
scription of Night in one of his Tragedies, and 
Pope his translation of the celebrated moonlight 
scene in the Iliad. A blind man, in the habit 
of attending accurately to descriptions casu- 
ally dropped from the lips of those around him, 
might easily depict these appearances with 
more truth. Prvden's lines are vague, bom- 
bastic, and senseless ; 1 those of Pope, though 
he had Homer to guide him, are throughout 
false and contradictory. The verses of Dryden, 

1 Cortes alone in a night-gown. 

All things are hush'd as Nature's self lay dead ; 
The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head. 
The little Birds in dreams their songs repeat, 
And sleeping Flowers beneath the Night-dew s"eat : 
Even Lust and Envy sleep ; yet Love denies 
Rest to my soul, and slumber to my eyes. 

Dkyden's Indian Emperor 



8l2 



ESSAY, SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE 



1815 



once highly celebrated, are forgotten ; those of 
Pope still retain their hold upon public estima- 
tion, — nay, there is not a passage of descriptive 
poetry, which at this day finds so many and 
such ardent admirers. Strange to think of an 
enthusiast, as may have been the case with 
thousands, reciting those verses under the cope 
of a moonlight sky, without having his raptures 
in the least disturbed by a suspicion of their 
absurdity ! — If these two distinguished writers 
could habitually think that the visible universe 
was of so little consequence to a poet, that it 
was scarcely necessary for him to cast his eyes 
upon it, we may be assured that those passages 
of the elder poets which faithfully and poeti- 
cally describe the phenomena of nature, were 
not at that time holden in much estimation, and 
that there was little accurate attention paid to 
those appearances. 

Wonder is the natural product of Ignorance ; 
and as the soil was in such good condition at the 
time of the publication of the "Seasons," the 
crop was doubtless abundant. Neither individ- 
uals nor nations become corrupt all at once, nor 
are they enlightened in a moment. Thomson was 
an inspired poet, but he could not work mira- 
cles ; in cases where the art of seeing had in some 
degree been learned, the teacher would further 
the proficiency of his pupils, but he could do 
little more; though so far does vanity assist 
men in acts of self-deception, that many would 
often fancy they recognised a likeness when 
they knew nothing of the original. Having 
shown that much of what his biographer deemed 
genuine admiration must in fact have been 
blind wonderment — how is the rest to be ac- 
counted for ? — Thomson was fortunate in the 
very title of his poem, which seemed to bring 
it home to the prepared sympathies of every 
one : in the next place, notwithstanding his 
high powers, he writes a vicious style ; and his 
false ornaments are exactly of that kind which 
would be most likely to strike the undiscern- 
ing. He likewise abounds with sentimental 
commonplaces that, from the manner in which 
they were brought forward, bore an imposing 
air of novelty. In any well-used copy of the 
" Seasons " the book generally opens of itself 
with the rhapsody on love, or with one of the 
stories (perhaps Damon and Musidora) ; these 
also are prominent in our collections of Extracts, 
and are the parts of his Work which, after all, 
were probably most efficient in first recommend- 
ing the author to general notice. Pope 1 , repaying 
praises which he had received, and wishing to 
extol him to the highest, only styles him "an 
elegant and philosophical Poet ; " nor are we 
able to collect any unquestionable proofs that 
the true characteristics of Thomson's genius 
as an imaginative poet l were perceived, till the 
elder Warton, almost forty years after the 

1 Since these observations upon Thomson were writ- 
ten, I have perused the second edition of his " Seasons," 
and find that even that does not contain the most 
striking passages which Warton points out for admira- 
tion ; these, with other improvements, throughout the 
whole work, must have been added at a later period. 



publication of the "Seasons,'' pointed them out 
by a note in his Essay on the Life and Writ- 
ings of Pope. In the " Castle of Indolence " (of 
which Gray speaks so coldly) these character- 
istics were almost as conspicuously displayed, 
and in verse more harmonious and diction more 
pure. Yet that fine poem was neglected on its 
appearance, and is at this day the delight only 
of a few ! 

When Thomson died, Collins breathed forth 
his regrets in an Elegiac Poem, in which he pro- 
nounces a poetical curse upon him who should 
regard with insensibility the place where the 
Poet's remains Avere deposited. The Poems of 
the mourner himself have now passed through 
innumerable editions, and are universally 
known ; but if, when Collins died, the same 
kind of imprecation had been pronounced by a 
surviving admirer, small is the number whom 
it would not have comprehended. The notice 
which his poems attained during his life-time 
was so small, and of course the sale so insignifi- 
cant, that not long before his death he deemed 
it right to repay to the bookseller the sum 
which he had advanced for them, and threw 
the edition into the fire. 

Next in importance to the " Seasons " of 
Thomson, though at considerable distance from 
that work in order of time, come the Beliques 
of Ancient English Poetry, collected, new-mod* 
elled, and in many instances (if such a contra- 
diction in terms may be used) composed by the 
Editor, Dr. Percy. This work did not steal 
silently into the world, as is evident from the 
number of legendary tales that appeared not 
long after its publication ; and had been mod- 
elled, as the authors persuaded themselves, 
after the old Ballad. The Compilation was 
however ill suited to the then existing taste 
of city society ; and Dr. Johnson, 'mid the little 
senate to which he gave laws, was not sparing 
in his exertions to make it an object of con- 
tempt. The critic triumphed, the legendary 
imitators were deservedly disregarded, and, as 
undeservedly, their ill-imitated models sank, 
in this country, into temporary neglect ; while 
Burger, and other able writers of Germany, 
were translating or imitating these Reliques, 
and composing, with the aid of inspiration 
thence derived, poems which are the delight of 
the German nation. Dr. Percy was so abashed 
by the ridicule flung upon his labours from 
the ignorance and insensibility of the persons 
with whom he lived, that, though while he 
was writing under a mask he had not wanted 
resolution to follow his genius into the regions 
of true simplicity and genuine pathos (as is 
evinced by the exquisite ballad of Sir Cauline 
and by many other pieces), yet when he ap- 
peared in his own person and character as a 
poetical writer, he adopted, as in the tale of 
the Hermit of Warkworth, a diction scarcely 
in any one of its features distinguishable from 
the vague, the glossy, and unfeeling language 
of his day. I mention this remarkable fact 1 
1 Shenstoiie, in his " Schoolmistress," gives a still 
more remarkable instance of this timidity. On its first 



i8i 5 



ESSAY, SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE 



8i3 



■with regret, esteeming the genius of Dr. Percy 
in this kind of writing superior to that of any 
other man by whom in modern times it has 
been cultivated. That even Burger (to whom 
Klopstock gave in my hearing a commenda- 
tion which he denied to Goethe and Schiller, 
pronouncing him to be a genuine poet, and one 
of the few among the Germans whose works 
would last) had not the fine sensibility of Percy, 
might be shown from many passages, in which 
he has deserted his original only to go astray. 
For example, 

" Now daye was gone, and night was come, 
And all were fast asleepe, 
All save the Lady Emeline, 
Who sate in her bowre to weepe : 
And soone she heard her true Love's voice 
Low whispering at the walle, 
Awake, awake, my dear Ladye, 
'T is I thy true-love call." 

Which is thus tricked out and dilated : 

" Als nun die Nacht Gebirg' und Thai 
Vermummt in Rabenschatten, 
Und Hochburgs Lampen uberall 
Schon ausgeflimmert batten, 
Und alles tief entschlafen war ; 
Doch mil das Fraulein immerdar t 
Voll Fieberiingst, noch wachte, 
Und seinen Ritter dachte : 
Da horch ! Ein siisser Liebeston 
Kam leis' empor geflogen. 
' Ho, Trudchen, ho ! Da bin ich schon ! 
Frisch aul ! Dich angezogen I ' " 

But from humble ballads we must ascend to 
heroics. 

All hail, Macpherson ! hail to thee, Sire of 
Ossian ! The Phantom was begotten by the 
snug embrace of an impudent Highlander upon 
a cloud of tradition — it travelled southward, 
where it was greeted with acclamation, and 
the thin Consistence took its course through 
Europe, upon the breath of popular applause. 
The Editor of the Reliques had indirectly pre- 
ferred a claim to the praise of invention, by 
not concealing that his supplementary labours 
were considerable ! how selfish his conduct, con- 
trasted with that of the disinterested Gael, who, 
like Lear, gives his kingdom away, and is con- 
tent to become a pensioner upon his own issue 
for a beggarly pittance ! — Open this far-famed 
Book ! — I have done so at random, and the be- 
ginning of the "Epic Poem Temora," in eight 
Books, presents itself. "The blue waves of 
Ullin roll in light. The green hills are covered 
with day. Trees shake their dusky heads in 
the breeze. Grey torrents pour their noisy 
streams. Two green hills with aged oaks sur- 
round a narrow plain. The blue course of a 

appearance (see D'Israeli's 2d series of the Cariosities 
of Literature) the Poem was accompanied with an ab- 
surd prose commentary, showing, as indeed some in- 
congruous expressions in the text imply, that the whole 
was intended for burlesque. In subsequent editions the 
commentary was dropped, and the People have since 
continued to read in seriousness, doing for the Author 
what he had not courage openly to venture upon for 
himself. 



stream is there. On its banks stood Cairbar of 
Atha. His spear supports the king ; the red 
eyes of his fear are sad. Cormac rises on his 
soul with all his ghastly wounds." Precious 
memorandums from the pocketbook of the blind 
Ossian ! 

If it be unbecoming, as I acknowledge that for 
the most part it is, to speak disrespectfully of 
Works that have enjoyed for a length of time 
a widely-spread reputation, without at the same 
time producing irrefragable proofs of their un- 
worthiness, let me be forgiven upon this occa- 
sion. — Having had the good fortune to be born 
and reared in a mountainous country, from my 
very childhood I have felt the falsehood that 
pervades the volumes imposed upon the world 
under the name of Ossian. From what I saw 
with my own eyes, I knew that the imagery 
was spurious. In nature everything is distinct, 
yet nothing defined into absolute independent 
singleness. In Macpherson's work, it is exactly 
the reverse ; everything (that is not stolen) is in 
this manner defined, insulated, dislocated, dead- 
ened, — yet nothing distinct. It will always be so 
when words are substituted for things. To say 
that the characters never could exist, that the 
manners are impossible, and that a dream has 
more substance than the whole state of society, 
as there depicted, is doing nothing more than 
pronouncing a censure which Macpherson de- 
fied ; when, with the steeps of Morven before his 
eyes, he could talk so familiarly of his Car-borne 
heroes ; — of Morven, which, if one may judge 
from its appearance at the distance of a few 
miles, contains scarcely an acre of ground suffi- 
ciently accommodating for a sledge to be trailed 
along its surface. — Mr. Malcolm Laing has 
ably shown that the diction of this pretended 
translation is a motley assemblage from all 
quarters ; but he is so fond of making out par- 
allel passages as to call poor Macpherson to 
account for his " ands " and his " buts I " and he 
has weakened his argument by conducting it as 
if he thought that every striking resemblance 
was a conscious plagiarism. It is enough that 
the coincidences are too remarkable for its be- 
ing probable or possible that they could arise 
in different minds without communication be- 
tween them. Now as the Translators of the 
Bible, and Shakspeare, Milton, and Pope, could 
not be indebted to Macpherson, it follows that 
he must have owed his fine feathers to them ; 
unless we are prepared gravely to assert, with 
Madame de Stael, that many of the character- 
istic beauties of our most celebrated English 
Poets are derived from the ancient Fingallian ; 
in which case the modern translator would have 
been but giving back to Ossian his own. — It is 
consistent that Lucien Buonaparte, who could 
censure Milton for having surrounded Satan in 
the infernal regions with courtly and regal 
splendour, should pronounce the modern Ossian 
to be the glory of Scotland ; — a country that 
has produced a Dunbar, a Buchanan, a Thom- 
son, and a Burns ! These opinions are of ill 
omen for the Epic ambition of him who has 
given them to the world. 



3i4 



ESSAY, SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE 



1815 



Yet, much as thoss pretended treasures of 
antiquity have been admired, they have been 
wholly uuinrluentia! upon the literature of the 
Country. No succeeding writer appears to 
have caught from them a ray of inspiration ; no 
author, in the least distinguished, has ventured 
formally to imitate them — except the boy, 
Chatterton, on their first appearance. He had 
perceived, from the successful trials which he 
himself had made in literary forgery, how few 
critics were able to distinguish between a real 
ancient medal and a counterfeit of modern 
manufacture ; and he set himself to the work 
of filling a magazine with Saxon Poems, — 
counterparts of those of Ossian, as like his as 
one of his misty stars is to another. This in- 
capability to amalgamate with the literature 
of the Island is, in my estimation, a decisive 
proof that the book is essentially unnatural ; 
nor should I require any other to demonstrate 
it to be a forgery, audacious as worthless. — 
Contrast, in this respect, the effect of Macpher- 
son's publication with the Reliques of Percy, so 
unassuming, so modest in their pretensions ! 
— I have already stated how much Germany is 
indebted to this latter work ; and for our own 
country, its poetry has been absolutely redeemed 
by it. I do not think that there is an able 
writer in verse of the present day who would 
not be proud to acknowledge his obligations 
to the Reliques ; I know that it is so with my 
friends ; and, for myself, I am happy in this 
occasion to make a public avowal of my own. 

Dr. Johnson, more fortunate in his contempt 
of the labours of Macpherson than those of his 
modest friend, was solicited not long after to 
furnish Prefaces, biographical and critical, for 
the works of some of the most eminent English 
Poets. The booksellers took upon themselves 
to make the collection ; they referred probably 
to the most popular miscellanies, and, unques- 
tionably, to their books of accounts; and decided 
upon the claim of authors to be admitted into 
a body of the most eminent from the familiarity 
of their names with the readers of that day, 
and by the profits which, from the sale of his 
works, each had brought and was bringing to 
the Trade. The Editor was allowed a limited 
exercise of discretion, and the Authors Avhom 
he recommended are scarcely to be mentioned 
without a smile. We open the volume of Pre- 
fatory Lives, and to our astonishment the first 
name we find is that of Cowley ! — What is 
become of the morning-star of English Poetry ? 
Where is the bright Elizabethan constellation? 
Or, if names be more acceptable than images, 
where is the ever-to-be-hononred Chaucer? 
where is Spenser? where Sidney? and, lastly, 
where he, whose rights as a poet, contradistin- 
guished from those which he is universally 
allowed to possess as a dramatist, we have vin- 
dicated, — where Shakspeare ? — These, and a 
multitude of others not unworthy to be placed 
near them, their contemporaries and successors, 
we have not. But in their stead, we have 
(could better be expected when precedence was 
to be settled by an abstract of reputation at 



any given period made, as in this case before 
us ?) Roscommon, and Stepney, and Phillips, 
and Walsh, and Smith, and Duke, and King, 
and Spratt — Halifax, Granville, Sheffield, Con- 
greve, Broome, and other reputed Magnates — 
metrical writers utterly worthless and useless, 
except for occasions like the present, when their 
productions are referred to as evidence what a 
small quantity of brain is necessary to procure 
a considerable stock of admiration, provided 
the aspirant will accommodate himself to the 
likings and fashions of his day. 

As I do not mean to bring down this retro- 
spect to our own times, it may with propriety be 
closed at the era of this distinguished event. 
From the literature of other ages and coun- 
tries, proofs equally cogent might have been 
adduced, that the opinions announced in the 
former part of this Essay are founded upon 
truth. It was not an agreeable office, nor a 
prudent undertaking, to declare them ; but 
their importance seemed to render it a duty. 
It may still be asked, where lies the particular 
relation of what has been said to these Vol- 
umes? — The question will be easily answered 
by the discerning Reader who is old enough to 
remember the taste that prevailed when some 
of these poems were first published, seventeen 
years ago ; who has also observed to what 
degree the poetry of this Island has since that 
period been coloured by them ; and who is 
further aware of the unremitting hostility with 
which, upon some principle or other, they have 
each and all been opposed. A sketch of my 
own notion of the constitution of Fame has 
been given ; and as far as concerns myself, I 
have cause to be satisfied. The love, the ad- 
miration, the indifference, the slight, the aver- 
sion, and even the contempt, with which these 
Poems have been received, knowing, as I do, 
the source within my own mind from which 
they have proceeded, and the labour and pains 
which, when labour and pains appeared needful, 
have been bestowed upon them, must all, if I 
think consistently, be received as pledges and 
tokens, bearing the same general impression, 
though widely different in value ; — they are 
all proofs that for the present time I have not 
laboured in vain ; and afford assurances, more 
or less authentic, that the products of my indus- 
try will endure. 

If there be one conclusion more forcibly 
pressed upon us than another by the review 
which has been given of the fortunes and fate 
of poetical Works, it is this, — that every 
author, as far as he is great and at the same 
time original, has had the task of creating the 
taste by which he is to be enjoyed : so has it 
been, so will it continue to be. This remark 
was Ion? since made to me by the philosophical 
Friend for the separation of whose poems from 
my own I have previously expressed my regret. 
The predecessors of an original Genius of a 
high order will have smoothed the way for all 
that he has in common with them ; — and much 
he will have in common ; but, for what is 
peculiarly his own, he will be called upon to 



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ESSAY, SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE 



8i5 



clear and often to shape his own road: — he 
will be in the condition of Hannibal among the 
Alps. 

And where lies the real difficulty of creating 
that taste by which a truly original poet is to 
be relished ? Is it in breaking the bonds of 
custom, in overcoming the prejudices of false 
refinement, and displacing the aversions of 
inexperience ? Or, if he labour for an object 
which here and elsewhere I have proposed to 
myself, does it consist in divesting the reader 
of the pride that induces him to dwell upon 
those points wherein men differ from each 
other, to the exclusion of those in which all 
men are alike, or the same ; and in making him 
ashamed of the vanity that renders him insen- 
sible of the appropriate excellence which civil 
arrangements, less unjust than might appear, 
and Nature illimitable in her bounty, have 
conferred on men who may stand below him in 
the scale of society ? Finally, does it lie in 
establishing that dominion over the spirits of 
readers by which they are to be humbled and 
humanised, in order that they may be purified 
and exalted ? 

If these ends are to be attained by the mere 
conimunication of knowledge, it does not lie 
here. — Taste, I would remind the reader, like 
Imagination, is a word which has been forced 
to extend its services far beyond the point to 
which philosophy would have confined them. 
It is a metaphor, taken from a passive sense 
of the human body, and transferred to things 
which are in their essence not passive, — to in- 
tellectual acts and operations. The word Im- 
agination has been overstrained, from impulses 
honourable to mankind, to meet the demands 
of the faculty which is perhaps the noblest of 
our nature. In the instance of Taste, the pro- 
cess has been reversed ; and from the preva- 
lence of dispositions at once injurious and 
discreditable, being no other than that selfish- 
ness which is the child of apathy, — which, as 
Nations decline in productive and creative 
power, makes them value themselves upon a 
presumed refinement of judging. Poverty of 
language is the primary cause of the use which 
we make of the word Imagination ; but the 
word Taste has been stretched to the sense 
which it bears in modern Europe by habits of 
self-conceit, inducing that inversion in the order 
of things whereby a passive faculty is made 
paramount among the faculties conversant with 
the fine arts. Proportion and coneruity, the 
requisite knowledge being supposed, are sub- 
jects upon which taste may be trusted ; it is 
competent to this office ; — for in its intercourse 
with these the mind is passive, and is affected 
painfully or pleasurably as by an instinct. But 
the profound and the exquisite in feeling, the 
lofty and universal in thought and imagina- 
tion ; or, in ordinary language, the pathetic 
and the sublime ; — are neither of them, accu- 
rately speaking, objects of a faculty which could 
ever without a sinking in the spirit of Nations 
have been designated by the metaphor — Taste. 
And why ? Becauso without the exertion of 



a co-operating power in the mind of the 
Header, there can be no adequate sympathy 
with either of these emotions: without this 
auxiliary impulse, elevated or profound passion 
cannot exist. 

Passion, it must be observed, is derived from 
a word which signifies suffering ; but the con- 
nection which suffering has with effort, with 
exertion, and action, is immediate and insepa- 
rable. How strikingly is this property of human 
nature exhibited by the fact that, in popular 
language, to be in a passion is to be angry ! — 
But, 

" Anger in hasty words or blows 
Itself discharges ou its foes." 

To be moved, then, by a passion, is to be excited, 
often to external, and always to internal, effort ; 
whether for the continuance and strengthening 
of the passion, or for its suppression, accord- 
ingly as the course which it takes may be painful 
or pleasurable. If the latter, the soul must 
contribute to its support, or it never becomes 
vivid, — and soon languishes, and dies. And 
this brings us to the point. If every great poet 
with whose writings men are familiar, in the 
highest exercise of his genius, before he can 
be thoroughly enjoyed, has to call forth and 
to communicate power, this service, in a still 
greater degree, falls upon an original writer at 
his first appearance in the world. — Of genius 
the only proof is the act of doing well what is 
worthy to be done, and what was never done 
before : Of genius, in the fine arts, the only 
infallible sign is the widening the sphere of 
human sensibility for the delight, honour, and 
benefit of human nature. Genius is the intro- 
duction of a new element into the intellectual 
universe : or, if that be not allowed, it is the 
application of powers to objects on which they 
had not before been exercised, or the employ- 
ment of them in such a manner as to produce 
effects hitherto unknown. What is all this 
but an advance, or a conquest, made by the 
soul of the poet ? Is it to be supposed that the 
reader can make progress of this kind, like an 
Indian prince or general — stretched on his 
palanquin, and borne by slaves? No; he 13 
invigorated and inspirited by his leader, in 
order that he may exert himself ; for he cannot 
proceed in quiescence, he cannot be carried 
like a dead weight. Therefore to create taste 
is to call forth and bestow power, of which 
knowledge is the effect ; and there lies the true 
difficulty. 

As the pathetic participates of an animal 
sensation, it might seem that, if the springs of 
this emotion were genuine, all men, possessed 
of competent knowledge, of the facts and cir- 
cumstances, would be instantaneously affected. 
And, doubtless, in the works of every true poet 
will be found passages of that species of excel- 
lence which is proved by effects immediate and 
universal. But there are emotions of the pa- 
thetic that are simple and direct, and others 
that are complex and revolutionary ; some to 
which the heart yields with gentleness ; others 



8i6 



ESSAY, SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE 



1815 



against which it straggles with pride ; these 
varieties are infinite as the combinations of cir- 
cumstance and the constitutions of character. 
Remember, also, that the medium through 
which, in poetry, the heart is to be affected is 
language ; a thing subject to endless fluctua- 
tions and arbitrary associations. The genius of 
the poet melts these down for his purpose ; but 
they retain their shape and quality to him who 
is not capable of exerting, •within his own 
mind, a corresponding energy. There is also a 
meditative, as well as a human, pathos ; an en- 
thusiastic as well as an ordinary sorrow ; a sad- 
ness that has its seat in the depths of reason, to 
which the mind cannot sink gently of itself — 
but to which it must descend by treading the 
steps of thought. And for the sublime, — if we 
consider what are the cares that occupy the 
passing day, and how remote is the practice 
and the course of life from the sources of sub- 
limity in the soul of Man, can it be wondered 
that there is little existing preparation for a 
poet charged with a new mission to extend its 
kingdom, and to augment and spread its en- 
joyments ? 

Away, then, with the senseless iteration of 
the word popular applied to new works in 
poetry, as if there were no test of excellence in 
this first of the fine arts but that all men should 
run after its productions, as if urged by an 
appetite, or constrained by a spell ! — The qual- 
ities of writing best fitted for eager reception 
are either such as startle the world into atten- 
tion by their audacity and extravagance ; or 
they are chiefly of a superficial kind, lying upon 
the surfaces of manners ; or arising out of a 
selection and arrangement of incidents, by 
which the mind is kept upon the stretch of 
curiosity, and the fancy amused without the 
trouble of thought. But in everything which 
is to send the soul into herself, to be admon- 
ished of her weakness, or to be made conscious 
of her power ; wherever life and nature are 
described as operated upon by the creative or 
abstracting virtue of the imagination ; wherever 
the instinctive wisdom of antiquity and her 
heroic passions uniting, in the heart of the poet, 
with the meditative wisdom of later ages, have 
produced that accord of sublimated humanity, 
which is at once a history of the remote past 
and a prophetic enunciation of the remotest 
future ; there, the poet must reconcile himself 
for a season to few and scattered hearers. — 
Grand thoughts (and Shakspeare must often 
have sighed over this truth), as they are most 
naturally and most fitly conceived in solitude, 
so can they not be brought forth in the midst 
of plaudits without some violation of their 
sanctity. Go to a silent exhibition of the pro- 
ductions of the sister Art, and be convinced 
that the qualities which dazzle at first sight, 
and kindle the admiration of the multitude, are 
essentially different from those by which per- 
manent influence is secured. Let us not shrink 
from following up these principles as far as 
they will carry us, and conclude with observing 
that there never has been a period, and perhaps 



never will be, in which vicious poetry, of some 
kind or other, has not excited more zealous 
admiration, and been far more generally read, 
than good ; but this advantage attends the 
good, that the individual, as well as the species, 
survives from age to age ; whereas, of the de- 
praved, though the species be immortal, the 
individual quickly perishes; the object of pre- 
sent admiration vanishes, being supplanted by 
some other as easily produced ; which, though 
no better, brings with it at least the irritation 
of novelty, — with adaptation, more or less 
skilful, to the changing humours of the major- 
ity of those who are most at leisure to regard 
poetical works when they first solicit their 
attention. 

Is it the result of the whole that, in the opin- 
ion of the Writer, the judgment of the People 
is not to be respected ? The thought is most 
injurious ; and, could the charge be brought 
against him, he would repel it with indignation. 
The People have already been justified, and 
their eulogium pronounced by implication, 
when it was said above that, of good poetry, the 
individual, as well as the species, survives. And 
how does it survive but through the People ? 
What preserves it but their intellect and their 
wisdom ? 

" Past and future, are the wings 

On whose support, harmoniously conjoined, 

Moves the great Spirit of human knowledge " 

MS. 
The voice that issues from this Spirit, is that 
Vox Populi which the Deity inspires. Foolish 
must he be who can mistake for this a local ac- 
clamation, or a transitory outcry — transitory 
though it be for years, local though from a Na- 
tion. Still more lamentable is his error who can 
believe that there is anything of divine infalli- 
bility in the clamour of that small though loud 
portion of the community, ever governed by 
factitious influence, which, under the name of 
the Public, passes itself, upon the unthinking, 
for the People. Towards the Public, the 
Writer hopes that he feels as much deference 
as it is entitled to : but to the People, philoso- 
phically characterised, and to the embodied 
spirit of their knowledge, so far as it exists and 
moves, at the present, faithfully supported by 
its two wings, the past and the future, his de- 
vout respect, his reverence, is due. He offers 
it willingly and readily ; and, this done, takes 
leave of his Readers, by assuring them that, 
if he were not persuaded that the contents of 
these Volumes, and the work to which they are 
subsidiary, evince something of the " Vision and 
the Faculty divine " ; and that, both in words 
and things, they will operate in their degree to 
extend the domain of sensibility for the delight, 
the honour, and the benefit of human nature, 
notwithstanding the many happy hours which 
he has employed in their composition, and the 
manifold comforts and enjoyments they have 
procured to him, he would not, if a wish could 
do it, save them from immediate destruction — 
from becoming at this moment, to the world, as 
a thing that had never been. 



POSTSCRIPT 



817 



POSTSCRIPT 



1835 



In the present Volume, as in those that have 
preceded it, the reader will have found occa- 
sionally opinions expressed upon the course of 
public affairs, and feelings given vent to as 
national interests excited them, Since nothing', 
1 trust, has been uttered but in the spirit of 
reflective patriotism, those notices are left to 
produce their own effect; but, among the many 
objects of general concern, and the changes 
going forward, which I have glanced at in 
verse, are some especially affecting the lower 
orders of society : in reference to these, I wish 
here to add a few words in plain prose. 

Were I conscious of being able to do justice 
to those important topics, I might avail my- 
self of the periodical press for offering anony- 
mously my thoughts, such as they are, to the 
world ; but I feel that in procuring attention, 
they may derive some advantage, however 
small, from my name, in addition to that of 
being presented in a less fugitive shape. It 
is also not impossible that the state of mind 
which some of the foregoing poems may have 
produced in the reader, will dispose him to 
receive more readily the impression which I 
desire to make, and to admit the conclusions 
I would establish. 

I. The first thing that presses upon my at- 
tention is the Poor-Law Amendment Act. I 
am aware of the magnitude and complexity of 
the subject, and the unwearied attention which 
it has received from men of far wider expe- 
rience than my own ; yet I cannot forbear 
touching tipon one point of it, and to this I will 
confine myself, though not insensible to the 
objection which may reasonably be brought 
against treating a portion of this, or any other, 
great scheme of civil polity separately from 
the whole. The point to which I wish to draw 
the reader's attention is, that all persons who 
cannot find employment, or procure wages 
sufficient to support the body in health and 
strength, are entitled to a maintenance by law. 

This dictate of humanity is acknowledged in 
the Report of the Commissioners : but is there 
not room for apprehension that some of the 
regulations of the new act have a tendency to 
render the principle nugatory by difficulties 
thrown in the way of applying it ? If this be 
so, persons will not be wanting to show it, by 
examining the provisions of the act in detail, — 
an attempt which would be quite out of place 
here ; but it will not, therefore, be deemed un- 
becoming in one who fears that the prudence 
of the head may, in framing some of those pro- 
visions, have supplanted the wisdom of the 
heart, to enforce a principle which cannot be 
violated without infringing upon one of the 
most precious rights of the English people, 
and opposing one of the most sacred claims 
of civilised humanity. 



There can be no greater error, in this depart- 
ment of legislation, than the belief that this 
principle does by necessity operate for the de- 
gradation of those who claim, or are so circum- 
stanced as to make it likely they may claim, 
through laws founded upon it, relief or assist- 
ance. The direct contrary is the truth : it may 
be unanswerably maintained that its tendency 
is to raise, not to depress ; by stamping a value 
upon life, which can belong to it only where 
the laws have placed men who are willing to 
work, and yet cannot find employment, above 
the necessity of looking for protection against 
hunger and other natural evils, either to indi- 
vidual and casual charity, to despair and death, 
or to the breach of law by theft or violence. 

And here, as, in the Report of the Commis- 
sioners, the fundamental principle has been 
recognised, I am not at issue with them any 
farther than I am compelled to believe that 
their "remedial measures" obstruct the appli- 
cation of it more than the interests of society 
require. 

And, calling to mind the doctrines of politi- 
cal economy which are now prevalent, I cannot 
forbear to enforce the justice of the principle, 
and to insist upon its salutary operation. 

And first for its justice : If self-preservation 
be the first law of our nature, would not every 
one in a state of nature be morally justified in 
taking to himself that which is indispensable 
to such preservation, where, by so doing, he 
would not rob another of that which might 
be equally indispensable to his preservation? 
And if the value of life be regarded in a right 
point of view, may it not be questioned whether 
this right of preserving life, at any expense 
short of endangering the life of another, does 
not survive man's entering into the social state ; 
whether this right can be surrendered or for- 
feited, except when it opposes the divine law, 
upon any supposition of a social compact, or 
of any convention for the protection of mere 
rights of property ? 

But if it be not safe to touch the abstract 
question of man's right in a social state to help 
himself even in the last extremity, may we 
not still contend for the duty of a christian 
government, standing in loco parentis towards 
all its subjects, to make such effectual pro- 
vision, that no one shall be in danger of perish- 
ing either through the neglect or harshness of 
its legislation ? Or, waiving this, is it not in- 
disputable that the claim of the state to the 
allegiance involves the protection of the sub- 
ject ? And, as all rights in one party impose a 
correlative duty upon another, it follows that 
the right of the state to require the services of 
its members, even to the jeoparding of their 
lives in the common defence, establishes a 
right in the people (not to be gainsaid by utili- 
tarians and economists) to public support when 



8i8 



POSTSCRIPT 



1835 



from any cause they may be unable to support 
themselves. 

Let us now consider the salutary and benign 
operation of this principle. Here we must 
have recourse to elementary feelings of human 
nature, and to truths which from their very 
obviousness are apt to be slighted, till they are 
forced upon our notice by our own sufferings or 
those of others. In the " Paradise Lost," Milton 
represents Adam, after the Fall, as exclaiming, 
in the anguish of his soul — 

" Did I request Thee, Maker, from ray clay 
To mould me man ; did I solicit Thee 
From darkness to promote me ? 

My will 

Concurred not to my being." 

Under how many various pressures of misery 
have men been driven thus, in a strain touch- 
ing upon impiety, to expostulate with the Cre- 
ator ! and under few so afflictive as when the 
source and origin of earthly existence have been 
brought back to the mind by its impending 
close in the pangs of destitution. But as long 
as, in our legislation, due weight shall be given 
to this principle, no man will be forced to be- 
wail the gift of life in hopeless want of the 
necessaries of life. 

Englishmen have, therefore, by the progress 
of civilisation among them, been placed in cir- 
cumstances more favourable to piety and resig- 
nation to the divine will than the inhabitants 
of other countries, where a like provision has 
not been established. And as Providence, in 
this care of our countrymen, acts through a 
human medium, the objects of that care must, 
in like manner, be more inclined towards a 
grateful love of their fellow-men. Thus, also, 
do stronger ties attach the people to their coun- 
try, whether while they tread its soil, or, at a 
distance, think of their native land as an in- 
dulgent parent, to whose arms even they who 
have been imprudent and undeserving may, 
like the prodigal son, betake themselves, with- 
out fear of being rejected. 

Such is the view of the case that would first 
present itself to a reflective mind ; and it is in 
vain to show, by appeals to experience, in con- 
trast with this view, that provisions founded 
upon the principle have promoted profaneness 
of life and dispositions the reverse of philan- 
thropic, by spreading idleness, selfishness, and 
rapacity : for these evils have arisen, not as an 
inevitable consequence of the principle, but for 
want of judgment in framing laws based upon 
it ; and, above all, from faults in the mode of 
administering the law. The mischief that has 
grown to such a height from granting relief in 
cases where proper vigilance would have shown 
that it was not required, or in bestowing it in 
undue measure, will be urged by no truly en- 
lightened statesman as a sufficient reason for 
banishing the principle itself from legislation. 

Let us recur to the miserable states of con- 
sciousness that it precludes. 

There is a story told, by a traveller in Spain, 
of a female who, by a sudden shock of domestic 



calamity, was driven out of her senses, and ever 
after looked up incessantly to the sky, feeling 
that her fellow-creatures could do nothing for 
her relief. Can there be Englishmen who, with 
a good end in view, would, upon system, expose 
their brother Englishmen to a like necessity of 
looking upwards only ; or downwards to the 
earth, after it shall contain no spot where the 
destitute can demand, by civil right, what by 
right of nature they are entitled to? 

Suppose the objects of our sympathy not sunk 
into this blank despair, but wandering about as 
strangers in streets and ways, with the hope 
of succour from casual charity ; what have we 
gained by such a change of scene ? Woful is 
the condition of the famished Northern Indian, 
dependent, among winter snows, upon the 
chance-passage of a herd of deer, from which 
one, if brought down by his rifle-gun, may be 
made the means of keeping him and his com- 
panions alive. As miserable is that of some 
savage Islander, who, when the land has ceased 
to afford him sustenance, watches for food 
which the waves may cast up, or in vain en- 
deavours to extract it from the inexplorable 
deep. But neither of these is in a state of 
wretchedness comparable to that which is so 
often endured in civilised society : multitudes, 
in all ages, have known it, of whom may be 
said : — 

" Homeless, near a thousand homes they stood, 
And near a thousand tables pined, and wanted food." 

Justly might I be accused of wasting time in 
an uncalled-for attempt to excite the feelings of 
the reader, if systems of political economy, 
widely spread, did not impugn the principle, 
and if the safeguards against such extremities 
were left unimpaired. It is broadly asserted by 
many, that every man who endeavours to find 
work may find it : were this assertion capable of 
being verified, there still would remain a ques- 
tion, what kind of work, and how far may the 
labourer be fit for it ? For if sedentary work is 
to be exchanged for standing, and some light 
and nice exercise of the fingers, to which an 
artisan has been accustomed all his life, for 
severe labour of the arms, the best efforts would 
turn to little account, and occasion would be 
given for the unthinking and the unfeeling un- 
warrantably to reproach those who are put upon 
such employment as idle, froward, and un- 
worthy of relief, either by law or in any other 
way ! Were this statement correct, there would 
indeed be an end of the argument, the principle 
here maintained would be superseded. But, 
alas ! it is far otherwise. That principle, ap- 
plicable to the benefit of all countries, is indis- 
pensable for England, upon whose coast families 
are perpetually deprived of their support by 
shipwreck, and where large masses of men are 
so liable to be thrown out of their ordinary 
means of gaining bread, by changes in commer- 
cial intercourse, subject mainly or solely to the 
will of foreign powers ; by new discoveries in 
arts and manufactures; and by reckless laws, 
in conformity with theories of political econ? 



i8 3 5 



POSTSCRIPT 



819 



omy, which, whether right or wrong in the 
abstract, have proved a scourge to tens of thou- 
sands by the abruptness with which they have 
been carried into practice. 

But it is urged, — refuse altogether compul- 
sory relief to the able-bodied, and the number 
of those who stand in need of relief will steadily 
diminish through a conviction of an absolute 
necessity for greater forethought and more pru- 
dent care of a man's earnings. Undoubtedly it 
would, but so also would it, and in a much 
greater degree, if the legislative provisions were 
retained, and parochial relief administered under 
the care of the upper classes, as it ought to be. 
For it has been invariably found, that wherever 
the funds have been raised and applied under 
the superintendence of gentlemen and substan- 
tial proprietors, acting in vestries and as over- 
seers, pauperism has diminished accordingly. 
Proper care in that quarter would effectually 
check what is felt in some districts to be one of 
the worst evils in the poor law system, viz. the 
readiness of small and needy proprietors to join 
in imposing rates that seemingly subject them 
to great hardships, while, in fact, this is done 
with a mutual understanding that the relief 
each is ready to bestow upon his still poorer 
neighbours will be granted to himself, or his 
relatives, should it hereafter be applied for. 

But let us look to inner sentiments of a nobler 
quality, in order to know what we have to build 
upon. Affecting proofs occur in every one's ex- 
perience, who is acquainted with the unfortu- 
nate and the indigent, of their unwillingness to 
derive their subsistence from aught but their 
own funds or labour, or to be indebted to paro- 
chial assistance for the attainment of any object, 
however dear to them. A case was reported, 
the other day, from a coroner's inquest, of a pair 
who, through the space of four years, had car- 
ried about their dead infant from house to 
house, and from lodging to lodging, as their 
necessities drove them, rather than ask the 
parish to bear the expense of its interment : — 
the poor creatures lived in the hope of one day 
being able to bury their child at their own cost. 
It must have been heart-rendering to see and 
hear the mother, who had been called upon to 
account for the state in which the body was 
found, make this deposition. By some, judging 
coldly, if not harshly, this conduct might be 
imputed to an unwarrantable pride, as she and 
her husband had, it is true, been once in pros- 
perity. But examples, where the spirit of inde- 
pendence works with equal strength, though 
not with like miserable accompaniments, are 
frequently to be found even yet among the 
humblest peasantry and mechanics. There is 
not, then, sufficient cause for doubting that a 
like sense of honour may be revived anion? the 
people, and their ancient habits of independence 
restored, without resorting to those severities 
which the new Poor Law Act has introduced. 

But ever, if the surfaces of things only are to 
be examined, we have a right to expect that 
lawgivers should take into account the various 
tempers and dispositions of mankind : while 



some are led, by the existence of a legislative 
provision, into idleness and extravagance, the 
economical virtues might be cherished in others 
by the knowledge that, if all their efforts fail, 
they have in the Poor Laws a " refuge from the 
storm and a shadow from the heat." Despond- 
ency and distraction are no friends to prudence : 
the springs of industry will relax, if cheerfulness 
be destroyed by anxiety ; without hope men 
become reckless, and have a sullen pride in 
adding to the heap of their own wretchedness. 
He who feels that he is abandoned by his fellow- 
men will be almost irresistibly driven to care 
little for himself ; will lose his self-respect ac- 
cordingly, and with that loss what remains to 
him of virtue ? 

With all due deference to the particular ex- 
perience and general intelligence of the individ- 
uals who framed the Act, and of those who in 
and out of parliament have approved of and 
supported it, it may be said that it proceeds too 
much upon the presumption that it is a labour- 
ing man's own fault if he be not, as the phrase 
is, beforehand with the world. But the most 
prudent are liable to be thrown back by sick- 
ness, cutting them off from labour, and causing 
to them expense : and who but has observed 
how distress creeps upon multitudes without 
misconduct of their own ; and merely from a 
gradual fall in the price of labour, without a 
correspondent one in the price of provisions ; so 
that men who may have ventured upon the 
marriage state with a fair prospect of maintain- 
ing their families in comfort and happiness, see 
them reduced to a pittance which no effort of 
theirs can increase ? Let it be remembered, 
also, that there are thousands with whom vicious 
habits of expense are not the cause why they do 
not store up their gains ; but they are generous 
and kind-hearted, and ready to help their kin- 
dred and friends ; moreover, they have a faith 
in Providence that those who have been prompt 
to assist others, will not be left destitute, should 
they themselves come to need. By acting from 
these blended feelings, numbers have rendered 
themselves incapable of standing up against a 
sudden reverse. Nevertheless, these men, in 
common with all who have the misfortune to be 
in want, if many theorists had their wish, would 
be thrown upon one or other of those three 
sharp points of condition before adverted to, 
from which the intervention of law has hitherto 
saved them. 

All that has been said tends to show how the 
principle contended for makes the gift of life 
more valuable, and has, it may be hoped, led 
to the conclusion that its legitimate operation 
is to make men worthier of that gift : in other 
words, not to degrade but to exalt human na- 
ture. But the subject must not be dismissed 
without adverting to the indirect influence of 
the same principle upon the moral sentiments 
of a people among whom it is embodied in law. 
In our criminal jurisprudence there is a maxim, 
deservedly eulogised, that it is better that ten 
guilty persons shall escape, than that one inno- 
cent man should suffer ; so, also, might it be 



820 



POSTSCRIPT 



1835 



maintained, with regard to the Poor Laws, that 
it is better for the interests of humanity among 
the people at large, that ten undeserving' should 

partake of the funds provided, than that one 
morally good man, through want of relief, 
should either have his principles corrupted or 
his energies destroyed; than that such a one 
should either be driven to do wrong or be cast 
to the earth in utter hopelessness. In France 
the English maxim of criminal jurisprudence is 
reversed ; there, it is deemed better that ten 
innocent men should suffer than one guilty 
escape : in France there is no universal pro- 
vision for the poor ; and we may judge of the 
small value set upon human life in the metro- 
polis of that country, by merely noticing the 
disrespect with which, after death, the body is 
treated, not by the thoughtless vulgar, but in 
schools of anatomy, presided over by men 
allowed to be, in their own art and in physical 
science, among the most enlightened in the 
world. In the East, where countries are over- 
run with population as with a weed, infinitely 
more respect is shown to the remains of the 
deceased ; and what a bitter mockery is it, that 
this insensibility should be found where civil 
polity is so busy in minor regulations, and osten- 
tatiously careful to gratify the luxurious pro- 
pensities, whether social or intellectual, of the 
multitude ! Irreligion is, no doubt, much con- 
cerned with this offensive disrespect shown to 
the bodies of the dead in France ; but it is 
mainly attributable to the state in which so 
many of the living are left by the absence of 
compulsory provision for the indigent so hu- 
manely established by the law of England. 

Sights of abject misery, perpetually recurring, 
harden the heart of the community. In the 
perusal of history and of works of fiction we 
are not, indeed, unwilling to have our commis- 
eration excited by such objects of distress as 
they present to us ; but, in the concerns of real 
life, men know that such emotions are not given 
to be indulged for their own sakes : there, the 
conscience declares to them that sympathy 
must be followed by action ; and if there exist. 
a previous conviction that the power to relieve 
is utterly inadequate to the demand, the eye 
shrinks from communication with wretched- 
ness, and pity and compassion languish, like 
any other qualities that are deprived of their 
natural aliment. Let these considerations be 
duly weighed by those who trust to the hope 
that an increase of private charity, with all its 
advantages of superior discrimination, would 
more than compensate for the abandonment of 
those principles, the wisdom of which has been 
here insisted upon. How discouraging, also, 
would be the sense of injustice, which could 
not fail to arise in the minds of the well-dis- 
posed, if the burden of supporting the poor, a 
burden of which the selfish have hitherto by 
compulsion borne a share, should now, or here- 
after, be thrown exclusively upon the benevo- 
lent. 

By having put an end to the Slav? Trade and 
Slavery, the British people are exalted in the 



scale of humanity ; and they cannot but feet 
so, if they look into themselves, and duly con- 
sider their relation to God and their feliow- 
creatures. That was a noble advance ; but a 
retrograde movement will assuredly be made, 
if ever the principle which has been here de- 
fended should be either avowedly abandoned 
or but ostensibly retained. 

But, after all, there may be a little reason to 
apprehend permanent injury from any experi- 
ment that may be tried. On the one side will 
be human nature rising up in her own defence, 
and on the other prudential selfishness acting 
to the same purpose, from a conviction that, 
without a compulsory provision tor the exigen- 
cies of the labouring multitude, that degree of 
ability to regulate the price of labour, which is 
indispensable for the reasonable interest of arts 
and manufactures, cannot, in Great Britain, be 
upheld. 

II. In a poem of the foregoing collection 
allusion is made to the state of the workmen 
congregated in manufactories. In order to 
relieve many of the evils to which that class of 
society are subject, and to establish a better 
harmony between them and their employers, it 
would be well to repeal such laws as prevent 
the formation of joint-stock companies. There 
are, no doubt, many and great obstacles to the 
formation and salutary working of these so- 
cieties, inherent in the mind of those whom 
they would obviously benefit. But the com- 
binations of masters to keep down, unjustly, 
the price of labour would be fairly checked by 
them, as far as they were practicable ; they 
would encourage economy, inasmuch as they 
would enable a man to draw profit from his 
savings, by investing them in buildings or ma- 
chinery for processes of manufacture with 
which he was habitualfy connected. His little 
capital would then be working for him while 
he was at rest or asleep ; he would more clearly 
perceive the necessity of capital for carrying 
on great works; he would better learn to re- 
spect the larger portions of it. in the hands of 
others ; he would be less tempted to join in 
unjust combinations ; and, for the sake of his 
own property, if not for higher reasons, he 
would be slow to promote local disturbance or 
endanger public tranquillity" he would, at least, 
be loth to act in that way knowingly : for it is 
not to be denied that such societies might be 
nurseries of opinions unfavourable to a mixed 
constitution of government, like that of Great 
Britain. The democratic and republican spirit 
which they might be apt to foster would not, 
however, be dangerous in itself, but only as it 
might act without being sufficiently counterbal- 
anced, either by landed proprietorship, or by a 
Church extending itself so as to embrace an ever- 
growing and ever-shifting population of me- 
chanics and artisans. But if the tendencies of 
such societies would be to make the men prosper 
who might belong to them, rulers and legisla- 
tors should rejoice in the result, and do their 
duty to the state by upholding and extending 



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821 



the influence of that Church to which it owes, 
in so great a measure, its safety, its prosperity, 
and its glory. 

This, in the temper of the present times, may 
be difficult, but it is become indispensable, 
since large towns in great numbers have sprung 
up, and others have increased tenfold, with 
little or no dependence upon the gentry and the 
landed proprietors ; and apart from those miti- 
gated feudal institutions, which, till of late, 
have acted so powerfully upon the composition 
of the House of Commons. Now it may be 
affirmed that, in quarters where there is not an 
attachment to the Church, or the landed aris- 
tocracy, and a pride in supporting them, thtre 
the people will dislike both, and be ready, upon 
such incitements as are perpetually recurring, 
to join in attempts to overthrow them. There 
is no neutral ground here : from want of due 
attention to the state of society, in large towns 
and manufacturing districts, and ignorance or 
disregard of these obvious truths, innumerable 
well-meaning persons became zealous support- 
ers of a Reform Bill, the qualities and powers 
of which, whether destructive or constructive, 
they would otherwise have been afraid of ; and 
even the framers of that bill, swayed as they 
might be by party resentments and personal 
ambition, could not have gone so far, had not 
they too been lamentably ignorant or neglectful 
of the same truths both of fact and philosophy. 
But let that pass ; and let no opponent of 
the bill be tempted to compliment his own 
foresight, by exaggerating the mischiefs and 
dangers that have sprung from it : let not time 
be wasted in profitless regrets ; and let those 
party distinctions vanish to their very names 
that have separated men who, whatever course 
they may have pursued, have ever had a bond 
of union in the wish to save the limited mon- 
archy and those other institutions that have. 
Tinder Providence, rendered for so long a period 
of time this country the happiest and worthiest 
of which there is any record since the founda- 
tion of civil society. 

III. A philosophic mind is best pleased when 
looking at religion in its spiritual bearing ; as a 
guide of conduct, a solace under affliction, and 
a support amid the instabilities of mortal life : 
but the Church having been forcibly brought 
by political considerations to my notice, while 
treating of the labouring classes, I cannot for- 
bear saying a few words upon that momentous 
topic. 

There is a loud clamour for extensive change 
in that department. The clamour would be en- 
titled to more respect if they who are the most 
eager to swell it with their voices were not gen- 
erally the most ignorant of the real state of the 
Church and the service it renders to the com- 
munity. Reform is the word employed. Let 
as pause and consider what sense it is apt to 
carry, and how things are confounded by a lax 
use of it. The great religious Reformation, in 
the sixteenth century, did not profess to be a 
new construction, but a restoration of some- 



thing fallen into decay, or put out of sight. 
That familiar and justifiable use of the word 
seems to have paved the way for fallacies with 
respect to the term reform, which it is difficult 
to escape from. Were we to speak of improve- 
ment and the correction of abuses, we should 
run less risk of being deceived ourselves or of 
misleading others. We should be less likely 
to fall blindly into the belief that the change 
demanded is a renewal of something that has 
existed before, and that, therefore, we have ex- 
perience on our side ; nor should we be equally 
tempted to beg the question that the change 
for which we are eager must be advantageous. 
From generation to generation, men are the 
dupes of words ; and it is painful to observe 
that so many of our species are most tenacious 
of those opinions which they have formed v\ith 
the least consideration. They who are the 
readiest to meddle with public affairs, whether 
in church or state, fly to generalities, that they 
may be eased from the trouble of thinking 
about particulars ; and thus is deputed to me- 
chanical instrumentality the work which vital 
knowledge only can do well. 

"Abolish pluralities, have a resident incum- 
bent in ever}' parish," is a favourite cry; but, 
without adverting to other obstacles in the way 
of this specious scheme, it may be asked what 
benefit would accrue from its indiscriminate 
adoption to counterbalance the harm it would 
introduce, by nearly extinguishing the order 
of curates, unless the revenues of the church 
should grow with the population, and be greatly 
increased in many thinly-peopled districts, espe- 
cially among the parishes of the North. 

The order of curates is so beneficial, that 
some particular notice of it seems to be re- 
quired in this place. For a church poor as, 
relatively to the numbers of people, that of 
England is. and probably will continue to be, it 
is no small advantage to have youthful ser- 
vants, who will work upon the wages of hope 
and expectation. Still more advantageous is it 
to hare, by means of this order, young men 
scattered over the country, who being more 
detached from the temporal concerns of the 
benefice, have more leisure for improvement 
and study, and are less subject to be brought 
into secular collision with those who are under 
their spiritual guardianship. The curate, if he 
reside at a distance from the incumbent, under- 
takes the requisite responsibilities of a temporal 
kind, in that modified way which prevents him, 
as a new-comer, from being charged with self- 
ishness : while it prepares him for entering upon 
a benefice of his own with something of a suit- 
able experience. If he should act under and 
in co-operation with a resident incumbent, the 
gain is mutual. His studies will probably be 
assisted ; and his training, managed by a supe- 
rior, will not be liable to relapse in matters of 
prudence, seemliness, or in any of the highest 
cares of his functions ; and by way of return for 
these benefits to the pupil, it will often happen 
that the zeal of a middle-aged or declining in- 
cumbent will be revived, by being in near com- 



POSTSCRIPT 



i835 



munion with the ardour of youth, when his own 
efforts may have languished through a melan- 
choly consciousness that they have not produced 
as much good among his Hock as, when he first 
entered upon the charge, he fondly hoped. 

Let one remark, and that not the least im- 
portant, be added. A curate, entering for the 
first time upon his office, comes from college 
after a course of expanse, and with such inex- 
perience in the use of money that in his new 
situation he is apt to fall unawares into pecu- 
niary difficulties. If this happens to him, much 
more likely is it to happen to the youthful in- 
cumbent, whose relations, to his parishioners 
and to society, are more complicated ; and, his 
income being larger and independent of another, 
a costlier style of living is required of him by 
public opinion. If embarrassment should ensue, 
and with that unavoidably some loss of respec- 
tability, his future usefulness will be propor- 
tionably impaired : not so with the curate, for he 
can easily remove and start afresh with a stock 
of experience and an unblemished reputation ; 
whereas the early indiscretions of an incumbent 
being rarely forgotten, may be impediments 
to the efficacy of his ministry for the remain- 
der of his life. The same observations would 
apply with equal force to doctrine. A young 
minister is liable to errors, from his notions 
being either too lax or overstrained. In both 
cases it would prove injurious that the error 
should be remembered, after study and reflec- 
tion, with advancing years, shall have brought 
hiin to a clearer discernment of the truth, and 
better judgment in the application of it. 

It must be acknowledged that, among the 
regulations of ecclesiastical polity, none at first 
view are more attractive than that which pre- 
scribes for every parish a resident incumbent. 
How agreeable to picture to one's salf, as has 
been done by poets and romance-writers, from 
Chaucer down to Goldsmith, a man devoted to 
his ministerial office, with not a wish or a 
thought ranging beyond the circuit of its cares ! 
Nor is it in poetry and fiction only that such 
characters are found ; they are scattered, it is 
hoped not sparingly, over real life, especially 
in sequestered and rural districts, where there 
is but small influx of new inhabitants, and little 
change of occupation. The spirit of the Gospel, 
unaided by acquisitions of profane learning and 
experience in the world, — that spirit and the 
obligations of the sacred office may, in such 
situations, suffice to effect most of what is 
needful. But for the complex state of society 
that prevails in England much more is re- 
quired, both in large towns and in many exten- 
sive districts of the country. A minister there 
should not only be irreproachable in manners 
and morals, but accomplished in learning, as 
far as is possible without sacrifice of the least 
of his pastoral duties. As necessary, perhaps 
more so, is it that he should be a citizen as well 
as a scholar ; thoroughly acquainted with the 
structure of society and the constitution of civil 
government, and able to reason upon both with 
the most expert ; all ultimately in order to sup- 



port the truths of Christianity and to diffuse 
its blessings. 

A young man coming fresh from the place of 
his education cannot have brought with him 
these accomplishments ; and if the scheme of 
equalising church incomes, which many ad- 
visers are much bent upon, be realised, so that 
there should be little or no secular inducement 
for a clergyman to desire a removal from the 
spot where he may chance to have been first 
set down ; surely not only opportunities for 
obtaining the requisite qualifications would be 
diminished, but the motives for desiring to ob- 
tain them would be proportionably weakened. 
And yet these qualifications are indispensable 
for the diffusion of that knowledge by which 
alone the political philosophy of the New Testa- 
ment can be rightly expounded, and its precepts 
adequately enforced. In these times, when the 
press is daily exercising so great a power over 
the minds of the people, for wrong or for right 
as may happen, that preacher ranks among the 
first of benefactors who, without stooping to 
the direct treatment of current politics and 
passing events, can furnish infallible guidance 
through the delusions that surround them ; and 
who, appealing to the sanctions of Scripture, 
may place the grounds of its injunctions in so 
clear a light that disaffection shall cease to ba 
cultivated as a laudable propensity, and loyalty 
cleansed from the dishonour of a blind and 
prostrate obedience. 

It is not, however, in regard to civic duties 
alone, that this knowledge in a minister of the 
Gospel is important ; it is still more so for soft- 
ening and subduing private and personal dis- 
contents. In all places, and at all times, men 
have gratuitously troubled themselves, because 
their survey of the dispensations of Providence 
has been partial and narrow ; but now that 
readers are so greatly multiplied, men judge as 
they are taught, and repinings are engendered 
everywhere, by imputations being cast upon thc« 
government ; and are prolonged or aggravated 
by being ascribed to misconduct or injustice in 
rulers, when the individual himself only is in 
fault. If a Christian pastor be competent tc 
deal with these humours, as they may be dealt 
with, and by no members of society so suc- 
cessfully, both from more frequent and more 
favourable opportunities of intercourse, and by 
aid of the authority with which he speaks ; he 
will be a teacher of moderation, a dispenser 
of the wisdom that blunts approaching distress 
by submission to God's will, and lightens, by 
patience, grievances which cannot be removed. 

We live in times when nothing, of public 
good at least, is generally acceptable, but what 
we believe can be traced to preconceived inten- 
tion and specific acts and formal contrivances 
of human understanding. A Christian instruc- 
tor thoroughly accomplished would be a stand- 
ing restraint upon such presumptuousness of 
judgment, by impressing the truth that 

" In the unreasoning progress of the world 
A wiser spirit is at work for us, 
A better eye than ours." MS- 



iS 3 5 



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823 



Revelation points to the purity and peace of a 
future world ; but our sphere of duty is upon 
earth ; and the relations of impure and conflict- 
ing things to each other must be understood, or 
we shall be perpetually going wrong, in all but 
goodness of intention; and goodness of inten- 
tion will itself relax through frequent disap- 
pointment. How desirable, then, is it, that a 
minister of the Gospel should be versed in the 
knowledge of existing facts, and be accustomed 
to a wide range of social experience ! Nor is it 
less desirable for the purpose of counterbalanc- 
ing and tempering in his own mind that ambi- 
tion with which spiritual power is as apt to be 
tainted as any other species of power which 
men covet or possess. 

It must be obvious that the scope of the argu- 
ment is to discourage an attempt which would 
introduce into the Church of England an equal- 
ity of income and station, upon the model of 
that of Scotland. The sounder part of the 
Scottish nation know what good their ancestors 
derived from their church, and feel how deeply 
the living generation is indebted to it. They re- 
spect and love it, as accommodated in so great 
a measure to a comparatively poor country, 
through the far greater portion of which pre- 
vails a uniformity of employment; but the ac- 
knowledged deficiency of theological learning 
among the clergy of that church is easily ac- 
counted for by this very equality. What else 
may be wanting there it would be unpleasant 
to inquire, and might prove invidious to deter- 
mine : one thing, however, is clear ; that in all 
countries the temporalities of the Church Estab- 
lishment should bear an analogy to the state of 
society, otherwise it cannot diffuse its influence 
through the whole community. In a country so 
rich and luxurious as England, the character of 
its clergy must unavoidably sink, and their in- 
fluence be everywhere impaired, if individuals 
from the upper ranks, and men of leading tal- 
ents, are to have no inducements to enter into 
that body but such as are purely spiritual. And 
this "tinge of secularity " is no reproach to the 
clergy, nor does it imply a deficiency of spiritual 
endowments. Parents and guardians, looking 
forward to sources of honourable maintenance 
for their children and wards, often direct their 
thoughts early towards the church, being deter- 
mined partly by outward circumstances, and 
partly by indications of seriousness or intel- 
lectual fitness. It is natural that a boy or 
youth, with such a prospect before him, should 
turn his attention to those studies, and be led 
into those habits of reflection, which will in 
some degree rend to prepare him for the duties 
he is hereafter to undertake. As he draws 
nearer to the time when he will be called to 
these duties, he is both led and compelled to 
examine the Scriptures. He becomes more and 
more sensible of their truth. Devotion grows 
in him ; and what might begin in temporal 
considerations, will end (as in a majority of in- 
stances we trust it does) in a spiritual-minded- 
ness not unworthy of that Gospel, the lessons of 
which he is to teach, and the faith of which he 



is to inculcate. Not inappositely may be here re- 
peated an observation which, from its obvious- 
ness and importance, must have been frequently 
made, viz. that the impoverishing of the clergy, 
and bringing their incomes much nearer to a 
level, would not cause them to become less 
worldly-minded : the emoluments, howsoever 
reduced, would be as eagerly sought for, but 
by men from lower classes in society ; men who, 
by their manners, habits, abilities, and the 
scanty measure of their attainments, would un- 
avoidably be less fitted for their station, and 
less competent to discharge its duties. 

Visionary notions have in all ages been afloat 
upon the subject of best providing for the 
clergy; notions which have been sincerely en- 
tertained by good men, with a view to the im- 
provement of that order, and eagerly caught at 
and dwelt upon by the designing, for its degra- 
dation and disparagement. Some are beguiled 
by what they call the voluntary system, not see- 
ing (what staies one in the face at the very 
threshold) that they who stand in most need of 
religious instruction are unconscious of the 
want, and therefore cannot reasonably be ex- 
pected to make any sacrifices in order to supply 
it. Will the licentious, the sensual, and the de- 
praved, take from the means of their gratifica- 
tions and pursuits, to support a discipline that 
cannot advance without uprooting the trees 
that bear the fruit which they devour so greed- 
ily ? Will they pay the price of that seed whose 
harvest is to be reaped in an invisible world ? 
A voluntary system for the religious exigences 
of a people numerous and circumstanced as we 
are ! Not more absurd would it be to expect 
that a knot of boys should draw upon the pit- 
tance of their pocket-money to build schools, or 
out of the abundance of their discretion be able 
to select fit masters to teach and keep them in 
order ! Some, who clearly perceive the incom- 
petence and folly of such a scheme for the agri- 
cultural part of the people, nevertheless think 
it feasible in large towns, where the rich might 
subscribe for the religious instruction of the 
poor. Alas ! they know little of the thick dark- 
ness that spreads over the streets and alleys of 
our large towns. The parish of Lambeth, a 
few years since, contained not more than one 
church and three or four small proprietary 
chapels, while dissenting chapels of every de- 
nomination were still more scantily found there ; 
yet the inhabitants of the parish amounted 
at that time to upwards of 50,000. Were the 
parish church and the chapels of the Estab- 
lishment existing there an impediment to the 
spread of the Gospel among that mass of peo- 
ple ? Who shall dare to say so ? But if any 
one, in the face of the fact which has just been 
stated, and in opposition to authentic reports to 
the same effect from various other quarters, 
should still contend that, a voluntary system is 
sufficient for the spread and maintenance of 
religion, we would ask, what kind of religion? 
wherein would it, differ, among the many, from 
deplorable fanaticism ? 

For the preservation of the Church Establish- 



824 



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1835 



merit, all men, whether they belong to it or not, 
could the} r perceive their true interest, would 
be strenuous ; but how inadequate are its pro- 
visions for the needs of the country ! and how 
much is it to be regretted that, while its zealous 
friends yield to alarms on account of the hos- 
tility of dissent, they should so much overrate 
the clanger to be apprehended from that quarter, 
and almost overlook the fact that hundreds of 
thousands of our fellow-countrymen, though 
formally and nominally of the Church of Eng- 
land, never enter her places of worship, neither 
have they communication with her ministers ! 
This deplorable state of things was partly pro- 
duced by a decay of zeal among the rich and in- 
fluential, and partly by a want of due expansive 
power in the constitution of the Establishment 
as regulated by law. Private benefactors, in 
their efforts to build and endow churches, have 
been frustrated or too much impeded by legal 
obstacles ; these, where they are unreasonable 
or unfitted for the times, ought to be removed ; 
and, keeping clear of intolerance and injustice, 
means should be used to render the presence 
and powers of the church commensurate with 
the wants of a shifting and still-increasing pop- 
ulation. 

This cannot be effected, unless the English 
Government vindicate the truth that, as her 
church exists for the benefit of all (though not 
in equal degree), whether of her communion or 
not, all should be made to contribute to its 
support. If this ground be abandoned, cause 
will be given to fear that a moral wound may 
be inflicted upon the heart of the English people, 
for which a remedy cannot be speedily provided 
by the utmost efforts which the members of the 
Church will themselves be able to make. 

But let the friends of the church be of good 
courage. Powers are at work, by which, under 
Divine Providence, she may be strengthened 
and the sphere of her usefulness extended ; not 
by alterations in her Liturgy, accommodated to 
this or that demand of finical taste, nor by cut- 
ting off this or that from her articles or Canons, 
to which the scrupulous or the overweening may 
object. Covert schism, and open nonconform- 
ity, would survive after alterations, however 
promising in the eyes of those whose subtilty 
had been exercised in making them. Latitu- 
dinarianism is the parhelion of liberty of con- 
science, and will ever successfully lay claim to 
a divided worship. Among Presbyterians, So- 
cinians, Baptists, and Independents, there will 
always be found numbers who will tire of their 
several creeds, and some will come over to the 
Church. Conventicles may disappear, congre- 
gations in each denomination may fall into 
decay or be broken up, but the conquests which 
the National Church ought chiefly to aim at, 
lie among the thousands and tens of thousands 
of the unhappy outcasts who grow up with no re- 
ligion at all. The wants of these cannot but be 
feelingly remembered. Whatever may he the 
disposition of the new constituencies under the 
reformed parliament, and the course which 
the men of their choice may be inclined or com- 



pelled to follow, it may be confidently hoped 
that individuals, acting in their private capaci- 
ties, will endeavour to make up for the deficien- 
cies of the legislature. Is it too much to expect 
that proprietors of large estates, where the 
inhabitants are without religious instruction, or 
where it is sparingly supplied, will deem it their 
duty to take part in this good work ; and that 
thriving manufacturers and merchants will, in 
their several neighbourhoods, be sensible of the 
like obligation, and act upon it with generous 
rivalry ? 

Moreover, the force of public opinion is rap- 
idly increasing, and some may bend to it, who 
are not so happy as to be swayed by a higher 
motive ; especially they who derive large in- 
comes from lay-impropriations in tracts of coun- 
try where ministers are few and meagrely 
provided for. A claim still stronger may be 
acknowledged by those who, round their superb 
habitations, or elsewhere, walk over vast estates 
which were lavished upon their ancestors by 
royal favouritism or purchased at insignificant 
prices after church-spoliation ; such proprietors, 
though not conscience-stricken (there is no call 
for that), may be prompted to make a return 
for which their tenantry and dependents will 
learn to bless their names. An impulse has 
been given ; an accession of means from these 
several sources, co-operating with a ^//-consid- 
ered change in the distribution of some parts 
of the property at present possessed by the 
church, a change scrupulously founded upon 
due respect to law and justice, will, we trust, 
bring about so much of what her friends desire, 
that the rest may be calmly waited for, with 
thankfulness for what shall have been obtained. 

Let it not be thought unbecoming in a lay- 
man to have treated at length a subject with 
which the clergy are more intimately conver- 
sant. All may, without impropriety, speak of 
what deeply concerns all ; nor need an apology 
be offered for going over ground which has been 
trod before so ably and so often : without pre- 
tending, however, to anything of novelty, either 
in matter or manner, something may have been 
offered to view which will save the writer from 
the imputation of having little to recommend 
his labour but goodness of intention. 

It was with reference to thoughts and feelings 
expressed in verse, that I entered upon the 
above notices, and with verse I will conclude. 
The passage is extracted from my M!SS. written 
above thirty years ago : it turns upon the indi- 
vidual dignity which humbleness of social condi- 
tion does not preclude, but frequently promotes. 
It has no direct bearing upon clubs for the dis- 
cussion of public affairs, nor upon political or 
trade-unions ; but if a single workman — who, 
being a member of one of those clubs, runs the 
risk of becoming an agitator, or who, being en- 
rolled in a union, must be left without a will of 
his own, and therefore a slave — should read 
these lines, and be touched by them, I should 
indeed rejoice, and little would I care for losing 
credit as a po"t with intemperate critics, who 
think differently from me upon political philo- 



i8 3 5 



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825 



sophy or public measures, if the sober-minded 
admit that, in general views, my affections have 
been moved, and my imagination exercised, un- 
der and far the guidance of reason. 

•' Here might I pause, and bend in reverence 
To Nature, and the power of human minds; 
To men as they are men within themselves. 
How oft high service is performed within, 
When all the external man is rude in show ; 
Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold, 
But a mere mountain chapel that protects 
Its simple worshippers from sun and shower ! 
Of these, said I, shall be my song ; of these, 
If future years mature me for the task, 
Will I record the praises, making verse 
Deal bolily with substantial things — in truth 
And sanctity of passion, speak of these, 
That justice may be done, obeisnnce paid 
Where it is due. Thus haply shall I teach, 
Inspire, through unadulterated ears 
Four rapture, tenderness, and hope ; my theme 
No other than the very heart of man, 
As found among the best of those who live, 
Not uuexalted by religious faith, 
Nor uninformed by books, good books, though few, 
In Nature's presence : thence may I select 
Sorrow that is not sorrow, but delight, 
And miserable love that is not pain 
To hear of, for the glory that redounds 



Therefrom to human kind, and what wo are. 

Be mine to follow with no timid step 

Where knowledge leads me ; it shall be my pride 

That I have dared to tread this holy ground, 

Speaking no dream, but things oracular, 

Matter not lightly to be heard by those 

Who to the letter of the outward promise 

Do read the invisible soul ; by men adroit 

In speech, and for communion with the world 

Accomplished, minds whose faculties are then 

Most active when they are most eloquent, 

And elevated most when most admired. 

Men may be found of other mould than these ; 

Who are their own upholders, to themselves 

Encouragement and energy, and will ; 

Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words 

As native passion dictates. Others, too, 

There are, among the walks of homely life, 

Still higher, men for contemplation framed ; 

Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase ; 

Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink 

Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse. 

Theirs is the language of the heavens, the power, 

The thought, the image, and the silent joy : 

Words are but under-agents in their souls ; 

When they are grasping with their greatest strength 

They do not breathe among them ; this I speak 

In gratitude to God, who feeds our hearts 

For his own service, knoweth, loveth us, 

When we are unregarded by the world." 



NOTES 



1785 

Page 1. Lines Written as a School Ex- 
ercise at Hawkshead. 

The great teachers of our time insist that the 
first movements in the evolutionary processes 
must be read in the light of all that follow. So 
it is in the study of the works of a great poet ; 
after becoming familiar with all the stages of 
his art we return to the first and elemental 
stage and view it in the light of all that fol- 
lowed. The early poems of Wordsworth have 
a singular interest when thus considered, al- 
though in themselves they may be quite insig- 
nificant. We must remember it was at Hawks- 
head that this shy, awkward Cumberland lad 
came under influences which were the most 
vital in forming his poetic ideas. In the old 
Edward VI. School, founded by Archbishop 
Sandys of York in 1588, he had revealed to 
him something of the dignity, beauty, and 
catholicity of learning. The statutes provided 
that "there shall be a perpetual free school, to 
be called the free grammar school of Edwyne 
Sandys, for teaching grammar and the princi- 
ples of the Greek tongue, with other sciences 
necessary to be taught in the school, freely, 
without taking any stipend, wages, or other 
exactions from the scholars resorting to the 
said school for learning." 

While this and the two following Hawks- 
head School poems are billowy in feeling and 
mechanical in form, as are those of Coleridge 
written at the same time at Christ's Hospital, 
yet they are full of the spirit which in time 
will create its own purity and strength of lan- 
guage, sanity of thought and feeling. They 
are an expression of what came to him con- 
sciously in those days, as the early books of 
" The Prelude" are of what came to him uncon- 
sciously. 

1787-9 

Page 3. An Evening Walk. 

This poem was begun in his first college 
vacation, the events of which are revealed in 
" The Prelude," iv. It was continued on the 
second vacation spent with his sister and Mary 
Hutchinson at Penrith, and completed on his 
return to Cambridge. As given to the press 
in 1793, it contained many passages from his 
various poems written at Hawkshead. Its 
present form is the work of years between 
1793 and 1836. 

This was the first poem that Wordsworth 
published, and his own note to it reveals why 
it was that he defined poetry, his poetry at 
least, as " emotion recollected in tranquillity." 
He did not give voice to his feelings at the 



time of experiencing them, but treasured them 
for future use. In this way he avoided the 
error of Byron, but at the same time laid him- 
self open to the charge of lacking passion. 
Here, too, the lover of Wordsworth who cares 
to identity places referred to in his works finds 
that he must keep in mind Wordsworth's criti- 
cism of those poets who go into the presence of 
nature with pencil and note-book. He says: 
" Nature does not permit an unveiling to be 
made of her charms ! He should have left his 
pencil and note-book at home ; fixed his eye as 
he walked with a reverent attention on all 
that surrounded him, and taken all into his 
heart that he could understand and enjoy. 
Afterwards he would have discovered that 
while much of what he had admired was pre- 
served to him, much was also most wisely oblit- 
erated. That which remained, the picture 
surviving in his mind, would have presented 
the ideal and essential touch of the scene, and 
done so in large part by discarding much which, 
though in itself striking', was not character- 
istic. In every scene, many of the most 
brilliant, details are but accidental." 

Topographical notes are necessary in reading 
such a poet as Wordsworth, as every hill and 
vale, tarn and lake, highroad and bypath, 
grove or forest in the lake land is imperish- 
ably associated with his work ; but we must 
bring with us an imagination trained by long 
reading of his poetry in order to localize and 
not materialize too sordidly the scenes, for 

" From worlds not quickened by the sun, 
A portion of the gift is won. 
An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread 
On ground which British shepherds tread." 

Although these early poems are full of affec- 
tation in form, a study of them in the localities 
to which they refer will reveal what is funda- 
mental in all his works : a fine perception of 
the varying aspects of Nature as revealed to 
the eye ; an exquisitely quick sensitiveness 
to the sounds of Nature in her quiet moods ; 
and a meditative pathos which carried him to 
the heart of the scene before him. There is 
vigor of feeling in this poem which is of youth, 
and peace of feeling which is mature. 

On the publication of "An Evening Walk," 
Dorothy Wordsworth writes to a friend : "There 
are some glaring faults, but I hope you will dis» 
cover many beauties, which could only have 
been created by the imagination of a poet." 

Mr. E. Legouis thinks that the excess of 
faults which appear in these early poems will 
account for the excess in the poet's reforma- 
tion — his theory and practice. 

Line 9. Winander sleeps. These lines are 



PAGES 4-17 



NOTES 



827 



only applicable to the middle part of that lake. 

w. w. 

Line 20. woodcocks roamed. In the begin- 
ning of the winter, these mountains are fre- 
quented by woodcocks. W. \Y. 

Line 49. intake. The word intake is local, 
and signifies a mountain enclosure. W. W. 
Line 54. ghyll. Ghyll is also, I believe, a 
, term confined to this country : ghyll and dingle 
, have the same meaning. W. W. 

Line OS. secret bridge. The reader who has 

made a tour of this country, will recognize, in 

. this description, the features which charact erize 

1 the lower waterfall in the grounds of Rydal. 

. W. W. 

Line 133. ' green rings.' "Vivid rings of 
green." — Greenwood's Poems on Shooting. 
W. W. 

Line 146. Sweetly ferocious. " Dolcemente 
, feroce." — Tasso. 

In this description of the cock, I remembered 
a spirited one of the same animal in L' Agricul- 
ture, ou Les Georgiques Francois, of M. Bossuet. 

w. w. 

Line 191. Gives one bright glance, etc. From 
Thomson. W. W. 

Line -07. Winding in ordered pomp. See a 
description of an appearance of this kind in 
Clark's Survey of the Lakes, accompanied by 
vouchers of its veracity, that niay amuse the 
reader. W. W. 

1789 

Page 9. Remembrance of Collins. 

Line 14. Who murmuring here a later ditty. 

Collins's "Ode on the Death of Thomson,'' 

. the last written, I believe, of the poems which 

; w T ere published during his lifetime. This Ode 

is also alluded to in the next Stanza. W. W. 

1791-2 

Page 10. Descriptive Sketches. 

Wordsworth's third college summer holidays, 

1790, were spent with a fellow-student, Robert 

Jones, in traveling on foot through France and 

. Switzerland. The mighty impulse of the French 

I Revolution and the glories of Alpine scenery 

together roused the poet in his nature. Re- 

i turning to Cambridge, he took his degree in 

1 January, 1791, after which he spent some time 

1 with his sister at Forncett Rectory, then went 

; to London, and early in 1791 he again visited 

i France. He was at work now upon " Sketches ' 

. of Ids Swiss travels with Jones, and in 1793, when 

with his sister at Forncett, he published them, 

totrether with " An Evening Walk." The de- 

' tailed history of these years is given in "The 

i Prelude," vi.-x. Coleridge, during his last year 

in college, before he met Wordsworth, chanced 

upon these " Sketches " and at once pronounced 

this remarkable critical judgment, "Seldom, if 

, ever, was the emergence of a great and original 

poetic genius above the literary horizon more 

! evidently announced." 

Line 32. Memnon's lyre. The lyre of Mem- 
I non is reported to have emitted melancholy or 



cheerful tones, as it was touched by the sun's 
evening or morning rays. W. \V. 

Line 70. The Cross. Alluding to the crosses 
seen on the tops of the spiry rocks of the Char- 
treuse, which have every appearance of being 
inaccessible. W. \Y. 

Line 72. streams of Life und Death. Names 
of rivers at the Chartreuse. W. W. 

Line 75. Vallombre. Name of one of the 
valleys of the Chartreuse. W. W, 

Line 157. her waters gleam. The river along 
whose banks you descend in crossing the Alps 
by the Simplon Pass. W. W. 

Line 200. cells. The Catholic religion pre- 
vails here: these cells an;, as is well known, 
very common in 1 he ( !atholic countries, planted, 
like the Roman tombs, along the roadside. 

w. w. 

Line 202. death-cross. Crosses, commemora- 
tive of the deaths of travellers by the fall of 
snow, and other accidents, are very common 
along this dreadful road. W. \V. 

Line 214. wood-cottages. The houses in the 
more retired Sw iss valleys are all built of wood. 

w. w. 

Line .'W. Through vacant worlds, etc. For 
most of the images in the next sixteen verses, I 
am indebted to M. Raymond's interesting obser- 
vations annexed to his translation of Coxe's 
Tout in Switzerland. W. W. 

Line 339. pensive Underwalden's pastoral 
heights. The people of this Canton are supposed 
to be of a more melancholy disposition than the 
other inhabitants of the Alps; this, if true, 
may proceed from their being more secluded. 
W.W. 

Line 348. chalets, etc. This picture is from 
the middle region of the Alps. Chalets are 
summer huts for the Swiss herdsmen. W. W. 

Line 359. sugh. Sugh, a Scotch word ex- 
pressive of the sound of the wind through the 
trees. W.W. 

Line 452. few in arms, etc. Alluding to 
several battles which the Swiss in very small 
numbers have gained over their oppressors, 
the house of Austria ; and in particular to one 
fought at Naeffels. near Clams, where three 
hundred and fifty men are said to have defeated 
an army of between fifteen and twenty thousand 
Austrians. Scattered over the valley are to be 
found eleven stones, with this inscription, 1388, 
the year the battle was fought, marking out, as 
I was told upon the spot, the several places 
where the Austrians, attempting to make a 
stand, were repulsed anew. W. W. 

Line 472. Pikes, of darkness. As Schreek- 
Horn, the pike of terror: Wetter-Horn, the 
pike of storms, etc., etc. W. W. 

Line 527. Bows his young head, etc. The 
well-known effect of the famous air called in 
France " Ranz des Vaches," upon the Swiss 
troops. W. W. 

Line 54(5. Einsiedlen's wretched fane. _ This 
shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, by 
multitudes from every corner of the Catholic 
world, labouring under mental or bodily afflic- 
tions. W. W. 



828 



NOTES 



PAGES 18-33 



Line 560. The fountains. Rude fountains 
built and covered with sheds for the accommo- 
dation of the Pilgrims, in their ascent of the 
mountain. W. \V. 

Line 619. Sourd. An insect so called, which 
emits a short, melancholy cry, heard at the 
close of the summer evenings, on the banks of 
the Loire. W. W. 

Line 636. majestic course, etc. The duties 
upon many parts of the French rivers were so 
exorbitant that the poorer people, deprived of 
the benefit of water carriage, were obliged to 
transport their goods by land. W. W. 

1791-4 

Page 10. Guilt and Sorrow. 

After the publication of the two little quartos, 
"An Evening Walk " and " Descriptive 
Sketches," 1793, Wordsworth went to the Isle of 
Wight with his friend, William Calvert of Win- 
dybrow, Keswick. They drove through the New 
Forest to Salisbury, but their carriage breaking 
down, Calvert went north on horseback, while 
Wordsworth walked through South Wales via 
Bristol, and visited his friend Jones. He spent 
several days wandering on Salisbury Plain, visit- 
ing the valley of the Wye and Goodrich Castle, 
which gave him material for two other poems : 
" We are Seven " and " Tintern Abbey." * 

"Stanzas xxii.-xxiv. and xxxviii.-xl. were 
published in 179S under title of ' Female Va- 
grant.' " — E. Dowden. 

Line 81. And, hovering round it often did a 
raven jiy. From a short MS. poem read to 
me when an undergraduate, by my schoolfellow 
and friend, Charles Farish, long since deceased. 
The verses were by a brother of his, a man of 
promising genius, who died young. W. W. 

1795 

Page 31. Lines Left upon a Seat in a 
Yew-Tree. 

After the experiences sketched in the pre- 
vious poem, Wordsworth returned to Keswick 
and lived with the Speddings for a time, then 
joined Dorothy at Mill Hoi>3e, Halifax. He 
was in suspense as to what his future would 
he. His relatives were getting anxious for him 
to do some definite work. Dorothy and he, in 
1794, traveled from Halifax to Keswick, Cock- 
ermouth, and Whitehaven, returning to the 
farm at Windybrow, loaned him by William 
Calvert. Dorothy writes of these days at the 
"farm:" "Our breakfast and our supper are 
of milk and potatoes, and we drink no tea." 
Here he writes of the reception of his first 
poems, " An Evening Walk " and " Descriptive 
Sketches:" "As I had done nothing; hy which 
to distinguish myself at the University, I 
thought these little things might show that I 
could do something. They have been treated 
with unmerited contempt by some of the peri- 
odicals, and others have spoken in higher 
terms of them than they deserve." During 
this year he changed his ideas in regard to the 



French Revolution, as may be seen in " The 
Prelude," xi. He projected a monthly maga- 
zine, but no publisher could be found. In the 
mean time Calvert's brother, Raisley, became 
ill and Wordsworth attended him until his 
death, when it was found that in his will he 
had left Wordsworth .£900. This was suffi- 
cient to provide the shade in which he might 
grow ripe, and the leisure in which to grow 
wise. The sonnet to the memory of Raisley 
Calvert, together with the allusion to him in 
" The Prelude," xiv., reveal the significance of 
this noble act. It was now possible for Words- 
worth to live with his sister, whose unselfish 
devotion and marvelous insight, born of love, 
became such a force in his life. They settled at 
Racedown in Dorsetshire. 

The old farmhouse on the slope of Blackdown, 
beautiful for prospect of hill, forest, sun and 
sky, remains essentially as in Wordsworth's 
day, and well repays one for a few days' wan- 
dering. Dorothy often spoke of it later in life 
as " the place dearest to my recollections upon 
the whole surface of the island ; it was the 
first home I had." It is not surprising, there- 
fore, that the first poem written here, through 
emotion recollected in solitude, should reveal the 
elements of the genius and passion, as well as 
the wisdom and truth which were to constitute 
Wordsworth's essential gift to English poetry. 
This poem connects the new act in his life with 
the earlier happy time at Hawkshead. 

Line 1. The yew-tree was on the eastern 
side of the lake, about ten minutes' walk from 
the village. 

Line 12. The individual spoken of was edu- 
cated at the university, and was a man of talent 
and learning. W. W. 

1795-6 

Page 33. The Borderers. 

The years 1796-7 are eventful in the history 
of English literature. By a remarkable coin- 
cidence, Coleridge, who had but recently mar- 
ried, was giving to the world a slender volume 
of poems, and was preparing to settle at Nether 
Stowey. On hearing that the author of " De- 
scriptive Sketches " was not far away, he took 
the first opportunity of visiting him. Of this 
visit Dorothy writes: "The first thing that 
was read on that occasion was ' The Ruined 
Cottage ' [now the first book of " The Excur- 
sion"], with which Coleridge was so much de- 
lighted ; and after tea he repeated to us two acts 
and a half of his tragedy ' Osorio.' The next 
morning William read his tragedy ' The Bor- 
derers.' " 

" ' The Borderers ' was born out of the Reign 
of Terror, and Oswald, like the actors in the 
terrible tragedy, kills an innocent man in 
the belief that he is punishing a guilty one." — 
E. Legouis. 

Wordsworth is here revealed in the depths of 
moral despondency, and in " The Ruined Cot- 
tage " as restored to health. 

" This Dramatic Piece, as noticed in its 



PAGES 70-83 



NOTES 



829 



title-page, was composed in 1795-96. It lay 

nearly front that time till within the last two or 
three months unregarded among my papers, 
without being mentioned even to my most inti- 
mate friends. Having, however, impressions 
upon my mind winch made me unwilling to 
destroy the MS., I determined to undertake 
the responsibility of publishing it during my 
own life, rather than impose upon my successors 
the task of deciding its fate. Accordingly it 
has been revised with some care ; but. as it was 
at first written, and is now published, without 
any view to its exhibition upon the stage, not 
the slightest alteration has been made in the 
conduct of the story, or the composition of 
the characters ; above all, in respect to the 
two leading Persons of the Drama, I felt no 
inducement to make any change. The study 
of human nature suggests this awful truth; 
that as in the trials to which life subjects us, 
sin and crime are apt to start from their very 
opposite qualities, so are there no limits to the 
hardening of the heart and the perversion of 
the understanding to which they may carry 
their slaves. During my long residence in 
France, while the Revolution was rapidly ad- 
vancing to its extreme of wickedness, I had 
frequent opportunities of being an eye-witness 
of this process, and it was while that know- 
ledge was fresh upon my memory that the 
Tragedy of ' The Borderers ' was composed." 

w. w. 

1797 

Page 70. The Reverie of Poor Susak. 
In the edition of 1800 the following was 

added to the poem : — 

" Poor Outcast ! return, to receive thee once more 
The house of thy Father will open its door, 
Aud then once again, in thy plain russet gown, 
May'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own." 

1798 

Page 71. "We are Seven. 

A new era in the history of English litera- 
ture began with this first meeting of Words- 
worth and Coleridge at. Racedown, for then it 
was that the epoch-making volume, the Lyri- 
cal Ballads, had its origin. William and Dor- 
othy returned this visit soon, and, concluding 
that thirty miles was too far for daily walks, 
they decided to leave Racedown and settle 
at Alfoxden. Alfoxden was a large mansion, 
beautifully located on a slope of the Quantock 
Hills, in sight of Bristol Channel. Woods of 
old oaks and large hollies, with abundant fern 
and foxglove, stretch in every direction, broken 
here and there by pleasant downs and valleys 
through which the brooks run singing to the 
sea. Dorothy wrote : " The deer dwell here, 
and the sheep, so that we have a lively pros- 
pect ; walks extend for miles over the hill- 
tops." This Avas the poet's spring-time of 
energy and imaginative insight. The visitor 
of to-day will find the country but little chanced 
from what it was when she described it. The 



student of these poets should not fail to visit the 
Quantocks with their wealth of romantic love- 
liness which called forth such outbursts of 
poetical enthusiasm in that annus mirabilis of 
the two poets. 

At each of three critical periods in the 
world's history mankind has learned its wisest 
lessons by gazing into the face of the child. 
In the early days of Christianity the spirit by 
which the new revelation was to be grasped 
was that of the child ; at the breaking up of 
the Middle Ages modern life again breathed 
its highest conceptions of art in the person of a 
child ; and in our own day, through the influ- 
ence of this little poem, and others of like 
nature, Wordsworth flashed the great truths 
anew and asked "What intimations of life 
eternal are here ? " 

Page 73. Anecdote for Fathers. 

Much has been made of Wordsworth's lim- 
itations. The most devoted Wordsworthians 
admit his lack of dramatic power, his weak- 
ness in creation of character, and in evolution 
of narrative, — and that he lacked humor ; 
yet they insist that these very limitations must 
be considered in estimating his essential great- 
ness. 

The moral reflections with which the poem 
concludes are quite unlike the homiletics of 
the didactic school. 

Page 81. Lines Written in Early Spring. 

In the unambitious loveliness of this little 
poem and that which follows is revealed that 
conception of Nature — the most original of 
all those which Wordsworth added to English 
poetry — as having its own peculiar life, an in- 
finite activity of giving and receiving love and 
joy in itself, but also in the association of man. 
This life is none other than the Spirit of God 
consciously active in all parts, as well as in the 
individual whole which we call Nature. This 
idea reaches sublime heights in all his charac- 
teristic work, and becomes a protest against any 
mechanical tbeory of the Universe. 

Lines 21-24. "This is the only immediate 
complaint breathed by Wordsworth's poetry, 
and it must be admitted that even here sorrow 
for mankind is outweighed by joy in nature." — 
E. Legouis. 

This dell remains essentially as in the poet's 
time, and will repay a visit. It is now known 
as Wordsworth's Glen. 

Page 83. Expostulation and Reply. 

In this and the poem which follows we have 
Wordsworth's protest against a mechanical con- 
ception of education. He knows that it is only 
in love and humility, "in a wise passiveness," 
that our essential selves, "What Is," meets 
and responds to the essential life in nature and 
art. The eye sees and the ear hears the life of 
things, the breath and finer spirit of all know- 
ledge, only when man is potentially soul. When 
the physical and the intellectual are wedded to 
the spiritual in love and holy passion, the poetic 






8 3 o 



NOTES 



PAGES 91-99 



imagination is created — the supreme intellect- 
ual faculty. 

Page 91. Lines Composed a Few Miles 

ABOVE TlNTERN ABBEY. 

The early months of 1798 were spent in 
arranging for the publication of the Lyrical 
Ballads, when the lease of Alfoxden expired. 
Wordsworth did not ask for a renewal of the 
lease, as he was planning a visit to Germany in 
order to study the language. It is evident from 
Coleridge's letters at this time that after the 
advent of the Revolutionist, Thelwall, some sus- 
picions grew up in regard to the character of 
the three which reflected upon Thomas Poole, 
the patron both of Coleridge and Wordsworth. 
It is certain that a government spy was sent to 
watch their movements. In June the Words- 
worths left Alfoxden, and after spending a week 
with Coleridge, visiting Cottle at Bristol to ar- 
range details of bringing out the Lyrical Bal- 
lads, they took the ramble on the Wye out of 
which grew this poem, which more than any yet 
written by him reveals the mastery of all the 
elements that go to make a work of art ; 
thought, fueling, will, are fused by impassioned 
contemplation ; it is the triumph of imagination 
contemplative. In purity and dignity of diction, 
in strength and majesty of conception, in rich- 
ness and delicacy of imaginative insight, it is 
not surpassed by Shakespeare or Milton ; while 
in its revelation of the recesses of man's being 
it moves in a region quite apart from anything 
yet written in English poetry. 

The Lyrical Ballads were issued anonymously 
in September. The volume contained four 
poems by Coleridge and nineteen by Words- 
worth. The first poem was the " Ancient Mar- 
iner " and the last " Tin tern Abbey." 

The great truths which the poet here reveals 
through the poetic imagination have at last 
been affirmed by modern science, and the best 
commentary on them is to be found in John 
Fiske's Through Nature to God, where the reality 
of the Unseen Universe is so splendidly set forth. 
He says : " We have at length reached a stage 
where it is becoming daily more and more ap- 
parent that with the deeper study of Nature 
the old strife between faith and knowledge is 
drawing to a close ; and disentangled at last 
from that ancient slough of despond the Human 
Mind will breathe a freer air and enjoy a vastly 
extended horizon." 

Line 4. inland murmur. The river is not 
affected bv the tides a few miles above Tin- 
tern. W.'W. 

Line 97. Tennyson called this almost the 
grandest line in the English language, giving 
the sense of the abiding in the transient. 

Page 93. The Old Cumberland Beggar. 

Here, as in "The Excursion," Wordsworth is 
using material gathered from his Hawksbead 
experiences. 

The "Growth of a Poet's Mind" as Words- 
worth has revealed it to us in " The Prelude " 
shows the means which Nature used to educate 



him into the poet of humanity. Humble men 
and women, the village dames, the thrifty 
dalesmen, and the hardy shepherds — 

" Of these, said I, shall be my song, of these 
Will I record the praises, 
That justice may be doue, obeisance paid 
Where it is due." 

For this work his early associations and the 
inspiration of the great Peasant Poet of Scot- 
land had predisposed him. 

In order to see what a giant stride these 
poems took in advance of the age, we need to 
compare them with the poems which preceded. 
Of man as found in the abodes of wealth and 
refinement, preceding poetry had been mind- 
ful ; and Wordsworth was too broad not to re- 
cognize that from hence had proceeded much 
that was pure and unworldly, yet he believed 
that rich veins of poetic feeling lay hidden 
in the lives of homely men and women. This 
was, as Frederick Robertson says, a "high and 
holy work," and for it both the rich and the 
poor praise him. 

Lines 1-66. Plain imagination and severe 
could hardly produce a more distinct picture of 
one who, to the eye of the economist, had out- 
lived all usefulness. 

" Wordsworth's is the poetry of intellect and 
of feeling — of humanity in the abstracts chiefly ; 
and yet what is more human than ' The Old 
Cumberland Beggar ?'" — Dr. John Brown. 

Lines 67-87. See note on " Lines Left upon 
a Seat in a Yew-Tree. " 

Page 96. Animal Tranquillity and De- 
cay. 

" In the edition of 1798 this Poem was called 
' Old Man travelling ; animal tranquillity and 
decay.' " — Knight. 

Page 96. Peter Bell. A Tale. 

One of the most interesting studies of this 
poem, so often the subject of critical sarcasm, 
is that of Mr. Walter Raleigh, in his work 
on Wordsworth, London, 1903. Mr. Raleigh 
calls "Peter Bell" Wordsworth's "Ancient 
Mariner." 

Pakt First. Line 11. A Potter. In the 
dialect of the North, a hawker of earthenware 
is thus designated. W. W. 

Those who have passed by " Peter Bell " 
with a contemptuous smile may be surprised at 
the following in Morley's Life of Gladstone, vol. 
i. p. 222 : " To the great veteran poet of the 
time Mr. Gladstone's fidelity was unchanging, 
even down to compositions that the ordinary 
Wordsworthian gives up: 

"'Read aloud Wordsworth's "Cumberland 
Beggar " and " Peter Bell." The former is gen- 
erally acknowledged to be a noble poem, the 
same justice is not done to the latter ; I was more 
than ever struck with the vivid power of the 
descriptions, the strong touches of feeling, the 
skill and order with which the plot upon Peter's 
conscience is arranged, and the depth of inter- ' 
est which is made to attach to the humblest of 



PAGES IO9-123 



NOTES 



831 



quadrupeds. It must have cost great labour, 
and is an extraordinary poeni both as a whole 
and in detail.' " 

It is interesting' to note that the twofold 
aspect of tbe Quantocks is to be found in the 
poems of Coleridge and Wordsworth. To Cole- 
ridge we look for the poetical presentation of 
the landscape of the Quantocks, the loveliness 
of dell and comb, the glorious prospects of wide- 
spreading woods and the loud sounding sea ; 
and to Wordsworth for a corresponding render- 
ing of the life of the inhabitants of the district, 
cottages, toilers in the held and shepherds in 
the hills. 

1799 

Page 109. The Simplon Pass. 

Wordsworth, Dorothy, and Coleridge left Eng- 
land on the 16th of September, 1798, before the 
critics had time to level their guns on the frail 
craft of the Lyrical Ballads. On arriving in 
Germany they received this cheerful news from 
Mrs. Coleridge : " The Lyrical Ballads are not 
liked at all by any." Coleridge soon left the 
Wordsworths to study the German language, 
literature, and philosophy at Ratzeburg and Got- 
tingen, and they settled down for the winter in 
the old imperial town of Goslar, at the foot 
of the Hartz Mountains. Here in the coldest 
winter of the century, — with little of that har- 
mony without which had evolved the Lyrical 
Ballads, — recollections of Hawkshead and 
Stowey again aroused the harmony within. 

This poem will be found in the sixth book of 
" The Prelude." It was first published in the 
collected edition, 1845. It refers to Words- 
worth's first visit to Switzerland in 1790. 

Page 110. Influence of Natural Ob- 
jects. 

This picture of school life at Hawkshead was 
afterwards incorporated in the first book of 
" The Prelude." 

Page 111. There was a Boy. 
First published in the second edition of 
Lyrical Ballads, 1800. 

This passage is found in the fifth book of 
" The Prelude." Wordsworth sent these lines to 
Coleridge, who wrote from Ratzeburg of them : 
" That - 

uncertain heaven received 
Into the bosom of the steady lake, 

I should have recognized anywhere ; and had 
I met these lines running wild in the deserts of 
Arabia, I should have instantly screamed out, 
'Wordsworth' ! " 

Page 111. Nutting. 

It is not difficult for the visitor at Hawks- 
head to locate the scene of this holiday sport. 

Page 112. "Strange Fits of Passion Have 
I Known." 

It is fortunate for us that Wordsworth was 
not absorbed in German philosophy, else we 
never would have possessed these exquisite 



poems on Lucy, — pearls gathered upon a golden 
thread. Five short poems are all we have of 
her whom we know not, save as she is here en- 
shrined with an " artlessness which only art can 
know." 

_ To analyze such poems as these is almost a 
sin ; as well might one attempt to ascertain by 
the microscope the source of beauty in the 
flower. 

They are genuine love-poems, and yet how 
far removed from that species of love-poetry 
which encourages vulgar curiosity, or the pa- 
rade of the inmost sanctuary of the heart. All 
that is given us is that Lucy once lived, is now 
no more. Those who are able to comprehend 
these poems will be least disposed to discuss 
them . 

Many have wondered why one w^ho could 
write such love-poems as these wrote so few. 
Aubrey de Vere says : " This question was once 
put to the Poet by myself ; and a part of the 
reply was this, — ' Had I been a writer of love- 
poetry it would have been natural to me to 
write it with a degree of warmth which could 
hardly have been approved by my principles.' " 
In his stanzas " The Poet and the Caged Turtle 
Dove " we find this additional answer, — 

"Love, blessed love, is everywhere 
The sriRiT of my song." 

It is significant that these are almost the only 
poems as to which the poet was silent in his 
autobiographical notes. 

Page 113. A Poet's Epitaph. 

Lines _ 37-56. In this portrait of Words- 
worth's ideal poet we find clearly marked those 
characteristics which he himself possessed. 

Page 114. Address to the Scholars of 
the Village School of . 

The subject of this poem, and the three 
which follow it, was the master of Hawkshead 
b'chool, Rev. William Taylor, the third of the 
masters who taught Wordsworth. 

Lines 3, 4. These lines were no doubt sug- 
gested by the fact that just before his death 
the master sent for the boys of the upper class, 
among them Wordsworth, and gave them his 
blessing. He was buried in Cartmell Church- 
yard. See '* The Prelude," x. 534. 

Page 115. Matthew. 

In editions of the poet's works 1800-1820, 
the title of this poem was, " Lines written on a 
Tablet in a School." Not until after 1836 was 
it called " Matthew." The tablet still may 
be seen in the old school, which has now been 
adorned with quotations from the poet's works. 

1800 

Page 123. " Bleak Season Was It." 
On Feb. 10, 1799, Wordsworth and his sis- 
ter set their faces toward England, and the 
poet voiced their feelings at the joyous event 
in that vernal hymn which now stands as the 



8 3 2 



NOTES 



PAGES 123-I25 



first forty lines of "The Prelude.'' At this 
time Wordsworth had in mind a poem in three 
parts and an introduction. The introduction 
was to deal with events in the development of 
his own life, while the main work, in three 
parts, was to be a philosophical discussion of 
the great principles pertaining to man. Nature, 
and human life. This poem was to be called 
" The Recluse. 7 ' Only the introduction. " The 
Prelude,' the second part, "The Excursion." and 
the first book of the first part were completed. 
" The Excursion" was the only part published 
during his life. " The Prelude " was published 
111 1850, and the first part of "The Recluse" 
not until 1888. This selection and the one fol- 
lowing from "The Recluse" were first pub- 
lished by the bishop of Lincoln in his Mi moirs 
of the poet, 1851. They relate to the settle- 
ment at Grasmere, and I place them here on 
the supposition that they were written not far 
from 1800. ._ 

On returning to England Wordsworth and 
his sister visited their relatives, the Hutehin- 
sons, at Sockbmn-on-Tees, County Durham ; 
there they remained until autumn. In Sep- 
tember Wordsworth, his brother John, and Cole- 
ridge made an excursion through the Lake 
District. They were greatly pleased with the 
vale of Grasmere and the cottage at Town-End 
which bore the sign of The Dove and Olive 
Bough. Wordsworth leased the cottage and on 
the 19th of December, 1799, they set out for 
their new home. After a journey of three 
days over snow and ice, turning aside to see the 
frozen waterfalls and watch the changing as- 
pect of cloud and sunshine, they reached Dove 
Cottage on the 21st. During the years of resi- 
dence here, by dint of "plain living and high 
thinking." was produced that poetry which 
placed Wordsworth among the Immortals. 
Dove Cottage is perhaps more often thought 
of in connection with the poet than is Rydal, 
the home of his later years. 

The situation is beautiful for prospect, being 
on the right of the road over White Moss Com- 
mon as you approach Grasmere from Ambleside. 
The garden, so often alluded to in his poetry, 
slopes upward to the wooded heights, and has 
not suffered much alteration since 180ft. Here 
still bloom the primroses and daffodils. From 
the terrace, approached by stone steps cut by 
Wordsworth himself, one gets a beautiful view 
across the lake to Silver How, Red Bank, and 
Loughrigg, on the west and south : while to the 
east and north the eye ranges from Fairfield, 
Helvellyn, and Dunmail Raise, to Helm Crag 
and Easdale. Tho view from the front of the 
house has become obstructed by cottages and a 
pretentious modern hotel. The house and gar- 
den are now the property of trustees, and will 
forever remain memorials of the great poet. 
At Dove Cottage was begun Dorothy's Gras- 
mere Journal, which, besides revealing the man- 
ner of plain living:, gives us a clear insight into 
her own rare poetic nature, and discloses the day 
and hour, with attendant incidents, of the birth 
of most of the poems her brother wrote here. 



1799-1805 

Page 124. The Prelude. 

The history of " The Prelude " is interesting 
in many ways, as it is, in the nature of its revela- 
tions, the most significant poem he ever wrote. It 
was begun on Feb. 10, 1799, as he turned toward 
England after an absence of six months in 
Germany. His Republican ardor had some- 
what cooled and he had come to know, in a 
very real sense, the spirit of his native land. 
On settling at Grasmere "The Prelude" be- 
came his serious work until 1805, when it was 
completed. It was mainly composed on the ter- 
race walk at Under Lancrigg, and was written 
by his faithful amanuenses, his sister Dorothy 
and Mrs. Wordsworth. It was written pri- 
marily for himself, as a test of his own powers, 
at a time when he was diffident as to his ability 
to serve the muse on any more arduous subject. 
When it was completed he found the reality 
so far short of his expectation that no steps 
were taken to publish it. The fact that it 
pleased Coleridge, "the brother of his soul," 
made large amends for his own disappointment, 
and. he occasionally revised it until 1839. As 
late as 1830 Miss Fenwick alludes to Words- 
worth's revision of "The Prelude." At that 
time she writes to Sir Henry Taylor: "Our 
journey was postponed for a week, that the be- 
loved old poet might accomplish the work that 
he had in hand, the revision of his grand auto- 
biographical poem." It remained in MS. and 
without a title until the year of his death, when 
it was published by Mr. Carter, the poet's 
secretary, with the "Advertisement" which 
now appears at its head, and the title " The 
Prelude " given it by Mrs. Wordsworth. Dur- 
ing the half century which has elapsed since its 
publication it has steadily gained in favor until 
it is acknowledged to be the greatest poem of 
its kind in any language, free from every taint 
of vanity, a biography minute and authentic 
which can be read with implicit confidence. 
Coleridge once said : " Wordsworth ought never 
to abandon the contemplative position. His 
proper title is spectator ab extra." The growth 
of Wordsworth's poetic nature, as seen in 
" The Prelude," affords us an introduction, not 
only to all his own later work, but also to much 
of modern poetry in general. It reveals the 
source of that genius and passion, wisdom and 
truth, which characterizes his great work as 
poet and philosopher. As it deals with the 
period of his life before 1800, it. should be read 
here as an introduction to the Grasmere period. 
The student is advised to read with " The Pre- 
lude," La Jeunesse de Wordsworth by the dis- 
tinguished French scholar and critic, M. Emile 
Legouis. This singularly interesting study of 
" The Prelude " is one of the most illuminat- 
ing contributions to Wordsworthian literature. 
It has recently been translated into English. 

Book First. Lines 1-40. In the spring of 
1799 the Wordsworths, after a cold dreary 
winter at Goslar, returned to England ; as they 
left the city and felt the breeze fan their 



PAGES 125-133 



NOTES 



833 



cheeks Wordsworth poured forth the gladsome 
strain with which " The Prelude " opens. This 
was in his thirtieth year. " The Prelude " was 
completed in 1805. 

Line 4(i. Friend. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
On the publication of ' ' The Prelude,' ' 1850, (Sara 
Coleridge wrote : " It is a great pride and 
pleasure indeed to me that it is addressed to 
my father. They will ever be associated in 
the minds of men in time to come. I think 
there was never so close a union between two 
such eminent minds in any age." 

Line 02. place. At Sockburn-on-Tees, 
County Durham, where, on returning to Eng- 
land, they visited their kindred, the Hutch- 
insons. 

Line 72. Vale. Grasmere. 

Line 74. cottage. Dove Cottage. 

Line 84. rustled. The sense of hearing was 
remarkably acute in Wordsworth, and its 
workings are prominent in his poetry. 

Line 106. journey. Wordsworth and his sis- 
ter left Sockburn on the 19th of December, 
1799, and reached their cottage on the 21st. 

Lines 108-120. Witli only a hundred pounds 
a year they were turning their backs upon the 
world, with dalesmen for their neighbors and 
verse-making for their business. Here was pro- 
duced the most of that poetry which has made 
Wordsworth immortal. 

Lines 187-190. Mit-hridates of Pontus, who 
fled into Armenia. 

Line 191. Sertorius. A Roman general who, 
heing proscribed by Sulla, fled into Spain and 
thence to Mauritania. 

Line 192. Fortunate Isles. Supposed to be 
the Canaries. 

Line 202. heroes. They claimed to have de- 
scended from a band of Christians who fled from 
Spain when it was conquered by the Moslems. 

Line 203. Frenchman. Dominique de Gour- 
gues. 

Line 212. Gustavus I. of Sweden. 

Lines 214, 215. name of Wallace, etc. 

' At Wallace's name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood." — Burns. 

Lines 270-275. Wordsworth was born at 
Cockermouth in the north country of England 
and in sisrht of the Scottish hills. The town 
is situated at the junction of two rivers, the 
Cocker and the Derwent. 

Line 283. towers. Cockermouth Castle, 
standing on an eminence not far from the 
manor-house in which Wordsworth was born, 
was built by the first lord of Allerdale in the 
reign of William I. as a border defense. It is 
one of the finest castle ruins in England. See 
sonnet, ''Spirit of Cockermouth Castle." 

Line 28(1. terrace walk. At the garden, in 
the rear of the manor-house, is the terrace 
upon which the poet had his childish sports. 
The house and its surroundings are unaltered 
since the poet's father lived there. 

Lines 288-300. At this early age he took 

delight in his own thoughts and his own com- 

. pany, and was touched with " those visions of 



the hills " which produced in him the feeling 
of reverence and awe in the presence of Nature. 

Line 304. Vale. At Hawkshead, a small 
market-town in the vale of Esthwaite, the 
most picturesque district of Lancashire. This 
old town presents us more of interest as con- 
nected with Wordsworth than Grasmere even, 
as it has suffered less from modern "improve- 
ments," and for this reason is less frequented 
by the hasty tourist who allows only a few 
days in which to see the Lakes. There is 
no more delightful spot in the district for 
recreative enjoyment; whether we wander by 
the lake, or loiter on the fellside, whether we 
ascend the summit of Wetherlam where the 
ravens build, or rest in the vale where " wood- 
cocks run." 

Line 307. birth-days. Wordsworth, at the 
age of nine, entered the Hawkshead school. 

Line 311. heights. The hills leading up to 
the moor between Hawkshead and Coniston. 

Line 320. Vale. Yewdale. A beautiful 
pastoral vale near Hawkshead. 

Line 335. crag. Ravens' Crag in Yewdale 

Line 359. cove. By the side of Esthwaite 
Lake. One going from Hawkshead by the east 
shore of the lake can recognize this spot. 

Line 370. craggy ridge. The mountain 
Ironkeld. 

Line 378. huge peak. Either Nab Scar or 
Pike o' Stickle. 

Lines 400-410. This educational power of 
Nature never ceased; day and night, summer 
and winter, its silent influence stole into his soul. 

Lines 425-403. Coleridge cites these lines in 
proof of his fourth characteristic excellency of 
Wordsworth's work. 

Line 490. brooks. Among the hills of Yew- 
dale. 

Line 499. cottages. Wordsworth lived for 
nine years with one Anne Tyson for whose 
simple character he had a profound regard. 
The house still remains unaltered. The door 
is interesting as having upon it the "latch" 
mentioned in book second. 

Line 543. The dalesmen tell us that the 
sound of the ice breaking up in this valley is 
just as here described. 

Line 5S6. In all his sports there was nothing 
to distinguish him from other boys, except that 
in the midst of the scramble for the raven's 
nest or the run of "hare and hounds," the 
invisible, quiet Life of the world spake to him 
rememerable things. 

Book Second. Lines 5-10. Never did boy 
spend a healthier, purer, or happier school- 
time. His love for Nature was no different 
from that of other boys. It was a time full of 
giddy bliss and joy of being, yet he was gaining 
" Truths that wake to perish never." 

Lines 19-32. In after life, when sorrow and 
pain come upon us, it will help us rise above 
them if we recollect the joy and force of youth. 
The possibility of turning the lamentable waste 
of excessive sorrow into a source of strength is a 
central idea in Wordsworth's philosophy. 



834 



NOTES 



PAGES I33-I4O 



Line 56. Windermere. The largest of the 
English lakes, and not far from Hawkshead. 

Lines 58-65. Belle Isle, Lily of the Valley 
Island, and Lady Holm. Upon Lady Holm 
there was, in the time of Henry VIII. , a chapel 
dedicated to St. Mary. 

Line 101. temple. At Conishead Priory. 
There are many remains of the Druid worship 
in the lake country. 

Line 103. Furness Abbey, the largest abbey 
in England with the exception of Fountains 
Abbey, contained sixty-five acres ; it was 
founded by Stephen in 1127. The old name 
of Furness was Bekansghvll — Glen of Deadly 
Nightshade — from an herb Bekan which grew 
there. 

Line 137. Cartmell sands, where Winder- 
mere, through the Leven, enters the sea. 

Line 140. White Lion Inn at Bowness. 
The location is easily identified at the present 
time. 

Lines 157-159. An exact description of the 
scene from Bowness Church where the old tav- 
ern stood. 

Line 168. Robert Greenwood, who became 
Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge. 

Line 185. mountain. Either Wetherlam or 
Coniston Old Man. 

Lines 193, 104. This is an accurate description 
of the rising of the moon over the southern 
shore of Esthwaite. 

Line 197. Esthwaite, 

" Where deep and low the hamlets lie 
Beneath their little patch of sky 
And little plot of stars." — Peter Bell. 

Lines'201-203. The first step in Wordsworth's 
education, when the influences of Nature were 
unconsciously received, was now closing, and 
the second, when the influences were con- 
sciously sought, was opening. 

Line 280. The props of his early impressions 
were his boyish sports, and when he turned 
away from them, still the impression remained. 
He had begun to realize all that he had been 
learning xinconsciously. 

Line 333. Friend. The Rev. John Flem- 
ming, of Rayrigg. Windermere. 

Line 339. latch. Still on the door of the 
old cottage. 

Line 343. eminence. One of the heights 
northeast of Hawkshead. 

Lines 401-409. Nature now began to put on 
the appearance of personality, with whom he 
could commune. It is a wonderful picture 
of a youthful life in communion with the 
Being of the world. 

Lines 421—151 . He was now in his seventeenth 
year. The history of his boyhood is completed 
in the adoration and love of God. Looking 
back upon these years he recognizes that the 
faithful, temperate, and quiet character of his 
life has been due to the early association with 
the beautiful and the sublime things in the 
outward world. This is the philosophy of the 
great "Ode." 

Line 452. Coleridge was a charity boy at 



Christ's Hospital, London. This old school 
was founded on the site of Grey Friars Monas- 
tery, by Edward VI. In 1902 it was moved to 
Horsham, Sussex. 

Line 400. Coleridge had gone to the Medi- 
terranean in search of health. 

Book Third. Lines 1-0. Through the liber- 
ality of two uncles, the education of Words- 
worth was prolonged beyond his school-days. 
Wordsworth, in October, 1787, entered St. 
John's College. Cambridge. His education at 
the hands of Nature was to cease for a time. 
It was a great change from the retirement of 
the Grammar School at Hawkshead. King's 
College Chapel, with its lofty pinnacles, fretted 
roof of stone, and huge windows of stained 
glass, is the special boast of Cambridge. 

Lines 13, 14. Many a country boy has had a 
similar experience as he entered a college town 
for the first time. 

Line 15. The ruins of a camp or fortress 
used to defend the Fen-land (Cambridge) 
against William I. 

Line 16. Named from the college, which it 
connects with those on the other side of the Cam. 

Line 17. The Hoop Inn still exists. 

Line 20. The newcomer at Cambridge is in- 
ducted into his rooms by a gyp, or college ser- 
vant, who attends upon a number of students ; 
he takes the former tenant's furniture at a val- 
uation by the college upholsterer. 

Line 32. The gowns of the various colleges 
are different from each other, and also from 
those worn by the officers. 

Line 43. " These wine parties are the most 
common entertainments, being the cheapest 
and most convenient.'' — Bristed, Five Years 
in an English University. 

Lines 47, 48. Although Wordsworth's room 
is not pointed out to us by the officials, we know 
that it is one of two answering to this description. 

Line 61. All of the details here are exact. 
The statue of Newton is full-size. In his right 
hand he holds a roll which rests upon the fore- 
finger of the left hand; his face is raised as if 
looking off into the upper sphere. Miss Fen- 
wick says that Wordsworth, on visiting Cam- 
bridge in 1839, found that the occupant of his 
old room had his bed in an alcove, but he drew 
it out to the window to show them how it stood, 
as this passage reveals. \ 

Lines 64-75. "The little interests of the 
place were not great enough for one accustomed 
to the solemn and awful interests of Nature." 
— Rev. S. Brooke. 

Lines 90-143. He was living a double life at 
Cambridge : one with the students ; another 
with himself. 

Lines 144-154. Sometimes he betrayed his 
inner life, but as at Hawkshead he was in ap- 
pearance little different from the other students. 

Wordsworth made Nature a new thing to man 
by adding what the true artist must ever add, — 

"the glpiim. 
The light that never was on sea or land." 

Line 170. The philosophic theory of Wordy 



PAGES 141-156 



NOTES 



83S 



worth is rounded upon the identity of our child- 
ish instincts and our enlightened understanding:. 

Line 230. " Arnold is the type of English 
action ; Wordsworth is the type of English 
thought." — F. W. Robertson. 

Lines 238-269. On a nature susceptible as his 
was, a residence in that ancient seat of learning 
could not but tell powerfully ; if he had learned 
no more than what silently stole into him, the 
time would not have been misspent. 

Line 275. Mill. Remains of this are to be seen 
about three miles from Cambridge. 

Lines 298-300. Of this exploit Sir Francis 
Doyle, in his Oxford lectures, remarks : " A 
worthy clerical friend of mine, one of the best 
poetical critics I know, and also one of the 
soundest judges of port wine, always shakes his 
head about this, and says : ' Wordsworth's in- 
tentions were good, no doubt, but I greatly fear 
that his standard of intoxication was miserably 
low.' " 

Line 312. surplice. On Saturday evenings, 
Sundays, and Saints' days the students wear 
surplices instead of gowns. 

Line 322. His genius grpw too deep and 
strong to grow fast. 

" He read the face of Nature ; he read Chau- 
cer, Spenser, and Milton ; he amused himself 
and rested, and since he was Wordsworth he 
could not have done better." — Rev. S. 
Brooke. 

Wordsworth's sis f er Dorothy, in a letter 
written in 1791, says : " William reads Italian, 
Spanish, French, Greek. Latin, and English." 

Line 491. He lost the shadow, but kept the 
substance of education. 

Lines 580, 581. In this miniature world he 
had developed in him the human element. 

Book Fourth. Lines 1-10. On the road 
leading from Kendal to Windermere. The de- 
scription is exceedingly accurate. 

Line 13. The ferry, called " Nab," is below 
Bowness. 

Line 18. hill. Leading from the ferry to 
Sawrey. 

Line 21. Hawkshead Church. An old Nor- 
man structure built in 1160. 

Line 22. The position of the church on the 
hill above the village is such that it is a con- 
spicuous object from the Sawrey Hill. In 
tramping through this region " The Prelude " is 
the best of guides. 

Lines 28-39. Ann Tyson, with whom the 
poet had spent nine years. 

Lines 47, 48. There is no trace and no tradi- 
tion of the " stone table " and " dark pine " at 
Hawkshead. 

Line 51. The famous brook presents some 
difficulties to the relic hunter. Crossing the 
lane leading to the cottage we find it nearly 
covered with large, slate flags, giving the name 
Flag Street to one of the alleys of Hawks- 
head. 

Line 7fi. His Academical attire. 

Line 82. Cottage faces southwest, and in 
one of the two upper rooms the poet must have 
slept. 



Line 89. No remains of the ash can be found. 

Lines 191, 192. The result of his university 
life. 

Lines 280, 281. " We must often reach the 
higher by going back a little, and Wordsworth's 
' boundless chase of trivial pleasure ' was a 
necessary parenthesis in his education." — Rev. 
S. Brooke. 

Line 310. At a farmhouse near Hawks- 
head. 

Line 323. At this baptismal hour his path 
must have been from some of the heights north 
of Hawkshead. 

Line 380. The brook is Sawrey beck, on the 
road from Windermere to Hawkshead, and the 
long ascent is the second from the ferry. 

Line 387. The narrative with which he closes 
the book is a proof that his interest was now 
turning toward man. 

Book Fifth. Lines 18-28. Thou also, man ! 
etc. We seem here to find a reason for his de- 
liberately sacrificing this great poem during 
these years when to have published it would 
have meant so much to him. 

Line CO. I read while at school all Field- 
ing's works, Don Quixote, Gil Bias, Gulliver's 
Travels, and the Tale of the Tub. W. W. 

Lines 88-92. All that is of lasting value in 
the intellectual achievement of the poet, accord- 
ing to this dream, are the books of poetry and 
mathematical science. Cf. Preface, 1800, " If 
the time should ever come when what is now 
called science, thus familiarised to men, shall be 
ready to put 011, as it were, a form of flesh and 
blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to aid 
the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being 
thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of 
the household of man." 

Line 1G2. See Coleridge's sixth characteris- 
tic of Wordsworth. 

Line 198. Wordsworth believed in the motto 
von mult a sed maltum as applied to reading, and 
Emerson is perhaps, next to Wordsworth, the 
best exponent of the results of such a course. 

Lines 230-241. A high tribute .to his early 
teachers. Before going to Hawkshead Words- 
worth had been taught by his mother, the Rev. 
Mr. Gillbanks of Cockermouth, and Mrs. Anne 
Birkett of Penrith ; while his father had re- 
quired him to learn portions of the great 
English poets. At Hawkshead he wrote Eng- 
lish and Latin verse, studied mathematics and 
classics, but best of all had freedom to read 
what books he liked. This was equally true 
of Coleridge at Ottery and Christ's Hospital. 

Line 257. Mrs. Wordsworth died when the 
poet was in his eighth year. 

Lines 204-293. Wordsworth, fortunate as he 
was in his birthplace, was no less fortunate in 
having a mother worthy of such a tribute as he 
here pays to her. Cf. "Paradise Lost," viii. 
546-559. and Tennyson's "Princess," 292-312, 
for similar tributes to a mother's influence. 

Lines 298-340. He was among the first to 
protest asrainst educational hot-beds. 

Lines 347-388. Wordsworth here breaks with 
Rousseau, who taught that the child must be 



8 3 6 



NOTES 



PAGES 156-162 



withdrawn from the active world by a network 
of precautions born of mistrust, and asserts the 
guiding' power of Nature. 

Lines 383, 384. The frequent description of 
such scenes as this shows us how sensitive was 
the poet's ear. He recalls not only the general 
aspect of the place, but the sounds return as 
well. 

Line 391. Esthwaite. 

Line 392. churchyard . The description here 
is accurate. 

Line 393. school. Hawkshead Free Gram- 
mar School, founded by Archbishop Sandys in 
1.385, was a fatuous classical school of the North 
of England ; the building is changed but little 
since the poet's time. It rivals in interest and 
quaintness the Stratford Grammar School, and, 
like the latter, is still used. There is in it a 
library presented by the scholars, and an inter- 
esting old oak chest containing the original 
charter of the school. On the wall is a tablet 
containing the names of the masters. The oak 
benches are somewhat "insoulp'd upon." and 
one of them contains the name, — William 
Wordsworth. This the Wordsworth Society 
has had covered with glass to preserve it from 
relic-hunters. Over the outside door is the old 
sun-dial. 

Line 397. grave. The grave of the boy 
cannot be identified. 

Lines 421-125. The late Dr. Hudson has the 
following wise comment upon education : " As- 
suredly the need now most urgently pressing 
upon us, is to have vastly more of growth, and 
vastly less of manufacture, in our education; or, 
in other words, that the school be altogether 
more a garden, and altogether less a mill." — 
Essays. 

Lines 491-495. Worldly advancement and 
preferment neither are, nor ought to be, the 
main end of instruction, either in schools or 
elsewhere. W. W. 

Lines507-511. Our childhood sits, etc. In these 
lines we have the principle of the " Ode on 
Immortality." 

Lines 522-535. The picture here presented of 
the young imagination feeding upon the roman- 
tic and the legendary, is one which may well 
cause us to tremble, when we think how little 
present methods of education are doing to feed 
the taste in the young. 

Line 561. dear friend. Unknown. 

Line 563. lake. Esthwaite. 

Line'570. Passages from Pope and Goldsmith. 
" The first verses I wrote were a task im- 
posed by my master. I was called upon to 
write verses upon the completion of the sec- 
ond centenary of the school (1785). These were 
much admired — far more than they deserved, 
for they were but a tame imitation of Pope's 
versification and a little in his style." W. W. 

Lines 586-605. who in his youth, etc. Words- 
worth everywhere teaches that the joy of life 
must come from those childlike emotions 
which, if cherished, will become the most 
fruitful sources of ennobling the character. 

Book Sixth. It will be well for us to re- 



view the first two acts in the poet's life in order 
that we may the better understand the third, 
into which the following books conduct us. 

We have seen how his love of Nature was 
begotten, and how it was nurtured until the 
new element of Humanity is introduced by his 
University surroundings. We have been with 
him in those sacred moments, when — once, in 
the gray light of the gloaming, and again in 
the crimson flood of dawn — he felt that the 
altar-flame of his devotion was kindled, and 
that thenceforth he was "a dedicated spirit," a 
priest set apart for service in the Sanctuary of 
Nature. From these experiences of his we 
have learned something of the circumstances 
under which true poetry is born in all inspired 
souls, and we are now ready to follow him in his 
return to the University, and on his visit to the 
continent. 

Line 6. Granta and Cam are names for the 
same stream. 

Line 23. many books, etc. Being in advance 
of his class in Mathematics, he spent his time 
mostly with the Classics. 

Line 28. disobedience. Considering the cir- 
cumstances under which he was sent to Cam- 
bridge, it would not be unlikely that his uncles 
would be dissatisfied with his course. 

Lines 45-56. Many of Wordsworth's finest 
poems were composed before this time (April, 
1804), but he was still at work on " The Pre- 
lude." 

Line 76. A single tree. In 1808, Dorothy, on 
visiting Cambridge, wrote: "I sought out a 
favourite ash-tree which my brother speaks of 
in his poem." 

Lines 99, 100. This shows that the reading 
of the poet was not very "vague" after all. 

Lines 110, 111. Alluding to the custom of 
forming English verse after the model of the 
Classics. 

Line 117. Though advanced. " Before enter- 
ing Cambridge he had mastered five books of 
Euclid, and Algebra through Quadratics." — 
Knight. 

Lines 180, 181. Bard, etc. Thomson, " Castle 
of Indolence." 

Line 189. It is this character of frankness in 
Wordsworth which renders " The Prelude " so 
faithful a record. 

Line 193. Dovedale. In Derbyshire. 

Lines 194-200. During his second summer 
vacation he was restored to his sister, who had 
been living at Penrith with maternal relatives. 

Line 205. castle. Brougham Castle, built 
by Roger Lord Clifford, and situated at the 
junction of the Emont and Lowther, about a 
mile from Penrith. It is now in ruins. See 
"Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle." 

Line 208. Helve/ lyn. One of the largest 
mountains of the lake region, east of Grasmere 
and in sight of Dove Cottage. 

Line 209. Cross-fell. A mountain near Hel- 
vellyn. 

Line 224, Mary Hutchinson, a schoolmate 
of his at Penrith. See note, line 62, book i. 
Also see "She was a Phantom of delight." 



PAGES 162-170 



NOTES 



837 



Line 229. So near us. Wordsworth married 
Miss Hutchinson in 1802. See "A Farewell." 

Line 233. Border Beacon. A hill northeast 
of Penrith upon which, during the Border Wars, 
beacon-fires were lighted to summon the coun- 
try to arms. 

Line 237. Coleridge and Wordsworth first 
met at Racedown in June, 1797. 

Line 240. Coleridge had gone to Malta to 
regain his health. 

Line 258. In poetry and philosophy. 

Lines 266-274. A blue-coat-boy at Christ's 
Hospital, London. "Come back into memory 
as thou wei't in the day-spring of thy fancies, 
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, logician, metaphysi- 
cian, bard ! How have 1 seen the casual passer 
through the cloisters stand still, entranced . . . 
while the walls of the old Grey .Friars re-echoed 
to the accents of the inspired charity boy!' 1 '' — 
Lamb. 

Line 272. stream. River Otter in Devon. 

Line 279. thou earnest. Coleridge entered 
Cambridge in February, 1791, one month after 
Wordsworth had taken his degree. 

Line 281. course. See Life of Coleridge. 

Line 294. See Charles Lamb's " Christ's Hos- 
pital Five and Thirty Years Ago," in his Es- 
says of Elia. 

Lines 319-321. When the Bastille fell Words- 
worth was visiting his sister at Penrith and was 
unmoved by the event ; but on returning to Cam- 
bridge he found the University waking up from 
its long lethargy. He had already planned to 
visit the Alps and was delighted that he 
would become acquainted with the country 
rising out of oDpression. 

Line 323. Robert Jones, a college mate, to 
whom the poet afterwards dedicated the " De- 
scriptive Sketches," memorials of this tour. 

Line 340. " We crossed at the time," wrote 
Wordsworth, " when the whole nation was mad 
with joy, in consequence of the Revolution." 

Line 34(i. July 14, 1790, when the King 
swore fidelity to the new Constitution. They 
went from Dover to Calais. 

Line 350. By Ardres, Peronne, and Sois- 
sons, to Chalons, and thence sailed to Lyons. 

Lines 374-40(5. At Condrieu. 

Line 377. July 29, 1790. 

Line 395. We landed. At Lyons. 

Lines 407-414. "The delegates sent from 
Marseilles to the Federation." — E. Legouis. 

Lines 418-429, On Aug-. 4, they reached Char- 
treuse, a monastery situated on a rock 4000 feet 
above the sea. Here, fifty years earlier, Gray 
had uttered the first notes of enthusiasm for Al- 
pine scenery to be found in English literature. 
See Letter to Richard West, November, 1739. 

Line 436. Forest of Bruno, near Chartreuse. 

Line 439. Rivers at Chartreuse. 

Line 480. groves. In the valley of Char- 
treuse. 

Line 484. Crosses on the Rocks of the Char- 
treuse brow. 

Line 497. From July 13 to Sept. 29. 

Line 519. vale, Between Martigny and 
Col de Balme. 



Line 524. ridge. Col de Balme. 

Line 563. Built by Napoleon. 

Line 619. Down the Italian side of the Sim- 
plon. See poem on the Simplon Pass. 

Line 663. The banks of Lago di Como are 
mountains 3000 feet high, with hamlets, villas, 
chapels, and convents. 

Line 665. pathways. Footpaths are the 
only communication, by land, from village to 
village. 

Lines 670, 671. In " Descriptive Sketches.''' 

Line 700. Gravedona. At the head of Lake 
Como. 

Line 723. night. Aug. 21, 1790. 

Line 764. They reached Cologne Sept. 28, 
and went thence through Belgium to Calais. 

Book Seventh. Lines 1-4. Feb. 10, 1799. 
See note, lines 1-10, book i. In a letter dated 
Grasmere, June 3, 1805, Wordsworth says : "I 
have the pleasure to say that I finished my 
poem about a fortnight ago." Thus we are 
sure that the last seven books must have been 
written in the year 1805. 

Lines 4-6. 1 sang, etc. First two paragraphs 
of book i. 

Line 7. Scafell. The highest mountain in 
the Lake District. 

Lines 11, 12. Stopped. It is evident that this 
was in 1802, otherwise we cannot account for 
the "years " intervening before " last primrose- 
time," 1804. 

Line 13. assurance. Coleridge, before going 
to Malta, urged Wordsworth to complete this 
work. 

Line 16. summer. 1804. 

Line 31. Will chant. This book must have 
been begun in the fall of 1804. 

Line 44. grove. John's Grove, so called 
because it was the favorite resort of the poet's 
brother, Captain Wordsworth. It is but a few 
moments' walk from Dove Cottage. One passes 
it by the middle road to Rydal, opposite the 
famous "Wishing Gate;" from it there is a 
fine view across the lake to the mountains be- 
yond. See " When, to the attractions of the 
busy world." 

Line 52. excursion. Related in book vi. 

Line 54. quitted. He took his degree, B. A., 
in January, 1791. 

Lines 58-65. Undetermined, etc. He went at 
once to visit his sister at Forncett Rectory, near 
Norwich, where he remained six weeks. The 
crisis of bis life came between this time and his 
settlement at Grasmere, He had resolved to 
be a poet, but poetry would not feed him unless 
he prostituted his talents and wrote for the 
crowd. In this perplexity of mind he went to 
London, and roamed about, noting men and 
things. Meanwhile his friends were urging 
him to enter the church, the law, or the 
army. 

Line 65. Three years. It is evident from this 
that he visited London in 1788. 

Line 112. Whittington. A famous citizen of 
London, thrice Lord Mayor. 

Line 121. Vauxhall. etc. Pleasure gardens 
on the Thames, now built upon. 



8 3 8 



NOTES 



PAGES 170-182 



Line 129. See "Sonnet on Westminster 
Bridge." 

Line 131. Giants. Gog and Magog, some- 
times carried in the pageant of Lord Mayor's 
Day. 

Line 132. Bedlam. Hospital built in 1549. 

Line 13(5. Monument. On Fish Street Hill, 
erected to commemorate the Great Fire in Sep- 
tember, 1666. Tower. The most celebrated for- 
tress in Great Britain. It has been used as 
royal residence, armory, prison, treasure-house 
and seat of government. 

Line 160. Referring to the custom of mark- 
ing the house in which some noted man lived. 
7 Craven St., Strand, has," Benjamin Franklin 
lived here." 

Line 207. Sadler's Wells. A theatre, 
named from the spring in the garden. 

Line 297. Maid. Buttermere is about fifteen 
miles from Grasmere. The " Spoiler " was 
afterwards hanged at Carlisle. 

Line 383. To Cambridge, 1787. 

Lines 458, 459. All of these events lose their 
triviality when considered as necessary parts of 
the poet's education. 

Line 484. His father had set him to learn 
passages from the best English poets. 

Line 491. stage. Parliament, when the de- 
bates were in progress on the French Revolution. 
He said, "You always went away from Burke 
with your mind filled." 

Line 498. See Shakespeare's King Henry V. 

Line 529. Theory. See Burke's Reflections 
on the French Revolution. 

Lines 545-572. Wordsworth seldom resorts 
to satire, but here are some keen shafts directed 
against the fashionable preacher of the day. 

Line 504. Death of Abel. By Solomon Ges- 
ner, born in Zurich, 1730. Bard. Young, au- 
thor of Night Thoughts. 

Line 5(58. Morven. A hilly district of France. 

Line 078. St. Bartholomew. Henry I. granted 
the privileges of holding fairs on this day. 

Book Eighth. In the rush and roar of Lon- 
don, caught in the tides of her feverish life, 
Wordsworth seems to have been drifting aim- 
lessly. But the poet's heart was beating in his 
breast all the more rapidly because of the con- 
trast of the city's din to the quiet of his cloister 
life at Cambridge ; and at each pulse he felt 
himself drawn nearer to the life of man. Until 
this time, Nature was first, and Man second ; 
here in the centre of the great metropolis the 
transition was made. Now, at the beginning 
of the eighth book, he looks back and gives 
us an inside view of the workings of his own 
soul while it was being played upon by the 
influences of Nature and of Man. The value 
of book vii., of itself the least interesting in 
" The Prelude," is not grasped except by un- 
derstanding its relation to the following,— 

" There 's a day about to break, 
There 's a light about to dawn." 

Lines 1-20. One of these fairs is alluded to 
by Dorothy in her Grasmere Journal, Sept. 2, 



1800, when Coleridge was with them at Dove 
Cottage. " We walked to the Fair. ... It 
was a lovely moonlight night, and the sound of 
dancing and merriment came along the still 
air." The annual sports of the North of England 
at Grasmere resemble one of these fairs, — 

" Bid by the day they wait for all the year, 
Shepherd and swain their gayest colours don, 
For race and sinewy wrestling meet upon 
The tournay ground beside the shining mere." 

H. 1). Rawkslbt. 

Lines 48-52. From Malvern Hills, by Mr. 
Joseph Cottle (see Prefatory Note to book i.J. 

Lines 70-70. Looking back, the poet sees 
that his love of Nature led him to the love 
of Man. 

Line 77. Gehol. Hanging Gardens of Baby- 
lon. 

Lines 98-100. His childhood, passed among 
magnificent scenery where man was free, was 
moulded by the simple life of home. The men 
were as sturdy and incorruptible as the moun- 
tains themselves. The beaut}' of his country, 
like that of Switzerland, was more beautiful 
because of the liberty of soul which character- 
ized the people. 

Line 128. These shepherds, living as they 
did so near to Nature, seemed to his young 
imagination but another aspect of the fife of 
the hills. The rocks and streams were vocal, 
in the traditions of the dalesmen, with many 
a tale of suffering or heroism amid the howl- 
ing winds and the driving storms which often 
destroyed both them and their flocks. !^ee 
" Fidelity." 

Lines 145-103. Some of the rural pastimes are 
still kept alive in the region of the Lakes, but 
the tourist, with his fine clothes, pretension, and 
presents, has done much to create dissatisfac- 
tion in the breasts of the rural folk. At Gras- 
mere and Ambleside the custom of "Rush 
Bearing" is continued, in memory of the time 
when the people strewed the ground in the 
churches with rushes gathered from th.3 lake- 
side. It now occurs in August, and the rushes 
wreathed with flowers are used to decorate 
the church. It is a Children's Festival. Never 
do they forget to place an offering on the poet's 
grave. 

Lines 170-172. See " The Brothers." 

Line 175. Galesus. An Italian river, famous 
for fine-fleeced sheep. 

Line 180. Clitumnus. A tributary to the 
Tiber. 

Line 182. Lucretilis. A hill near the farm 
of Horace. 

Line 186. pastoral tract. At Goslar. Pre- 
fatory Note, book i. 

Line 210. walla. He says, " I walked daily 
on the ramparts, or on a sort of public ground 
or garden." 

Line 215. Hercynian. Near the Rhine, in 
Southern and Central Germany. 

Line 217. channels. Wastdale, Ennerdale, 
Yewdale. etc. 

Lines 223-233. The passage is unique and 



PAGES 182-192 



NOTES 



339 



unmatchable; it is characterized by a profound 
sincerity and an exquisite naturalness. 

Lines 294-340. Thus it was that the poet 
gained his firm faith in the nobility of man. 
He did not find evil as fast as he found good 
in those early days, for he read his first lesson 
on Man from the book of Nature, and saw him 
in his setting of beauty and sublimity. 

Lines 340-391. Although Nature was at first 
pre-eminent in his thoughts, yet his vision of man 
was growing clearer and clearer, and he began 
to unite the two in one picture. 

Line 408. rock, it is difficult to determine 
whether this alludes to Dove Cottage or that 
of Ann Tyson. If the former is meant, the 
rock would be on lied Bank; if the latter, it 
would be on the hill northwest of Hawkshead. 

Line 421. In preface to Lyrical Ballads, he 
says : " Fancy is given us to quicken and beguile 
the temporal part of our nature; imagination, to 
incite and support the eternal." 

Line 459. Thurstonmere. Coniston Lake, to 
the west of Hawkshead. 

Line 468. The following eight lines are recast 
from a poem which he wrote in anticipation 
of leaving school, and which he said was a tame 
imitation of Pope's versification. 

Line 477. high emotions. Poetry written be- 
fore 1805. 

Line 543. Entered. Probably in 1788. 

Line 5(52. Antiparos. One of the Cyclades, 
containing a stalactite cave. Den. A limestone 
cavern near Ingleton in Yorkshire. 

Line 619. For Wordsworth's theory of dic- 
tion, see Preface to Lyrical Ballads, 1800. 

Book Ninth. He now loved both Nature 
and Man, and his enthusiasm for humanity 
was growing day by day. After spending four 
months, February, March, April, and May, in 
London, he visited his friend Jones in Wales, 
and refreshed himself by communion with the 
hills, visiting Menai, Conway, and Bethgelert. 
Yet even here in the solitude of Nature, the 
voice of Humanity sounding in that song of 
liberty allured him to the theatre of Revolu- 
tion. The Revolution was not confined to the 
sphere of politics : that was only one feature 
of the great movement toward the goal of 
equal rights to which the nations were tend- 
ing. It was a return to Nature in all the de- 
partments of life. This enthusiasm for Nature 
took form in France under Rousseau's extrava- 
gant and diseased sensibility. In Germany the 
same feeling was manifested by Goethe, who 
combined the poetic with the scientific aspect of 
Nature, and swelled the great wave of feeling 
which was gathering force as it advanced. In 
England it had been growing into form for half 
a century. The heralds of the day arose from 
quarters, and under circumstances quite unex- 
pected, — from the sorrow and disappointment 
of Cowper and the untaught melodies of the 
ploughboy of Ayrshire, — the one in his invalid 
nightcap, the other in his blue bonnet and 
homespun. But the poet who was to conduct 
the heart of England to the love of rivers, 
woods, and hills was, in the autumn of 1791, 



leaving Brighton for Paris, about to plunge 
into the blood and furor of that revolutionary 
city. 

Line 35. So lately. With Jones in 1790. 

Line 40. town. Orleans. 

Line 45. field of Mars. In the west of Paris. 

Line 46. St. Antony. In the east of the city. 

Line 47. Martre. In the north of the city. 
Dome. The Pantheon, in the south. 

Line 51. toss. On May 4, 1789, the clergy, 
noblesse, and tiers etat, constituting the States 
Genera), met in Nutre Dame. The next day 
the tiers e'tat assumed the title of the National 
Assembly, and urged the others to join them. 

Line 52. Palace. Palais Royal, built by 
Cardinal Richelieu. 

Line 68. Bastille. State prison and citadel of 
Paris. 

Line 77. Le Brun. Court painter of Louis 
XIV. 

Line 132. They were so disgusted with the 
Revolution that they stood ready to join the 
emigrants in arms against their country under 
Leopold, king of Prussia, and to restore the 
old regime. 

Line 139. One. The Republican general, 
Beaupuis. 

Line 176. Carra, Gorsas. Journalist depu- 
ties. 

Line 182. flight. See note, line 132. 

Lines 216, 217. Ruskin. in 1S76, said that 
he had, in his fields at Coniston, men who 
might have fought with Henry V. at Agincourt 
without being distinguished from one of his 
knights. 

Lines 230-232. "Drawn from a strong Scan- 
dinavian stock, they dwell in a land as solemn 
and beautiful as Norway itself. The Cumbrian 
dalesmen have afforded, perhaps, as near a 
realization as human fates have yet allowed 
of a rural society which statesmen have de- 
sired for their country's greatness." — F. W. H. 
Myers. 

Line 265. posting on. See note, line 132. 

Lines 281-287. Thus it was that the Revolu- 
tion touched the hearts of the young and im- 
aginative minds of England ; the light of a new 
heaven and a new earth seemed about to dawn 
on men. 

Lines 290-321. In company with this re- 
jected Republican, Wordsworth lived ; they 
were kindred spirits. 

Lines 340-363. The oppression and tyranny 
which had hindered Man's progress. 

Lines 390-430. " Beaupuis was to Wordsworth 
the ideal at once of a warrior and a citizen." — 
E. Legouis. 

Line 393. Greta. A river which flows past the 
home of Southey at Keswick. See sonnet to 
the River Greta. Derwent. See note, lines 
270-275, book i. 

Line 409. Dion. A pupil of Plato's. See 
the poem "Dion." composed in 1816. 

Line 410. Both Plato and Dion tried to in- 
fluence Dionysius, the tyrant of Syracuse, but 
did not succeed. 

Line 412. Philosophers who assisted Dion. 



840 



NOTES 



PAGES 192-2OI 



Line 413. Syracusan exiles. 

Line 416. Dion took Syracuse. Zacynthus. 
One of the Cyclades. 

Line 424. perished, etc. Beaupuis did not 
perish in La Vendee, he was wounded. 

Line 451. Angelica. Character in the Or- 
lando Furioso of Ariosto. 

Line 453. Erminia, Heroine of Jerusalem 
Delivered. 

Line 481. Romorentin. Capital of Sologne. 

Line 482. Blois. Wordsworth went from 
Orleans to Blois in the spring of 1792. 

Line 484. lady. Claude, daughter of Louis 
XII. 

Line 491. Ckambord. Nine miles from 
Blois, noted for its chateau and park. 

Lines 501-541. These dreams have been pro- 
nounced chimerical; yet if they are to prove so, 
the spirit of Christianity and its root-thoughts 
must be equally chimerical. 

Line 547. a tale. " Vaudracour and Julia," 
founded on a tale related to Wordsworth by a 
French lady who was an eye-witness of the 
scene described. See p. .'127. 

Line 553. The following four lines are the 
prelude to the above-mentioned poem. 

Book Tenth. Line 11. Metropolis. In the 
autumn of 1792 he left Blois for Paris. 

Line 12. fallen. Aug. 10, 1702, the mob 
stormed the Tuileries and imprisoned the king 
and his family in the Temple. 

Line 18. Mogul. A corruption of Mongol. 

Line 19. Agra and Lahore. Cities impli- 
cated in the Sepoy rebellion. 

Line 20. Rajahs, the native princes of India; 
Omrahs, their officials. 

Line 36. League. The union of Louis with 
European monarehs. 

Line 41. Republic. On the 22d of Septem- 
ber, 1792, the Republic was proclaimed. 

Line 43. massacre. The Danton massacres 
were just over. 

Line 48. He arrived in Paris in October, 
1792. The city heaved like a volcano. Robes- 
pierre, one of the Committee of Public Safety, 
was rising. 

Line 56. Carrousel. Place de Carrousel, a 
public square. 

Lines 63-93. Bat that night, etc. Although 
he took sides against Robespierre, yet he held 
fast to the principles of the Revolution. 

Line 111. Jean Baptiste Louvet. 

Line 114. Robespierre got a delay of one 
week to prepare an answer, and by smooth 
speech finally triumphed. 

Lines 120-190. The vein of optimism running 
through these lines is characteristic of a man 
trained as he had been. 

Lines 198, 199. Harmodius and Aristogiton. 
Athenians who put to death the tyrant Hip- 
parehus. 

Lines 222-231. Such was the fascination of 
the terrible city, and such was his sympathy in 
the great movement, that had his funds not 
given out, he doubtless would have perished 
with his friends, the Brissotins. He returned 
to England in December, 1792. 



Line 236. Twice. He left England in No- 
vember, 1792. 

Line 245. To abide. He remained in London 
during the winter of 1792-93, with his brother 
Richard. 

Line 247. The movement of Clarkson and 
Wilberforce for abolishing the slave trade. See 
sonnet to William Clarkson. 

Lines 264, 265. When in 1793 England joined 
with Holland and Spain against France, his in- 
dignation knew no bounds. If England was to 
disappoint him, where was he to look for sup- 
port ? 

Line 283. rejoiced. This is the culmination 
of that idea of interest in mankind outside of 
the bounds of England which began in the 
poetry of Goldsmith, was continued in Cowper, 
and became so intense in Wordsworth. 

Line 315. red-cross .flag. Union Jack, the 
red cross of St. George, and the white cross of 
St. Andrew. 

Lines 316-330. Wordsworth, in his advertise- 
ment to "Guilt and Sorrow," says: "During 
the latter part of the summer of 1793, passed a 
month in the Isle of Wight, in view of the fleet 
then preparing for sea at Portsmouth, and left 
the place with melancholy forebodings." 

Lines 331-375. The "Reign of Terror " be- 
gan in France in July, 1793. 

Line 381. Madame Roland, wife of the min- 
ister of the interior under Dumouriez. When 
upon the scaffold, turning to the statue of Lib- 
erty, she said, " O Liberty, what crimes are 
committed in thy name! " Her husband com- 
mitted suicide. 

Line 383. O Friend, etc. The result, given 
in the following lines, was not a strange one on 
a nature like Wordsworth's. The eclipse of his 
fair idol of the rights of man was almost total. 

Line 430. The love of Nature had been su- 
perseded by the love of Man, and now that the 
second love was weakening, the crisis was near 
at hand. 

Lines 436-480. In his most passionate moods, 
temperance was at the centre, and prevented 
the flame of emotion from consuming him. 

Line 491. With Robert Jones in the vacation 
of 1790. 

Lines 496, 497. See sonnet, " Composed near 
Calais," 1802. 

Line 498. Arras. A town one hundred miles 
from Paris, celebrated for its tapestries. The 
birthplace of Robespierre. 

Line 512. The reaction from the "Reign of 
Terror" had set in; all parties combined against 
Robespierre, and he was executed by his former 
supporters, July 28, 1794. 

Line 513. The dap. In August, 1794. 

Line 515. Over the Ulverston sands, where 
the waters of Windermere find their way to the 
sea. 

Line 534. At Cartmell, where the Rev. Wil- 
liam Taylor, master at Hawkshead School, 
1782-86, was buried. Just before his death li3 
sent for the upper boys of the school (amongst 
whom was Wordsworth), and took leave of them 
with a solemn blessing. 



PAGES 201-2 1 1 



NOTES 



841 



See " Address to the Scholars of the Village 
School." 

Line 536. Besides the inscription are the fol- 
lowing lines from Gray : — 

" His merits, stranger, seek not to disclose, 
Or draw bis frailties from their dread abode," etc. 

Line 552. The writing of poetry was imposed 
as a task upon the boys of the Hawkshead 
School. See " Lines Written as a School Exer- 
cise at Hawkshead, Anno ^Etatis 14." 

Lines 586-598. On his way to Hawkshead 
from Furness Abbey and Conishead Priory. 

Book Eleventh. Line 1. time. The 
" Reign of Terror." 

Line 11. in the People. How deep was that 
faith which could still trust in the conscience of 
the masses ! 

Lines 53-73. The dread of revolution in 
England was in consequence of there being 
many supporters of France there. 

Line SKS. I began. He was now to use his 
intellect more than his heart, and to study man 
as a citizen ; the result was that he was led to 
take a greater interest in political and national 
questions than any poet of his time. 

Lines 105-144. These lines first appeared in 
the Friend, Oct. 0, 1809. They were written 
in 1805, and, as he looked back on the dream 
which was now becoming fulfilled, it added 
new enthusiasm to the cause of Humanity, and 
made him the champion of the rights of man. 
It also furnished him the impulse to write that 
philosophical poem, " The Excursion." 

Line 175. In 1705. 

Line 20(5. In this act his last hopes of liberty 
suffered eclipse, and he was overwhelmed with 
shame and despondency; yet his hatred of op- 
pression became stronger than ever, for he be- 
lieved that in this movement all the darkest 
events of the old regime were combined. He 
uttered his indignation in that remarkable 
series of sonnets on liberty. 

Lines 223-320. He now set about the analysis 
of right in the abstract, and in this operation 
even the grounds of right disappeared. This 
was the crisis of his life. He now plunged into 
the nether gloom by the use of this critical 
faculty. He grew sceptical of faith which 
could not be demonstrated by logic. 

"Wordsworth was working out Godwin's 
philosophy, — that nothing should be admitted 
as certain unless confirmed by reason." — E. 
Legouis. 

Lines 333-348. Then it was, etc. In the winter 
of 1794 he joined his sister at Halifax. He had 
not seen her since 1790. She had always been 
his better angel, and in this sickness of his soul 
she knew what remedy to apply. The world 
has loved to view the picture of the devotion of 
Charles and Mary Lamb in their lives of sad- 
ness ; the companion picture of William and 
Dorothy Wordsworth is not less interesting and 
touching. Mr. Paxton Hood says : " Not Laura 
with Petrarch, not Beatrice with Dante are 
more really connected than Wordsworth with 



his sister Dorothy." See Dorothy Words- 
worth ; or, Story of agister's Love,X>y Edmund 
Lee. 

Line 300. Buonaparte summoned the Pope to 
anoint him emperor of France in 1804. 

Line 370. Coleridge was in Sicily, whither he 
had gone from Malta. 

Line 379. Timoleon. Who reduced Sicily to 
order. He refused all titles, and lived as a 
private citizen. 

Lines 418-423. See sonnet on " Departure of 
Sir Walter Scott for Naples." 

Line 444. Comates. See Theocritus, Idyll 
vfi. 28. 

Line 450. At Dove Cottage. 

Of the three books of " The Prelude " which 
describe the poet's residence in France Mr. 
John Morley says : " They are an abiding lesson 
to brave men how to bear themselves in hours 
of public stress." 

Book Twelfth. Lines 1-43. Healing had 
been ministered to a mind diseased, and he 
now looked upon the face of Nature with the 
imaginative delight of childhood yet with a 
fuller appreciation of the sources of her beauty. 
The harmony of thought and language in this 
passage is hardly surpassed by that of " Tintern 
Abbey." 

Line 151. And yet I knew a maid, etc. The 
reference here is not to his sister, but to Mary 
Hutchinson, who afterward became his wife. 
Next to the blessing- of that sister, who con- 
ducted him from the region of despair and 
spiritual death to that of assured hope and en- 
largement of soul, stands that 

" Creature not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily food." 

Her simplicity of manner and her soothing 
and sustaining influence are celebrated in many 
lines of the poet's later works. In the com- 
panionship of two such appreciative and home- 
hearted women, he was blessed beyond most of 
his brethren in song:. 

Lines 208-225. It is this element in Words- 
worth's poetry that gives it its unwithering 
freshness, its power to make us see beauty in the 
commonplace, and to help us idealize the real. 
Thus Wordsworth's philosophy is not a theory; 
it is a life. It had saved him from despondency 
and spiritual death; it will recreate all of those 
who will but put themselves under its in- 
fluences. 

Lines 201-271. When, etc. The spiritual free- 
dom which sets the poet's imagination into 
action seldom fails to centre it upon solid foun- 
dations. 

Line 287. One Christmas-time. This was 
evidently 1783. His father was then living 
at Penrith, and the led palfreys would go by 
Kirkstone Pass and Ambleside. From Amble- 
side to Hawkshead there are two roads which 
meet within about two miles of Hawkshead 
village ; here there are two crags, either of 
which would answer the description. 

Lines 311-335. Wordsworth in this passage 
corroborates what has already been said of his 



842 



NOTES 



PAGES 212-222 



susceptibility to sound ; he is always listening, 
and when he afterwards recalls the scenes, he 
blends sights and sounds, the latter often being 
the most prominent. 

Book Thirteenth. Lines 1-10. The power 
with which Wordsworth illustrated this truth 
makes him one of the greatest teachers and 
benefactors of his age. He is no less the poet 
of contemplation than the poet of passion, and 
the lesson was taught him by Nature. It is 
only by calmness in the midst of passion that 
the highest beauty in poetry is attained. All 
of Wordsworth's finest poetry is the result pf 
emotions recollected in tranquillity. 

Lines 48-119. His emotion being now under 
regulation, he determined to find out the truths 
of human life. He gave up his sanguine schemes 
for the regeneration of mankind, and turned to 
the abodes of simple men. where duty, love, 
and reverence were to be found in their true 
relation and worth. 

Lines 130-141. His wounded heart was healed 
as he experienced the " love in huts where poor 
men lie." 

Lines 141-160. From the terrace-walk in the 
garden of the Cockermouth home can be seen 
the hill here referred to. and the road running 
over its summit. The road is now only a foot- 
path, but was then a public way to Isel, a town 
on the Derwent. 

Lines 1(50-185. The riches which he gleaned 
from these mines of neglected wealth made 
him the singer of "simple songs for thinking 
hearts." 

Lines 186-220. Wordsworth here touches the 
core of our modern artificial life and thinking. 

Lines 220-278. This passage is the finest in 
thought, and the most perfect in expression, of 
any of " The Prelude." It illustrates the courage 
of the man who dared thus, in an age of super- 
ficiality and pride, to fly in the face of all the 
poetical creeds, and make the joys and sorrows 
that we encounter on the common high road of 
life the subjects of his song. 

Line 314. Sarum's Plain. In 1793 he wan- 
dered with his friend William Calvert over 
Salisbury Plain. See '" Guilt and Sorrow." 

Line 353. unpremeditated strains. The " De- 
scriptive Sketches." Coleridge happened upon 
these when an undergraduate at Cambridge, 
1793, and wrote of them: "Seldom, if ever, 
was the emergence of a great and original poetic 
genius above the literary horizon more evidently 
announced." 

Line 361. The poets did not meet until 1797. 

Book Fourteenth. Lines 1-10. In the 
summer of 1793 he visited his friend Jones in 
Wales. 

Lines 35-130. Of this vision of the transmut- 
ing power of imagination, Mr. Stopford Brooke 
says: "It is one of the finest specimens of 
Wordsworth's grand style. It is as sustained 
and stately as Milton, but differs from Milton's 
style in the greater simplicity of diction." 

Lines 168, 169. By love, etc. No great poet 
has been content with mere outward Nature ; 
he must pass through it to the soul of man. 



Wordsworth never rests in what appears to the 
outward eye ; he rests only in the aspirations 
caused by what the senses reveal. 

Line 253. " What was once harsh in Words- 
worth was toned by the womanly sweetness of 
his sister ; and with ajievotion as rare as it was 
noble she dedicated to him her life and service." 
— Emukd Lee. See " The Sparrow's Nest " 
and " Tintern Abbey." 

Lines 266-2(58. Mary Hutchinson. See "She 
was a Phantom of delight," second stanza. 

Line 281. Wordsworth said: "He and my 
sister are the two beings to whom my intellect 
is most indebted." 

Line 311. See advertisement to "The Pre- 
lude," p. 124. 

Line 353. After leaving London. 1793, he 
went to the Isle of Wight, the valley of the 
Wye, and later visited with his sister the 
scenes of his youth in Cumberland and West- 
moreland. 

Lines 355-369. Calvert. See sonnet " To 
Raisley Calvert," and note to "Lines Left 
upon a Seat in a Yew-Tree. " 

Line 396. See prefatory note to " The Pre- 
lude." 

Lines 404-407. " The Idiot Boy " and " The 
Thorn." 

Line 419. In the spring of 1800 their brother 
John, who was captain of an East Indiaman, 
came to their new home at Grasmere. He re- 
mained with them about eight months, and in 
the fall he started upon the voyage which he 
intended should be his last, as he desired to live 
with his brother and sister. In February, 1805, 
his vessel was wrecked off Portland, and all on 
board perished. There are touching allusions 
to him in " Elegiac Verses," " Character of the 
Happy Warrior," and "Lines suggested by see- 
ing Peele Castle in a Storm." 

Lines 430—454. The grand determination with 
which Wordsworth, abandoning professional 
life and giving himself to counteracting the 
" mechanical and utilitarian theories of his 
time," stood up against ridicule and obloquy, 
cannot be matched in literature. 

See Coleridge, "To a Gentleman," for a sig- 
nificant appreciation of " The Prelude/' 

Page 222. The Recluse. 

The poet's own history of this poem lias been 
given in his introductory notes to "The Pre- 
lude " and " The Excursion," pp. 124 and 403. 
" The Excursion " was the only one of the three 
projected poems that was published during the 
author's life. Selections from " The Recluse " 
were published in his Guide to the Lakes, one 
of which. "The Water- Fowl, "appeared in sub- 
sequent editions of his poems; and two, "On 
Nature's invitation do I come" and "Bleak 
season was it," were published by the Bishop of 
Lincoln in the Memoirs. Although these selec- 
tions have been given in this edition, as "The 
Recluse " was first printed in 1888, and as the 
date of composition is conjectural, it seems best 
to place it here with the poems written at 
Grasmere. 



PAGES 222-247 



NOTES 



843 



Lines 1-18. Once to the verge, etc. These 
lines, if taken literally, refer to the Hawks- 
head days, or to those of his college vacation. 

Line 59. One of thy lowly Dwellings. Dove 
Cottage. 

Lines 71-175. On Nature's invitation do I 
come, etc. Wee note, p. 831. 

Lines 152-167. Bleak season was it, etc. See 
note, p. 831. 

Lines 203, etc. Behold how with a grace, etc. 
See " Water- Fowl," p. 401. 

Line 655. Pilgrim of the Sea. John Words- 
worth. See " When, to the attractions of the 
busy world,'' and note. 

Line 657. And at furs. The Hutchinsons. 

Line 660. Philosopher and Poet. Coleridge. 
See "Stanzas written in my Pocket-Copy of 
Thomson's ' Castle of Indolence,' " p. 288, and 
note, p. 848. 

Line 703. While yet an innocent little one, etc. 
See " Prelude," book i. 

Lines 836-839. 
' Descend, prophetic Spirit! that ins])ir''st 
The human Soul,'' etc. 

" Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic Soul 
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come." 
Shakspeare's Sonnets. 

Lines 734-860. Used in Wordsworth's origi- 
nal prefatory note to *' The Excursion," as 
" Prospectus." 

Page 232. The Brothers. 

This exquisite idyl — the most dramatic of the 
poet's works — possesses all the beauty and 
grandeur of the grand and beautiful vale in 
which the scene is laid. Ennerdale surpasses, 
in its chaotic grandeur, any other vale in the 
district ; it is guarded by steep and lofty moun- 
tains which seem to force the little coranm- 
nity of dalesmen into closer unity and affection. 
It is a fitting framework for a healthy social 
order. 

Line 310. the Great Gavel . . . Leeza. The 
Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its re- 
semblance to the gable end of a house, is one of 
the highest, of the Cumberland Mountains. It 
stands at the head of the several vales of Enner- 
dale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale. The Leeza 
is a river which flows into the lake of Enner- 
dale : on issuing from the Lake, it changes its 
name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. 
It falls into the Sea a little below Egremont. 
W. W. 

Coleridge says of this and the following 
poem: "The characters of the vicar and the 
shepherd-mariner in the poem of ' The Bro- 
thers.' those of the shepherd of Greenhead Gill 
in 'The Michael,' have all the verisimilitude 
and representative quality that the purposes of 
poetry can require. They are persons of a 
known and abiding class, and their manners 
and sentiments the natural product of circum- 
stances common to the class." 

Page 238. Michael. 

The scene of this pastoral is Greenhead 



Ghyll, not far from Dove Cottage: Turning to 
the right from the highway by the "Swan 
Inn," and following the beck, one will, with- 
out much difficulty, find where the "Evening 
Star" was situated ; and a little farther up the 
beck sheepfolds, which are now used. Prob- 
ably Michael's fold was still higher up ; on the 
right of the beck there is a large oak-tree 
which may be the " Clipping Tree." A visit to 
the Ghyll and the pastnre-land on the side of 
Fairfield is of great assistance to the apprecia- 
tion of the spirit of the poem. 

Dorothy's Journal of Oct. 11, 1800, has the 
following : " Walked up Greenhead Ghyll in 
search of a Sheepfold." 13th. " W. composed 
in the Evening." 15th. " W. again composed 
at the Sheepfold after dinner." 

In a letter to Mr. Charles James Fox written 
this year, Wordsworth called attention to the 
greatest of national dangers — the disappear- 
ance of such a class of " Statesmen " as Michael 
represents, through the absorption of small free- 
holds by large estates. See F. W. H. Myers, 
Wordsworth, chapter iv. 

Line 169. _ Clipping Tree. Clipping is the 
word used in the north of England for shear- 
ing. W. W. 

See H. D. Rawnsley, Life and Nature of the 
English Lakes, "A Brig Hud Sheep Clipping." 

Page 244. The Idle Shepherd-Boys. 

The scene of this poem is in the Langdale 
Pikes, — Harrison Stickle, and Pike o' Stickle, 
at the head of Great Langdale. It is reached 
from Grasmere by Easdale, a vigorous climb, 
over Silver How, or by Red Bank. The first 
two routes for pedestrians oi)\y, the last is a 
good carriage road. The last stanza of the 
poem is a good description of the Ghyll as it is 
to-day. 

Page 247. "It was an April Morning: 
Fresh and Clear." 

In this year life at the Cottage was enriched 
by visits from Coleridge, Robert Jones, John 
Wordsworth, and the Hutchinsons. Dorothy 
writes in her Journal, "On Sunday (June 29) 
Mr. and Mrs. Coleridge and Hartley came." 

This and the following six poems belong to 
a class, "On the Naming of Places," written 
to record incidents which happened in connec- 
tion with some of the poet's friends. To one 
familiar with the lake land the evidence of 
attachments for localities where little incidents 
have taken place is seen in the names there 
preserved. All lovers of the poet delight in 
identifying places especially dear to him. 

The scene of this poem is in Easdale, a half- 
hour's walk from Dove Cottage. Leaving 
Grasmere village we soon cross Goody Bridge 
and Easdale beck, by the side of which the 
poet said he had composed thousands of verses. 
Following this beck from the bridge, we come 
to a deep pool, with a "single mountain cot- 
tage " not far distant. On the opposite side of 
the valley is the mountain terrace, Lancrigg, 
where " The Prelude " was composed. 



8 44 



NOTES 



PAGES 248-258 



The poet's sister is frequently referred to as 
"Erarua" or " Emmeline." 

Page 248. To Joanna (Hutchinson). 

This scene is laid on the Rotha, the river 
which flows by the Grasmere Churchyard (where 
the poet is buried), and empties into the lake ; 
thence it flows into Rydal Water. 

Dorothy writes, Aug. 22, " W. read us the 
poem 'Joanna,' beside the Rothay, by the 
roadside." 

The " lofty firs " stood near the church tower 
but were removed to widen the road. The " tall 
rock " is probably on the side of Helm Crag. 
Silver-how, Loughrigg, Fairfield, and Helvel- 
lyn are the mountains which surround the 
Vale ; while Skiddaw, Glaramara, and Kirk- 
stone are at a considerable distance on the 
north and east. 

Page 240. _ "There is an Eminence." 
The "eminence" is Stone-Arthur, on the 
east of the road leading over Dunmail Raise, 
and is between Greenhead Ghyll and Tongue 
Ghyll. 

Page 249. " A Narrow Girdle of Rough 
Stones and Crags." 

The Coleridges remained at Dove Cottage 
until Greta Hall, at Keswick, was ready for 
them in July. 

The scene of the poem is easily identified, 
although no woodland path now leads from 
the cottage to the lake, and the coach road and 
cottages break the privacy of the "eastern 
shore." On the 10th of October, Dorothy's 
Journal says : " William sat up after me writing 
• Point Rash Judgment.' " 

Page 250. To M. H. 
^ Dorothy writes to Mrs. Marshall, Sept. 10 : 
"Our cottage is quite large enough for us, 
though very small. . . . We have a boat on the 
lake, and a small orchard and a small garden ; 
which, as it is the work of our own hands, we 
regard with pride and partiality." The cottage 
contained only six rooms, and with the Cole- 
ridges, the Hutchinsons and John, they must 
have been a bit crowded. Mary Hutchinson 
was with them for several months during this 
year, and the Coleridges for two. 

Of the exact location of the scene of the 
poem it may still be said, " the travellers know 
it not," although many attempts have been 
made to ascertain it. The place is near Rydal 
Mount or in the grounds of Rydal Park, and 
a hunt for it will well repay one. 

Page 251. The Waterfall and the 
Eglantine. 

There are three roads from Grasmere to 
Rydal : one, a footpath under Nab Scar, which 
Dr. Arnold called " Old Corruption; " a second 
over White Moss Common, which he called 
" Bit by Bit Reform ; " and a third, the coach 
road by the lake-side, " Radical Reform." It 
is by the first of these roads that the scene of 



this poem is laid. Eglantines still grow there, 
though not abundantly. 

Friday, April 23, 1H02, Dorothy writes in her 
Journal: " We went toward Rydal under Nab 
Scar. The sun shone and we were lazy. . . . 
Coleridge and I pushed in before. We left 
William sitting on ihe stones, feasting with 
silence, and I sat down upon a rocky seat, 
a couch it might be, under the Bower of 
William's ' Eglantine.' " 

Page 252. The Oak and the Broom. 

Wordsworth's note helps us to determine the 
locality under Nab Scar, near the mountain 
path, " Old Corruption." There is still a large 
stone far up on the side of the mountain, and it 
may be the " lofty stone " of this poem. 

Page 253. Hart-Leap Well. 

Suggested to Wordsworth and his sister when 
they were making the memorable journey from 
Sockburn to Grasmere in December, 1709. In 
1887 I visited the scene here described and 
found a desolate spot indeed. 

" More doleful place did never eye survey." 

The aspens and stone pillars are no more, but 
the stone basin still remains. A wall has been 
built where it is possible that the "pillars" 
stood. Rev. Mr. Hutchinson, who visited the 
place in 1883, thinks the stone in the wall, 
which shows signs of having been hammer- 
dressed, may be one of the "pillars." 

Page 257. The Childless Father. 

Line 10. funeral basin. In several parts of 
the North of England, when a funeral takes 
place, a basin full of sprigs of boxwood is 
placed at the door of the house from which the 
coffin is taken up, and each person who attends 
the funeral ordinarily takes a sprig of this box- 
wood, and throws it into the grave of the 
deceased. W. W. 

Page 257. Rural Architecture. 

The scene of this poem is associated with 
Lake Thirlmere, Great How being the height 
which rises between Thirlmere and Legber- 
thwaite Dale. See note to "The Waggoner." 

Page 258. Ellen Irwin. 

See Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, 
vol. i. p. 98, for the history of the famous 
ballad " Fair Helen of Kirconnell." 

Sept. 10, Dorothy writes to a friend : " Wil- 
liam is going to publish a second edition of 
the Lyrical Ballads with a second volume." 
These were published at the close of this year, 
with the famous Defensio of his principles of 
poetic diction. Coleridge wrote of these vol- 
umes : " I should judge of a man's heart and 
intellect, precisely according to the degree and 
intensity of the admiration with which he read 
these poems." 

The Kirtle is a river in the southern part of 
Scotland, on the banks of which the events 
here related took place. W. W. 



PAGES 260-277 



NOTES 



845 



Page 200. A Character. 

This is a tribute to Wordsworth's college 
mate and friend, Robert Jones, with whom he 
visited France and Switzerland in the college 
vacation of 1790, and Wales in 1791. To him 
he dedicated " Descriptive Sketches, " 1793. 

Page 261. Inscriptions : 

For the spot where the hermitage 
stood on st. Herbert's island, der- 
wentwater. 

Derwentwater is rich in literary and histori- 
cal associations. It attracted Gray, Words- 
worth, Coleridge, Keats, Carlyle, the Arnolds, 
and Southey. The places here of most interest 
are the island where Herbert, St. Cuthbert's 
friend, had his shrine ; Cat-Ghyll, the favorite 
nook of Southey's, and Crag of the Friars 
whose beauty first inspired Kuskin, and where 
now stands the simple memorial of that 
event. 

Written with a pencil upon a stone in 

the wall of the house (an outhouse), 

on the island at grasmere. 

There is only one island in Grasmere Lake. 

It is still a pasture for sheep, and a rude pile 

still stands there. 

1801 

Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal reveals to us 
that this year there was much reading of 
Spenser and Chaucer, and much worry over the 
condition of Coleridge. The actual poetic out- 
put was not large. Wordsworth tried his hand 
at modernizing Chaucer, and began " The Ex- 



Page 262. The Sparrow's Nest. 

The old manor house with garden and ter- 
race-walk at Cockermonth remains essentially 
as it was in Wordsworth's day. Emmeline is 
his sister Dorothy. An interesting memorial 
of the early days of these children has been 
recently erected in the Park at Cockermonth : 
a drinking fountain for man and beast sur- 
mounted by a bronze statue of a child. 

Page 262. Pelion and Ossa. 

How the desire of the poet's heart has be- 
come a reality is revealed in the following from 
James Russell Lowell, alluding to the lake 
land, " This Chartreuse of Wordsworth, dedi- 
cated to the Genius of Solitude, will allude to 
its imperturbable calm, the finer natures and 
the more highly tempered intellects . . . and 
over the entrance gate to that purifying seclu- 
sion shall be inscribed : 

Minds innocent and quiet take 
This for an hermitage." 

Page 263. The Prioress's Tale. 

Prof. Dowden calls this work ' ' at once frank 
and faithful," in spite of its many defects. 

Friday, 4th, Dorothy writes in her Journal : 
"Wm, translating 'The Prioress's Tale.'" 



Saturday, 5th, " Wm. finished ' The Prioress's 
Tale,' and after tea Mary and he wrote it 
out." 

Page 266. The Cuckoo and the Nightin- 
gale. 

Line 201 . With such a master, etc. From a 
manuscript in the Bodleian, as are also Stanzas 
xliv. and xlv., which are necessary to complete 
the sense. W. W. 



1802 

This year is an exceedingly busy one for the 
poet. A frequent entry in Dorothy's Journal 
is, " Wm. worked at the Pedlar." The ballads 
and sonnets are revelations of the life he was 
living, the most significant event of which was 
his marriage to Mary Hutchinson. 

Page 273. The Sailor's Mother. 

The title of this poem in Dorothy's Journal 
is " The Singing Bird." Friday, March 12, 
she writes: " YVilliam finished 'The Singing 
Bird.' " 

Page 274. Alice Fell. 

Under date of Feb. 16, Dorothy gives a de- 
tailed history of the occurrence with Mr. 
Graham, closing with: "Mr. G. left Mary to 
buy her a new cloak." On Friday (March 14), 
Dorothy writes, "In the evening after tea Wil- 
liam wrote, ' Alice Fell.' " 

Page 275. Beggars. 

Under date of May 27, 1800, Dorothy gives 
details of the event out of which the poem 
grew, and under Saturday (March 13, 1802) she 
writes: "W. wrote the poem of the Beggar 
Woman." The quarry is near the junction of 
the two roads leading from Rydal to Gras- 
mere. See "Sequel to the 'Beggars,' " 1817. 

Page 276. To a Butterfly. 

This poem refers to the same period as " The 
Sparrow's Nest," Cockermouth days, before 
1778. Dorothy says: " While we were at break- 
fast W. wrote the poem ' To a Butterfly.' 
The thought came upon him as we were talking 
about the pleasure we both always felt at the 
sight of a butterfly. I told him that I used to 
chase them a little, but that I was afraid of 
brushing the dust off their wings, and did not 
catch them." 

Page 276. The Emigrant Mother. 

March 16 Dorothy writes: "William went 
up into the orchard and wrote a part of ' The 
Emigrant Mother.' " " Wednesday. — William 
went up into the orchard and finished the 
poem." 

Page 277. " My Heart Leaps Up." 
This poem is the key-note of all Words- 
worth's poetry : it is " The Prelude " condensed 
into a lyric. 



8 4 6 



NOTES 



PAGES 278-282 



Page 278. Written in March. 

Under date of April 1(5 (Good Friday), Doro- 
thy writes in the Journal the details of their 
walk from Ullswater over Kirkstone Pass, 
during which this poem was composed. A 
little below Hartsteep in Patterdale is the 
bridge over Goldrill Beck. 

Line 10. Dorothy says (in Journal): "Be- 
hind us a flat pasture with forty-two cattle 
feeding." 

Page 278. The Redbreast chasing the 
Butterfly. 

On Sunday, April 18, Dorothy writes: "A 
mild grey morning with rising vapours. We 
sate in the orchard, William wrote the poem on 
the Robin and the Butterfly." " Tuesday 20, 
wrote a conclusion to the poem of the But- 
terfly, ' I 've watched you now a full half 
hour.' " 

Line 12. Father Adam. See "Paradise 
Lost," book xi. W. W. 

Page 270. Foresight. 

On January 31, Dorothy says: "I found a 
strawberry blossom in a rock. ... I uprooted 
it rashty, and felt as if I had been committing 
an outrage ; so I planted it again." 

Under date of 28th of April she writes : 
" Win. was in the orchard ... at dinner time 
he came in with the poem, ' Children gathering 
Flowers.' " 

Page 270. To the Small Celandine. 

In Dorothy's Journal, April 30, we have the 
folio w in« : "We came into the orchard di- 
rectly after breakfast, and sat there. The lake 
was calm, the sky cloudy. W. began to write 
the poem of the Celandine. ... I walked 
backward and forward with William. He re- 
peated his poem to me." 

Line 8. Celandine. Common pilewort. 

w. w. 

Page 280. To the Same Flower. 

In Dorothy's Journal, May 1, 1802, is the fol- 
lowing : " Wm. wrote the Celandine, second 
part." 

Page 280. Resolution and Independ- 
ence. 

Dorothy writes : " When Wm. and I returned 
from accompanying Jones, we met an old man 
almost double. . . . His trade was to gather 
leeches. ... It was late in the evening." 

We see from the Fenwick note that the 
elements which were gathered together in this 
poem were from various sources. The mental 
mood and " the hare running races in her 
mirth " are brought from the walk over Barton 
Fell. The "lonely moor" with the "pool" is 
White Moss Common, which one crosses by the 
middle road to Rydal. 

After the storm and the tumult of Nature — 
" the roaring of the wind," and the driving of 
the floods — there came the calm, the singing of 
the birds, the music of the becks, the fresh, 



clear atmosphere, and " the hare running 
races." One would think that — 

" A poet could not but be gay 
In such a jocund company." 

A kindred mood is awakened in the poet, 
but it is soon beclouded with " fears and 
fancies " which arise from the contrast existing 
between the free, happy, careless life of all the 
unoffending creatures of God's love, and the 
life of man, burdened with care for the mor- 
row, obliged to sow before he can reap, "look- 
ing before and after." Strong as he is, he is 
nevertheless made weak by such dejection; and 
in this weakness there appears the figure of an 
old man, by conversation with whom strength 
is imparted, power is given, a new motive for 
living is supplied, life is made a happier and a 
diviner thing. 

As to style, we might almost say there is 
none. By the simplest language, in the absence 
of all color, with no complexity of incident, we 
have one of the most harmonious and deter- 
mined of sketches, — the beauty and the 
strength of repose. 

In its ethical bearing the poem makes com- 
mon cause with all of Wordsworth's best work, 
the message of which is— "Waste not!" 
That his philosophy in this respect is not 
theoretical but practical, we will let one who 
has made a trial of it testify. 

John Stuart Mill, in a time of disappointment 
at the failure of cherished hopes, and when life 
seemed nothing but a struggle against cruel 
necessity, went to Wordsworth's poems, and of 
the result says : — ■ 

"From them I seemed to learn what would 
be the perennial sources of happiness, when all 
the greater evils of life shall have been re- 
moved. And I felt myself at once better and 
happier as I came under their influence." 

Page 282. " I grieved for BuonaparteV' 
In the sphere of the sonnet among modern 
writers, Wordsworth's work is by far the most 
significant, not only in the nature and variety 
of the subjects treated, but also in the manner 
of composition. He restored the sonnet to the 
place it held in Milton's time. The style of 
the sonnet was at the farthest remove from the 
style of " The Prelude " and " The Excursion;" 
and it is not a little remarkable that one who 
possessed such wealth of thought and such 
fluency of language should have been content 

" Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground." 

But Wordsworth "had the tonic of a whole- 
some pride ; " he was a most careful writer and 
was exceedingly frugal in his literary economy; 
these were the prerequisites for success with 
the sonnet. The care which he exercised in 
pruning, recasting, and correcting his workman- 
ship is seen in the frequent alterations of the 
text; many of them cover the period of a life- 
time, and preserve for us the changing moods of 
the poet's mind. 

May 21, Dorothy writes : " W. wrote two 



PAGES 283-2J 



NOTES 



847 



sonnets on Buonaparte after I had read Milton's 
sonnets to him." Here is the seed plot out of 
which sprang that series of noble utterances on 
independence and liberty. This series was re- 
printed by Mr. Stopford Brooke in 1897, " on 
behalf of the Greek struggle for the Independ- 
ence of Crete," and, as he informed me, for use 
in the English schools. Senator Hoar has said 
of Wordsworth's work here: "More than any 
man of his time, statesman, philosopher, or 
poet, he saw with unerring instinct into the 
great moral forces that determine the currents 
of history." 

Page2S3. A Farewell. 

The series of events, so natural and homely 
in the life of the poet, which we have thus far 
considered finds its significant and inevitable 
crown in that which this poem anticipates. 
The Wordsworth and Hutchinson families, 
both of Cumbrian stock, had been a long time 
intimate. Dorothy and William Wordsworth 
and Mary Hutchinson had been in the same 
Dame's .School at Penrith and the friendship 
formed there naturally ripened into that love 
which enriched and beautified their lives. In 
1800 the Hutchinsons left Sockburn and went 
to Gallow Hill near Scarborough. Dorothy's 
Journal from July 9 to December is rich in 
material regarding the events of the remaining 
months of the year. William and Dorothy 
went to Gallow Hill by way of Keswick, Greta 
Bridge and Yorkshire Moors. From Keswick 
Coleridge accompanied them six or seven miles. 
Dorothy says (Thursday, 15th), " Met Mary and 
Sara seven miles from G. H. . . . Arrived at 
Gallow Hill at seven o'clock." 

For the contrasted feelings of Coleridge read 
his " Dejection : An Ode," written at this time, 
and published on the day of Wordsworth's wed- 
ding. 

Page 284. "The Sun has Long been 
Set." 

June 8, Dorothy writes in her Journal : " W. 
wrote the poem ' The Sun has long been set.' " 

Page 284. Composed upon Westminster 
Bridge. 

This and the following sonnets of the year 
were composed during the time which elapsed 
between his arrival at Gallow Hill and his mar- 
riage. This interval was spent by himself and 
Dorothy on a visit to France. Dorothy writes : 
" On Thursday morning 29, we arrived in Lon- 
don. We left London on Saturday morning at 
half-past rive or six, the 30th. We mounted 
the Dover coach at Charing Cross. It was a 
beautiful morning. The city, St. Paul's, with 
the river, and a multitude of little boats made 
a most beautiful sight as we crossed Westmin- 
ster Bridge. The houses were not overhung by 
their cloud of smoke, and they spread out end- 
lessly, yet the sun shone so brightly, with such 
a fierce light, that there was something like 
the purity of one of Nature's own grand spec- 
tacles." 



These sonnets are the highest type of Words- 
worth's pure style; all the elements are so fused 
that there is nothing to divert attention from 
the single sentiment pervading the whole. 

Page 284. Composed by the Sea-side, 
near Calais, August 1802. 

Dorothy writes : "Arrived at Calais at four 
in the morning of July 31. Delightful walks 
in the evenings : seeing far off in the West the 
coast of England, like a cloud, crested with 
Dover Castle, the Evening Star, and the glory 
of the sky." 

Page 285. Composed near Calais, on the 
Road Leading to Ardres. 

Line 1. Jones ! as from Calais southward. 

(See Dedication to " Descriptive Sketches.") 

This excellent Person, one of my earliest 
and dearest friends, died in the year 1835. We 
were undergraduates together of the same year, 
at the same college ; and companions in many 
a delightful ramble through his own romantic 
Country of North Wales. Much of the latter 
part of his life he passed in comparative soli- 
tude, which I know was often cheered by re- 
membrance of our youthful adventures, and 
of the beautiful regions which, at home and 
abroad, we had visited together. Our long 
friendship was never subject to a moments 
interruption, —and, while revising these vol- 
umes for the last time, I have been so often 
reminded of my loss, with a not unpleasing 
sadness, that I trust the Header will excuse 
this passing mention of a Man who well de- 
serves from me something more than so brief 
a notice. Let me oidy add, that during the 
middle part of his life he resided many years 
(as Incumbent of the Living) at a Parsonage 
in Oxfordshire, which is the subject of the son- 
net entitled "A Parsonage in Oxfordshire," p. 
602. W. W. 

Line 3. day. Fourteenth of July, 1720. 
W. W. See " A Character," p. 2C0, and note. 

Page 286. The King of Sweden. 

In this and a succeeding sonnet on the same 
subject, let me be understood as a Poet avail- 
ing himself of the situation which the King of 
Sweden occupied, and of the principles avowed 
in his manifestos ; as laying hold of these 
advantages for the purpose of embodying moral 
truths. This remark might, perhaps, as well 
have been suppressed ; for to those who may be 
in sympathy with the course of these Poems, it 
will be superfluous, and will, I fear, be thrown 
away upon that other class, whose besotted 
admiration of the intoxicated despot hereafter 
placed in contrast with him, is the most melan- 
choly evidence of degradation in British feeling 
and intellect which the times have furnished. 

w. w. 

Page 288. Composed after a Journey 
across the Hambleton Hills, Yorkshire. 

On their return from France, Aug. 30, they 
spent three weeks in London, and reached Gal- 



NOTES 



PAGES 288-292 



low Hill Sept. 24. Dorothy writes : " Mary first 
met us on the avenue. She looked so fat and 
well that we were made very happy hy the 
sight of her; then came Sara, and last of all 
Joanna. Tom was forking down, standing 
upon the corn cart." 

On Monday, Oct. 4, Wordsworth was married 
to Mary Hutchinson, in the old church at 
Brompton, and set out on the return to Dove 
Cottage the same day. Dorothy's entry in the 
Journal for this day (too long to give here) 
should be read. 

Page 288. Stanzas Written in my 
Pocket-Copy of Thomson's " Castle of 
Indolence." 

Dorothy writes: "We arrived at Grasmere 
at about six o'clock on Wednesday evening, 
the lith of October, 1802. . . . I cannot describe 
what I felt. ... On Friday, 8th, Mary and 
I walked first upon the hillside, and then in 
John's Grove, then in view of Rydale, the first 
walk that I had taken with my sister." Thus 
the circle at Grasmere was widened and 
enriched ; now two high-minded and loving 
women, through their own sweetness and 
purity, calmness and goodness, contribute to 
make his work reach a height of fullness and 
completion only dreamed of as yet. I am in- 
clined to think that the characters alluded to 
in this poem are Wordsworth and Coleridge ; 
although there is some difficulty in assigning 
the stanzas. The editor of the Memoirs con- 
cludes that the allusions in the first four stan- 
zas are to Wordsworth, and those in the last 
three to Coleridge. 

Page 290. To H. C. 

These lines, which Mr. Walter Bagehot 
styles, ' ' the best ever written on a real and visi- 
ble child," refer to Hartley Coleridge, the eld- 
est son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. They 
are singularly prophetic of that life of dreamy 
waywardness, of lonely wanderings, of lofty 
hopes and deep despair which was to be his. 
The gift of continuous conversation which 
distinguished his father was his no less, and it 
won for him hosts of friends. He became the 
ward of Wordsworth, who never ceased to care 
for him. He is known in the Lakes as "The 
children's laureate." His body lies in Gras- 
mere Churchyard, near that of his friend and 
benefactor, Wordsworth. 

Nab Cottage, where Hartley lived and died, 
is on the coach road from Rydal to Grasmere, 
and faces Rydal Water. It is now a favorite 
lodging house in the Lake District. See lines 
43-64 in S. T. Coleridge's " Fears in Solitude." 

Page 200. To the Daisy. 

This Poem, and two others to the same 
flower, were written in the year 1802 ; which is 
mentioned, because in some of the ideas, though 
not in the manner in which those ideas are 
connected, and likewise even in some of the 
expressions, there is a resemblance to passages 
in a Poem (lately published) of Mr. Montgom- 



ery's, entitled, "A Field Flower." This being 
said, Mr. Montgomery will not think any apol- 
ogy due to him ; 1 cannot, however, help ad- 
dressing him in the words of the Father of 
English Poets : — 

" Though it happe me to rehersin — 
That ye han in your freshe sougis saied, 
Forberith me, and beth not ill apaied, 
Sith that ye se I doe it in the honour 
Of Love, and eke in service of the Flour." 

W.W., 1807. 

The best expression of the spirit of Words- 
worth's Nature poems — like this and the two 
following — is to be found in Whittier's trib- 
ute to Wordsworth, — 

" The violet by its mossy stone, 

The primrose by the river's brim, 
And chance-sown daffodil have found 
Immortal life through him. 

" The sunrise on his breezy lake, 

The rosy tints his sunset brought, 
World-seen, are gladdening all the valea 
And mountain-peaks of thought." 

Line 80. Art Nature's favourite. See, in 
Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours 
formerly paid to the flower. W. W. 

Ruskin in Modern Painters, " Imagination 
Contemplative," cites the third and fifth stan- 
zas as illustrations of "fancy regardant," and 
the sixth of "heavenly imagination." 

1803 

Page 292. The Green Linnet. 

The " orchard seat " was upon the terrace at 
the rear of the garden, and was reached by 
stone steps cut by Wordsworth himself. At 
the present time an arbor stands there. 

Coleridge, in his Biographia Literaria, chap, 
xxii., cites this poem as an illustration of " The 
perfect truth of Nature in his [Wordsworth's] 
images and descriptions as taken immediately 
from Nature, and proving a long and genial 
intimacy with the very spirit which gives the 
physiognomic expression to all the works of 
Nature." 

Page 292. Yew-Trees. 

Written at Grasmere. In no part of Eng- 
land, or of Europe, have I ever seen a yew-tree 
at all approaching this in magnitude. W. W. 

At this time Wordsworth was at work upon 
"The Prelude " and " The Excursion." 

Coleridge, in challenging for Wordsworth 
the gift of imagination (and citing this poem), 
says : "In imaginative power he stands nearest 
of all modern writers to Shakespeare and Mil- 
ton, yet in kind perfectly unborrowed and his 
own." 

Ruskin, alluding to this poem, in Modern 
Painters, says : " I consider it the most vigor- 
ous and solemn hit of forest landscape ever 
painted." 

The "pride of Lorton Vale" has lost its' 
beauty and its grandeur, and in 1883 the "fra- 
ternal Four" were visited by a whirlwind 



PAGES 294, 295 



NOTES 



849 



which uprooted and despoiled them. The 
largest yews in the district are now those of 
Yewdale. (See "The Prelude," i. 30(3. 

Page 294. Memorials of a Tour in Scot- 
land. 

The year 1803 was made memorable by the 
visit of Wordsworth, his sister, and Coleridge, to 
Scotland. Wordsworth had been born and 
reared in sight of " the land of song," yet not 
until this year had he set foot upon her soil. 
Dorothy's Journal is a record of this journey, 
and is hardly less poetical than the immortal 
poems. In my various visits to Scotland I 
have found the Journal the best guide to these 
localities. 

Page 294. Departure. 

Prof. Dowden thinks this was written in 
1811, although it refers to events in 1803. 

Dorothy's Journal says : " William and I 
parted from Mary on Sunday afternoon, Aug. 
14, 1803; and William, Coleridge, and I left 
Keswick on Monday morning, the 15th." 

Page 294. At the Grave of Burns. 

The party reached Dumfries on the evening 
of the 17th. Under date of Thursday, the 
18th, Dorothy wrote: "Went to the church- 
yard where Burns is buried. . . . He lies at a 
corner of the churchyard, and his son Francis 
Wallace beside him. . . . We looked at the 
grave with melancholy and painful reflections, 
repeating to each other his own verses : — 

' Is there a man whose judgment clear 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs himself life's mad career 

Wild as the wave ? — 
Here let him pause and through a tear 

Survey this grave.' " 

Page 295. Thoughts Suggested the Day 
Following, on the Banks of the Nith. 

The following is extracted from the journal 
of my fellow-traveller, to which, as persons 
acquainted with my poems will know, I have 
been obliged on other occasions: — [W. W.] 

" Dumfries, August 1S03. 
" On our way to the churchyard where Burns 
is buried, we were accompanied by a book- 
seller, who showed us the outside of Burns's 
house, where he had lived the last three years 
of his life, and where lie died. It has a mean 
appearance, and is in a bye situation ; the front 
whitewashed ; dirty about the doors, as most 
Scotch houses are ; flowering plants in the win- 
dow. Went to visit his grave ; he lies in a 
corner of the churchyard, and his second son, 
Francis Wallace, beside him. There is no 
stone to mark the spot ; but a hundred guineas 
have been collected to be expended upon some 
sort of monument. 'There,' said the book- 
seller, pointing to a pompous monument, ' lies 
Mr.' — (I have forgotten the name) — 'a re- 
markably clever man ; he was an attorney, and 
scarcely ever lost a cause he undertook. Burns 



made many a lampoon upon him, and there 
they rest as you see.' We looked at Burns's 
grave with melancholy and painful reflec- 
tions, repeating to each other his own poet's 
epitaph : — 

' Is there a man,' etc. 

"The churchyard is full of grave-stones and 
expensive monuments, in all sorts of fantastic 
shapes, obelisk-wise, pillar-wise, etc. When 
our guide had ' left us we turned again to 
Burns's grave, and afterwards went to his 
house, wishing to inquire after Mrs. Burns, 
who was gone to spend some time by the sea- 
shore with her children. We spoke to the 
maid-servant at the door, who invited us for- 
ward, and we sate down in the parlour. The 
walls were coloured with a blue wash ; on one 
side of the fire was a mahogany desk ; oppo- 
site the window a clock, which Burns men- 
tions, in one of his letters, having received as a 
present. The house was cleanly and neat in 
the inside, the stairs of stone scoured white, 
the kitchen on the right side of the passage, the 
parlour on the left. In the room above the 
parlour the poet died, and his son, very lately, 
in the same room. The servant told us she 
had lived four years with Mrs. Burns, who was 
now in great sorrow for the death of Wallace. 
She said that Mrs. B.'s youngest son was now 
at Christ's Hospital. We were glad to leave 
Dumfries, where we could think of little but 
poor Burns, and his moving about on that un- 
poetic ground. In our road to Brownhill, the 
next stage, we passed Ellisland, at a little 
distance on our right — his farm-house. Our 
pleasure in looking round would have been still 
greater, if the road had led us nearer the spot. 

"1 cannot take leave of this country which 
we passed through to-day, without mentioning 
that we saw the Cumberland mountains within 
half-a-mile of Ellisland, Burns's house, the last 
view we had of them. Drayton has prettily 
described the connection which this neighbour- 
hood has with ours, when he makes Skiddaw 
say, — 

' Scruffel, from the sky 
That Annandale doth crown, with a most amorous eye 
Salutes me every day, or at my pride looks grim, 
Oft threatening me with clouds, as I oft threaten him.' 

" These lines came to my brother's memory, 
as well as the Cumberland saying, — 

' If Skiddaw hath a cap 
Scruffel was well of that.' 

"We talked of Burns, and of the prospect 
he must have had, perhaps from his own door, 
of Skiddaw and his companions ; indulging our- 
selves in the fancy that we might have been 
personally known to each other, and he have 
looked upon those objects with more pleasure 
for our sakes." 

What could be more fitting than that the 
first-fruits of this visit to Scotland should be 
dedicated to the memory of that poet who had 
taught Wordsworth 



S 5 o 



NOTES 



PAGES 297-301 



" How verse may build a princely throne 
On bumble truth ? " 

These poems of his written in Burns's favorite 
metre are the finest tribute ever paid to that 
" darling of the Muses." 

Page 297. To a Highland Girl. 

The tourists had the usual experience with 
Scottish weather, and when they left Loch 
Katrine for Loch Lomond it rained almost 
continually ; the Journal for the 28th has the 
following : — 

" When beginning to descend the hill toward 
Loch Lomond we overtook two girls, who told 
us we could not cross the ferry until evening, 
for the boat was gone with a number of people 
to church. One of the girls was exceedingly 
heautiful : and the figures of both of them, in 
gray plaids falling to their feet, their faces only 
being uncovered, excited our attention before 
we spoke to them." Long after his return 
Wordsworth wrote this poem in recollection of 
the experience at the ferry-house. 

Page 298. Glen-Almain. 

On leaving Dunkeld for Callander thev con- 
cluded to go by Crieff, as the "Sma' Glen" 
would be on their way. 

" September 9. We entered the glen at a 
small hamlet at some distance from the head, 
and turning aside a few steps ascended a hillock 
which commanded a view to the top of it, — 
a very sweet scene, a green valley, not very 
narrow, with a few scattered trees and huts, 
almost invisible in a misty gleam of afternoon 
light. The following poem was written by 
William on hearing a tradition relating to it." 
— Journal. 

Page 298. Stepping Westward, 
From Callander they went to Loch Katrine. 
"We have never had a more delightful walk 
than thu evening. Ben Lomond and the three 
pointed-topped mountains of Loch Lomond 
were very majestic under the clear sky, the 
lake perfectly calm, and the air sweet and 
mild. The sun had been set for some time, 
when our path having led us close to the shore 
of the calm lake, we met two neatly dressed 
women, without hats, who had probably been 
taking their Sunday evening's walk. One of 
them said to me in a friendly, soft tone of 
voice, ' What ! are you stepping westward ? ' 
I cannot describe how affecting this simple 
expression was in that remote place, with the 
western sky in front, yet glowing with the 
departing sun. William wrote this poem long 
after, in remembrance of his feelings and 
mine." — Journal. 

Page 298. The Solitary Reaper. 

Having crossed Loch Lomond they continued 
their journey through Glenfalloch and Glen- 
gyle, along the side of Loch Voil between the 
braes of Balquidder and Stratheyer, and re- 
turned to Callander. Of the scenery by Loch 



Voil Dorothy says: "As we descended, the 
scene became more fertile, our way being 
pleasantly varied, — through coppice or open 
fields, and passing farm-houses, though always 
with an intermixture of uncultivated ground. 
It was harvest-time, and the fields were quietly 
— might I say pensively ? — enlivened by small 
companies of reapers. It is not uncommon in 
the more lonely parts of the Highlands to see a 
single person so employed. This poem was sug- 
gested to William by a beautiful sentence in 
Thomas Wilkinson's Tour in Scotland.'''' 

Page 299. Address to Kilchurn Castle. 

Soon after leaving Loch Lomond, Cole- 
ridge parted with the Words woi t lis. and they 
passed on to Inverary and by Loch Awe to 
Dalmally. 

Not far from the spot where Wordsworth 
poured out these verses is now to be seen a 
monument of rude unhewn stones cemented 
together. This monument has been erected to 
the memory of Duncan Maclntyre, the Bard of 
Glenorchy — Fair Duncan of the Songs. He 
lived on the lands of the Earl of Breadalbane, 
by whose family Kilchurn Castle had been 
built. 

Line 43. Lost on the aerial heights of the 
Crusades. The tradition is that the Castle was 
built by a Lady during the absence of her Lord 
in Palestine. W. W. 

Page 301. Sonnet Composed at 

Castle. 

On returning from the Highlands they spent 
a day in Edinburgh and then went to Roslin. 
On the morning of Sept. 17 they walked to 
Lasswade, and met, for the first time, Walter 
Scott, who was living there. In the afternoon 
Scott accompanied them to Roslin and left 
them with the promise to meet them at Mel- 
rose two days after. Passing on to Peebles 
they traveled down the Tweed, past Neidpath 
Castle. 

Page 301. Yarrow Unvisited. 

The Journal has the following : ''September 
18. We left the Tweed when we were within 
p.bout a mile and a half or two miles of Cloven- 
ford, where we were to lodge. Turned up the 
side of a hill and went along the sheep-grounds 
till we reached the spot, — a single stone house. 
On our mentioning Mr. Scott's name the woman 
of the house showed us all possible civility. 
Mr. Scott is respected everywhere ; I believe 
that by favour of his name one might be hospit- 
ably entertained throughout all the borders of 
Scotland . 

"At Clovenford, being so near to Yarrow, 
we could not but think of the possibility of 
going thither, but came to the conclusion of 
reserving the pleasure for some future time, 
in consequence of which, after our return, 
William wrote the poem which I shall here 
transcribe." 

The three poems upon the Yarrow, written 
in the metre of the old Yarrow ballads, should 



PAGES 302-312 



NOTES 



851 



be read as a trilogy, and Wordsworth's earlier 
and later styles compared. 

" He hoarded his joys and lived upon the in- 
terest which they paid in the form of hope and 
expectation." — R. H. Hutton. 

Line 35. See Hamilton's ballad, "The 
Braes of Yarrow," line 50. 

Page 302. The Matron of Jedborough 
and her Husband. 

After leaving Clovenford they proceeded to 
Gala Water and on to Melrose, where they 
were met by Scott, who conducted them to the 
Abbey. The next day they went to Jedbor- 
ough, where Scott, as "Shirra," was attending 
the Assizes. The inns being full, they secured 
lodgings in a private house. The Journal con- 
tinues : "We were received with hearty wel- 
come by a good woman who though above 
seventy years old moved about as briskly as if 
she were only seventeen. The alacrity with 
which she guessed at and strove to prevent our 
wants was surprising. Her husband was deaf 
and infirm, and sat in a chair with scarcely the 
power to move a limb, — an affecting contrast ! 
The old woman said they had been a very hard- 
working pair ; they had wrought like slaves at 
their trade, — her husband had been a currier ; 
she told me they had portioned off their daugh- 
ters with money, and each a feather bed. 

"Mr. Scott sat with us an hour or two. and 
repeated a part of the ' Lay of the Last Min- 
strel.' When he was gone, our hostess came 
to see if we wanted anything, and to wish us 
good-night. William long afterward thought 
it worth while to express in verse the sensa- 
tions which she had excited." 

Page 303. " Fly, Some Kind Harbinger." 
This was composed the last day of our Tour, 
between Dalston and Grasmere. W. W. 

The next day, Scott being busy at the courts, 
William Laidlaw, who lived in the dale of 
Yarrow, and who had been delighted with 
some of Wordsworth's poems, accompanied 
them to the vale of Jed. Dorothy says of him : 
"At first meeting he was as shy as any of our 
Grasmere lads, and not less rustic." On the 
following day Scott was glad to leave the 
Judge and his retinue and travel with them 
through the vale of Teviot to Hawick, from 
which place they had an extensive view of the 
Cheviot Hills. Here they were obliged to part, 
as Scott had to return to his ditties. Two 
days later the Journal lias the following: "Ar- 
rived home between eight and nine o'clock, 
where we found Mary in perfect health, Joanna 
Hutchinson with her, and little John asleep in 
the clothes-basket by the fire." 

Page 308. The Farmer of Tilsbury 
Vale. 

With this picture, which was taken from 
real life, compare the imaginative one of "The 
Reverie of Poor Susan," p. 70; and see (to 
make up tlue deficiencies of this class) "The 
Excursion," passim, W. W. 



1804 



This year much of " The Prelude " was 
written. 

Page 310. To the Cuckoo. 

Composed in the orchard at Town-End, 
Grasmere, 1804. W. W. 

If, as Prof. Dowden thinks, the following 
from Dorothy's Journal refers to this poem, the 
date should be 1802. She writes (May 1 !, 1802): 
"William tired himself with seeking an epithet 
for the Cuckoo." 

Of all Wordsworth's illustrations of the ef- 
fect of sound upon the spiritual nature this is 
the finest. "Of all his poems," Mr. R. H. 
Hutton says, " the ' Cuckoo ' is Wordsworth's 
own darling." 

Page 311. "She was a Phantom of De- 
light." 

That so trivial an incident as the meeting of 
this Highland maid should have been thus 
cherished by the poet, and reproduced here, 
and in the "Three Cottage Girls," written 
nearly twenty years after, shows us how he 
valued his experiences. 

It i3 hardly necessary to say that the subject 
of the poem is Mrs. Wordsworth. Allusions 
are also made to her in "The Prelude," book 
vi. 224; xii. 151 ; xiv. 2G(> ; and in "A Fare- 
well," "To M. H.," "0 dearer far than light 
and life are dear," 1824. 

Page 311. "I Wandered Lonely as a 
Cloud." 

Town-End, 1804. The two best lines in it 
are by Mary. W. W. 

The incident upon which this poem was 
founded occurred during a walk in Patterdale. 
Dorothy's Journal says: "When we were in 
the woods beyond Gowbarrow Park we saw 
a few daffodils close to the water-side. We 
fancied that the sea had floated the seeds 
ashore, and that the little colony had so sprung 
up. But as we went along there were more, 
and yet more ; and at last under the boughs of 
the trees Ave saw that there was a long belt of 
them along the shore. ... I never saw daf- 
fodils so' beautiful . . . they tossed and 
reeled and danced as if they verily laughed 
with the wind that blew upon them over the 
lake." 

Lines 21, 22. These lines were suggested by 
Mrs. Wordsworth. Daffodils still grow abun- 
dantly about Ullswater. 

Page 312. The Affliction of Margaret. 

Written at Town-End, Grasmere. This was 
taken from the case of a poor widow who lived 
in the town of Penrith. Her sorrow was well 
known to Mrs. Wordsworth, to my sister, and, 
I believe, to the whole town. She kept a shop, 
and when she saw a stranger passing by, she 
was in the habit of going 1 out into the street to 
inquire of him after her son. W. W. 

No poet could have drawn this portrait until 



852 



NOTES 



pages 314-324 



he had lived close to the realities of the hum- 
blest lives. As an old dalesman has said of 
him, " He was a kind mon, there 's no two 
words about that ; if any one was sick i' the 
plaace he wad be off to see til 'em." Thus it 
was that he entered into the mystery of suf- 
fering, and became — 

" Convinced at heart, how vain 
A correspondence with the talking world 
Proves to the most." 

This is a companion picture to the "Story 
of Margaret " in " The Excursion," the purpose 
of both being to awaken in us a responsive 
chord to the sufferings of those about us, to 
further the culture of the finer feelings. 

" Others will teach us how to dare 
And against fear our breast to steel ; 
Others will strengthen us to bear ; 
But who, ah ! who will make us feel ? " 

Matthew Arnold. 

Page 314. The Seven Sisters. 
The story of this poem is from the German 
of Frederica Bruu. 

Page 315. Address to my Infant Daugh- 
ter, Dora. 

Of Wordsworth's strong and deep love for 
his children we have frequent evidence in his 
poems. For Dora he seems to have had the 
most intense affection, loving her as his own 
soul. "The Longest Day," written in 1817, is 
addressed to her. After the sad illness of the 
dear sister, Dora became his comforter and 
stay, and occupied in his later life the same 
position which Dorothy had in his earlier. So 
dependent upon her did he become, thai her 
marriage was a severe trial for him. 

" When, in 1847, death came to her, a silence 
as of death fell upon him. ... I believe his 
genius never again broke into song." — Sir 
Henry Taylor. 

Page 318. At Applethwaite, near Kes- 
wick. 

We are familiar with the gifts of princely 
merchants, Cottle, Poole, and the Wedg- 
woods, to Coleridge. This gift to Wordsworth 
by his patron is equally interesting. 

In August, 180b\ Wordsworth writes to Sir 
George Beaumont : " Applethwaite I hope will 
remain in my family for many generations." 

The cottage is now the property of Words- 
worth's grandchildren. 

1805 
This year " The Prelude " was completed. 

Page 320. To A Sky-Lark. 

Of all Wordsworth's poems this seems the 
most inevitable ; it is as spontaneous as the 
lark's own song. The idea that the life of Na- 
ture is one of enjoyment, of love and praise to 
the Almighty Giver, characterizes that spirit of 



religious awe in which Wordsworth always 
walked with Nature. 

Page 320. Fidelity. 

Scott first visited Dove Cottage in this year 
when, with Wordsworth and .Sir Humphrey 
Davy, he climbed Helvellyn and visited the 
scene of this accident. See (Scott, '* Hellvellyn." 

The traveler who ascends Helvellyn and 
wishes to go to Patterdale, by passing along 
Striding Edge will see the monument now 
erected there to commemorate this act. 

Line 20. tarn. A small Mere or Lake, 
mostly high up in the mountains. W. W. 

Page 322. Tribute to the Memory of 

THE fcJAME Dog. 

The dog "Music" died, aged and blind, by 
falling into a draw-well at Gallow Hill. W. W. 

Page 322. "When to the Attractions 
of the Busy World." 

" Wordsworth assigned two dates to this 
poem. In editions of 1815, 1820, it is 1802; 
while in the edition of 183b" and later editions, it 
is 1805." — Dowden. I have therefore placed 
it before those relating to his brother's death. 

In the year 1800 the brothers spent eight 
months together at the Grasmere home ; they 
had seen but little of each other since child- 
hood, and at this time the Poet found in his 
brother an intense and delicate appreciation of 
his poetry. In the fir-grove, now called John's 
Grove, they spent many hours discussing what 
would be the future of the Lyrical Ballads; 
John Wordsworth confidently believed that they 
would in time become appreciated, and hence 
he determined to assist his brother in all pos- 
sible ways. As captain of a merchant vessel he 
had acquired some means, had helped furnish 
the cottage, and looked forward to the time 
when he could settle at Grasmere, and enjoy 
the home in company with Dorothy and Wil- 
liam. 

The fir-grove is not far from the Wishing- 
Gate on the road over White Moss Common. 
It is one of the most interesting of the localities 
connected with the poet and his brother. 

See "The Prelude," vii. 43. 

Page 324. Elegiac Verses in Memory 
of my Brother, John Wordsworth. 

When in September, 1800, John Wordsworth 
left Grasmere, the brother and sister accom- 
panied him as far as Grisdale Tarn, on the 
way to Patterdale. They then little thought it 
was to be his farewell to Grasmere, but so it 
proved. Soon he was appointed captain of the 
"Abergavenny," an East Indiaman ; and on 
Feb. 5, 1805, when setting sail from Ports- 
mouth, through the incompetence of the pilot, 
she struck the reefs of the Bill of Portland, and 
was lost. Wordsworth says : — 

"A few minutes before the ship went down 
my brother was seen talking to the first mate 
with apparent cheerfulness ; he was standing at 
a point where he could overlook the whole ship 



PAGES 324-331 



NOTES 



S53 



the moment she went (Town, — dying, as he had 
lived, in the very place and point where his duty 
called him." 

In execution of the poet's wish, — 

" Here let a Monumental Stone 
Stand — sacred as a Shrine," — 

the Wordsworth Society has caused lines 21-24, 
61-64 of this poem to be engraved upon a stone 
near the tarn. 

Line 52. Meek Flower. Moss Campion 
(Silene acaulis). This most beautiful plant is 
scarce in England, though it is found in great 
abundance upon the mountains of Scotland. 
The first specimen I ever saw of it, in its native 
bed, was singularly fine, the tuft or cushion 
being at least eight inches in diameter, and the 
root proportionably thick. I have only met 
with it in two places among our mountains, 
in both of which I have since sought for it in 
vain. 

Botanists will not, I hope, take it ill, if I cau- 
tion them against carrying off, inconsiderately, 
rare and beautiful plants. This has often been 
done, particularly from Ingleborough, and other 
mountains in Yorkshire, till the species have 
totally disappeared, to the great regret of lovers 
of nature living near the places where they 
grew. W. W. 

In 1898 I found the Meek Flower still grow- 
ing "upon its native bed." See "The Pre- 
lude," xiv. 414. 

Wordsworth says: "I never wrote a line 
without the thought of giving him pleasure ; 
my writings were his delight, and one of the 
chief solaces of his long voyages. But let me 
stop. I will not be cast down ; were it only for 
his sake I will not be dejected." 

This faith and fortitude was so strong in 
Wordsworth that he became a singular example 
of the power of will to rise above the ills caused 
by incidents of e very-day experience. This is 
the great moral lesson of his life. See Leslie 
Stepben, Hours in a Library, vol. ii., " Words- 
worth's Ethics." 

Page 325. Elegiac Stanzas Suggested by 
A Picture of Peele Castle. 

Line 1. / was thy neighbour once, etc. 
" Wordsworth had spent four weeks of a col- 
lege vacation out there, at the house of his 
cousin, Mrs. Burke." — Christopher Words- 
worth. 

Some have found, or think they have found, 
in this poem an illustration of pathetic fallacy, 
as Ruskin calls it, — the imposition upon Nature 
of the poet's own feeling. Let us see ; in the 
first part of the poem the poet views the sea at 
rest, not as a reflection of his own calm, but 
because he has been familiar with it, not in 
storm but in calm : he knows its nature as man- 
ifested in repose, and hence cannot appreciate 
the work of art which is at variance with his 
strongest impression. In the closing part of 
the poem, he does not violate his philosophy, 
for now having experienced what the storm at 
sea can do, the impression of calm is replaced 



by that of storm, and hence he can supply what 
before was wanting, and appreciate the artist's 
work. 

The following lines were written by Mary 
Lamb, and sent to Dorothy on the death of 
Captain Wordsworth : — 

" His voice they '11 always hear, 
His face they '11 always see ; 
There 's naught in life so sweet, 
As such a memory." 

Peele Castle, on the Isle of Man, was once a 
residence of the Princes of Mona. 

" This painting still hangs in the gallery at 
Coleorton." — Knight. 

In writing to Sir George Beaumont, Aug. 1, 
1805, Wordsworth says: "I am glad you liked 
the verses. ... It is a melancholy satisfaction 
to connect my dear brother with anybody whom 
I love so much." 

Page 320. Louisa.' 

Prof. Dowden says the following was most 
unhappily omitted from later editions : — 

" And she hath smiles to earth unknown ; 
Smiles, that with motion of their own 
Do spread, and sink, and rise ; 
That come and go with endless play, 
And ever as they pass away, 
Are hidden in her eyes." 

Page 327. To a Young Lady. 

This poem and the one which follows were 
addressed to Dorothy Wordsworth. 

The following is from a letter by Dorothy : — 

" He was never tired of comforting his sister ; 
he never left her in anger ; he always met her 
with joy ; he preferred her society to every 
other pleasure." 

See Dorothy Wordsworth, by Edmund Lee. 

Page 327. Vaudracour and Julia. 

See "The Prelude," book ix. 541-585. 

This story was evidently the outcome of the 
illustrations which his friend Beaupuy gave of 
the tyranny of the noblesse in France, although 
the Fenwick note gives it another origin. Mr. 
E. Legouis says: Beaupuy perceived that his 
friend was more easily to be captivated through 
his imagination than by argument, and intro- 
duced some moving tale of passion." 

Page 331. The Waggoner. 

The subject of this sketch has an interesting 
history. On his hooded wagon was the sign : 
" William Jackson, Carrier, Whitehaven to 
Kendal and Lancaster." Jackson was no com- 
mon carrier like Milton's, who had no interests 
aside from his carting. He was a lover of men 
and books. He was building Greta Hall in 
18(0 and was contemplating retiring from active 
business. When Coleridge came north in this 
year, Jackson, who was introduced to him by 
Wordsworth, offered him a home with him at 
the Hall ; later this circle was widened by the 
advent of Southey and his family. Jackson's 
tomb may be seen in Crosthwaite Church. It 



854 



NOTES 



pages 331-336 



bears his coat of arms : a greyhound above, and 
below three crescents and stars, with the motto, 
"Semper paratus." 

Charles Lamb, "the scorner of the fields," 
after various entreaties on the part of Words- 
worth and Coleridge, visited the Lakes in 
18! 12, and was won by their charms. 

He was delighted with the dedication of 
" The Waggoner " to him and wrote : " ' The 
Waggoner ' seems to be always open at the 
dedication. ... If as you say ' The Wag- 
goner ' in some sort came at my call, Oh ! 
for a potent voice to call forth ' The Recluse ' 
from its profound dormitory. . . . You cannot 
imagine how proud we are here of the dedi- 
cation. . . . Benjamin is no common favour- 
ite." 

No poem of Wordsworth's is more minutely 
connected with the lake land than this. The 
route described is over White Moss Common 
(middle road) through Wytheburn, St. John's 
Vale, to Keswick. 

Three other poets have dealt with some as- 
pects of this route of Benjamin : Gray in his 
Journal in the Lakes, Scott, in " The Bridal of 
Triermain," and Matthew Arnold in "Resig- 
nation." 

"Several years after the event that forms the 
subject of the Poem, in company with my 
friend, the late Mr. Coleridge, I happened to 
fall in with the person to whom the name of 
Benjamin is given. Upon our expressing regret 
that we had not, for a long time, seen upon the 
road either him or his wagon, he said, ' They 
could not do without me ; and as to the man 
who was put in my place, no good could come 
out of him ; he was a man of no ideas.'' 

" The fact of my discarded hero's getting the 
horses out of a great difficulty with a word, as 
related in the poem, was told me by an eye- 
witness." W. W. 

Canto First. Line 3. the buzzing dor-hawk, 
etc. When the Poem was first written the note 
of the bird was thus described : — 

" The Night-hawk is singing his frog-like tune, 
Twirling his watchman's rattle about — " 

but from unwillingness to startle the reader at 
the outset by so bold a mode of expression, the 
passage was altered as it now stands. W. W. 

Line 34. Now he leaves the lower ground. 
Takes the road over White Moss Common. 

Line 53. Dove and Olive-bough. The sign 
which used to hang from Dove Cottage when it 
was a public house. 

Line 88. Swan. The public house on the 
right of the road leading from Dove Cottage 
to Dnnmail Raise. 

Line 90. painted. Of this sign Wordsworth 
wrote in 1810, " This rude piece of self-taught 
art (such is the progress of refinement) has been 
supplanted by a professional production." 

Line 168. Helm-crag. A mountain of Gras- 
mere, the broken summit of which presents 
two figures, full as distinctly shaped as that of 
the famous Cobbler near Arroquhar in Scot- 
land. W. W. 



On the terrace at Under Lancrigg, Helm 
Crag, Wordsworth composed most of " The Pre- 
lude." 

Line 209. pile of stones. Still to be seen 
on the Raise. 

Canto Second. Line 1. modest House of 
prayer. This chapel still stands opposite Nags 
Head Inn. 

Line 22. Cherry Tree. This still stands, but 
is no longer used as a public house. 

Line 30. Merry-night. A term well known 
in the North of England, as applied to rural 
festivals where young persons meet in the even- 
ing for the purpose of dancing. W. W. 

Line 07. fiddle's squeak. At the close of each 
strathspey, or jig, a particular note from the 
fiddle summons the Rustic to the agreeable 
duty of saluting his partner. W. W. 

Canto Third. Line 28. Can any mortal clog, 
etc. After the line, "Can any mortal clog 
come to her," followed in the MS. an incident 
which has been kept back. Part of the sup- 
pressed verses shall here be given as a gratifica- 
tion of private feeling, which the well-disposed 
reader will find no difficulty in excusing. They 
are now printed for the first time. 

" Can any mortal clog come to her ? 
It can : 



But Benjamin, in his vexation, 

Possesses inward consolation; 

He knows his ground, and hopes to find 

A spot with all things to his mind, 

An upright mural block of stone, 

Moist with pure water trickling down. 

A slender spring ; but kind to man 

It is, a true Samaritan ; 

Close to the highway, pouring out 

Its offering from a chink or spout ; 

Whence all, howe'er athirst, or drooping 

With toil, may drink, and without stooping. 

Cries Benjamin, ' Where is it, where ? 
Voice it hath none, but must be near.' 
— A star, declining towards the west, 
Upon the watery surface threw 
Its image tremulously imprest, 
That just marked out the object and withdrew 1 
Right welcome service ! . . . . 

Rock op Names 
Light is the strain, but not unjust 
To Thee, and thy memorial trust 
That once seemed only to express 
Love that was love in idleness ; 
Tokens, as year hath followed year 
How changed, alas, in character ! 
For they were graven on thy smooth breast 
By hands of those my soul loved best ; 
Meek women, men as true and brave 
As ever went to a hopeful grave : 
Their hands and mine, when side by side 
With kindred zeal and mutual pride, 
We worked until the Initials took 
Shapes that defied a scornful look. — 
Long as for us a genial feeling 
Survives, or one in need of healing, 
The power, dear Rock, around thee oast, 
Thy monumental power, shall last 
For me and mine ! O thought of pain, 
That would impair it or profane ! 
Take all in kindness then, as said 
With a staid heart but playful head ; 



PAGES 337-346 



NOTES 



855. 



And fail not Thou, loved Rock ! to keep 
Thy charge when we are laid asleep." 

W. W. 

All the local allusions in this poem are read- 
ily recognized by one reading the poem on the 
route, as given above, except perhaps the 
" Rock of Names." It was the custom of 
Coleridge and the Wordsworths to meet beside 
Thirlmere for their trysting, as it was about 
halfway between Grasmere and Keswick. On 
one occasion each member of the party carved 
his initials on the face of a mountain stone 
standing beside the road : — 

W. W. 
M. H. 
D.W. 
S. T. C. 
J. W. 
S. H. 

This stone was preserved from spoliation by 
the care of Nature ; for by the water which 
came from a little rill on the mountain side the 
face became covered with moss and lichens so 
as to conceal the initials. When the city of 
Manchester gained possession of Thirlmere, 
and was about to convert it into a reservoir, 
the rock would have been submerged by the 
rising water of the lake when it became 
dammed up, but for the thoughtfulness of 
Canon Kawnsley, who removed it to higher 
ground beside the new road. 

Canto Fourth. Line 17. murmuring Greta. 
In the vale of St. John. 

Line lit. Raven-crag. On the western side 
of Thirlmere. 

Line 21. Ghimmer-crag. The crag of the 
ewe lamb. W. W. This is not easily deter- 
mined, as no crag now bears that name. Some 
think it is Fisher Crag. 

Line 37. Nathdale Fell. The ridge, High 
Rigg, between Naddle Vale and that of St. 
John's. 

Line 43. Threlkeld-hall . The part of this 
not in ruins is used as a farmhouse. 

Line til . Castrigg. Castlerigg, the ridge 
between Naddle Vale and Keswick. 

Page 340. French Revolution. 
See " The Prelude," xi. 105-144. 

1806 

Page 340. Character of the Happy 
Warrior. 

The death of Nelson, at the moment of vic- 
tory, touched the whole English nation. It 
occurred soon after the death of the poet's 
brother, and in giving voice to his emotion 
Wordsworth weaves together their memories in 
a eulogy which for simplicity and power has no 
equal in the language. 

In this poem we have the purest and noblest 
manifestation of that faith in God and Immor- 
tality which characterized Wordsworth as man 



and poet. It is this truth, revealed not so much 
to the eye of reason as to the eye of the soul, 
which renders the life of men and of nations 
divine. 

Page 342. The Horn of Egremont 
Castle. 

The scene of this poem is the old castle near 
the town of Egremont, on the river Eden, not 
far from St. Bees. 

"This story is a Cumberland tradition. I 
have heard it also related of the Hall of Hutton 
John, an ancient residence of the Hudlestons, 
in a sequestered valley upon the river Dacor." 

w.w. 

Page 345. "Yes, it was the Mountain 
Echo." 

The relative position of the mountains in the 
district renders the production of echoes a 
common one. To one rowing upon Grasmere 
or Rydal Lake the voice is repeated with great 
variety ; while the echoes from the blasting at 
the quarries remind one of the cannonading 
effect of thunder in our own Cat skills. • 

Often while on Loughrigg Fells have I heard 
the voice of the cuckoo from across Rydal 
Mere. The terrace along the side of Loughrigg 
is one of the favorite walks. No stone is to 
be found bearing Dorothy's name, and it is 
well that it is safe from the hand of the Philis- 
tine who has marred so many of these memo- 
rials. 

Page 340. " Nuns fret not at their 
Convent's Narrow Room." 

[The Fenwick note refers not so much to this 
particular sonnet as to Wordsworth's sonnet- 
writing in general. This was originally a 
" Prefatory Sonnet " prefixed to a group in the 
early editions of the Poems. 1 

Line 6. Furnace-felh. The hills west of 
Windermere, south of the Brathay and east of 
the Duddon. Furness Abbey Avas the centre 
of the ecclesiastical district known as Fur- 
ness. 

The note of liberty as developing under re- 
straint is a common one in Wordsworth's poetry. 
See "Ode to Duty." 

Sir Henry Taylor says : "It may be noted 
that self-repetition is almost invariably incident 
to men of genius and constitutes a great element 
of their power." 

Page 346. Personal Talk. 

Wordsworth found a new use for the sonnet, 
and turned its force into fresh channels. While 
others had addressed several sonnets to the 
same person, no one until his time had so 
united a series that, while each sonnet was 
complete in itself, it at the same time formed a 
stanza of a larger poem. The four following, 
entitled " Personal Talk," illustrate this unity, 
evolution, and completeness. 

Wordsworth's domestic life was one of the 
brightest in the history of literary genius. Free, 
joyous, and contented in his cottage home — 



8 5 6 



NOTES 



pages 347-353 



which was even less pretentious than that of 
many of the humble dalesmen — he gave to 
the world an example of " plain living and high 
thinking." 

Lines 9-12 of Sonnet iv. are cut upon the 
pedestal of the poet's statue in Westminster 
Abbey. 

Page 347. " Beloved Vale ! " I said. 
This refers to Hawkshead. 

Page 348. "With how Sad Steps, 
Moon." 

The first two lines are from Sidney's " Astro- 
phel and Stella," xxxi. 

Page 340. "The World is too Much 
with Us." 

Line 14. See Spenser: "Colin Clouts Come 
Home Again," line 245, " Triton, blowing loud 
his wreathed horn." 

Page 340. To Sleep. 

This group of sonnets was evidently suggested 
by Wordsworth's reading and attempting to 
translate those of Michael Angelo on this sub- 
ject. 

Page 350. Two Translations from Mi- 
chael Angelo. 

First published in Prof. Knight's edition, 
1883. 

" These were written in vol. i. of Lord Cole- 
ridge's copy of Wordsworth's Poetical Works, 
ed. 1836-1837." — Dowden. The last four 
verses are a translation of the Latin by Thomas 
Warton. 

Page 351. To the Memory of Paisley 
Calvert. 

See " The Prelude," xiy. 355-360, and note to 
"Lines Left upon a Seat in a Yew-Tree. " 

Memorials to William and Raisley Calvert 
are to be seen in the old Church of St. Kenti- 
gern, Crosthwaite, Keswick. 

Page 351. "Methought I saw the Foot- 
steps of a Throne." 

" The sonnet alluded to in Wordsworth's in- 
troductory note to this poem is. ' Even so for me 
a Vision Sanctified,' 1836." — Knight. 

Page 352. Lines Composed at Grasmere. 

Line 10. " Importuna e grave salma." — 
Michael Angelo. W. W. 

Line 17. A Power, etc. Charles James 
Fox. Minister of Foreign Affairs, succeeded 
William Pitt. He died Sept. 13, 1806. 

The description in the first stanza is ex- 
tremely accurate, for in any of the vales of the 
district the effect of a sudden shower, even, is 
such as to produce a unison of voices from the 
becks, while the position of the mountains 
causes the sounds to be reverberated, as men- 
tioned in a previous note. 

Page 352. November 1806. 

Lines 13, 14. " Danger which they fear, and 



honourwhich they understand not." Words in 
Lord Brooke's Life of Sir P. Sidney. W. W. 

Page 353. Ode, Intimations of Immor- 
tality. 

To those familiar with Wordsworth's work 
before this date, the philosophy of this Ode will 
seem what in truth it is, — "the breath and 
finer spirit of all knowledge." The two moods 
in which the poet is represented are but a re- 
flection of what we have so often seen in his 
poetry, — the relation of the soul to sense, and 
the possibility that the former may forget its 
celestial birth. The subject of the poem — the 
origin, development, and destiny of the human 
soul — has seldom been absent from his poel i \ . 
but the treatment is in striking contrast to his 
former methods. The total effect is perhaps 
the grandest in the literature of the century, 
so that the term " inspired" is not forced 
when applied to the poet who could produce 
such a result. 

The chief value of the poem arises from the 
fact that it never descends to the plane of mere 
argument ; it ever keeps on the high ground of 
the essential identity of our childish instincts 
and our enlightened reason. The deepest 
truths of the soul cannot be argued, they must 
be lived. In the first four stanzas we have the 
experience of our common humanity. Doomed 
as we are to go in company with fear and sor- 
row, — " miserable train," — how are we to 
prevent ourselves from " wronging " the joy of 
the life that is about us ? The poet, in the 
next four stanzas, answers the question by re- 
viewing the history of the soul, and tracing the 
steps by which it reached that stage. He finds 
that it is because the soul has become centred 
in the seen and the temporal, and has thus lost 
its glory and its beauty ; it has wellnigh de- 
stroyed its spiritual vision. In the concluding 
stanzas he shows us that this may be regained, 
and that the melancholy fear may be subdued 
by a return to those simple ways in which our 
childhood walked. We must become as little 
children in this life of the soul, and by blending 
early intuition and mature reason we shall be 
able to see into the life of things. Thus it is 
that the poet teaches better science than the 
scientist, better philosophy than the philoso- 
pher, and better religion than the priest. Every 
line of the poem is worthy of the closest study. 

Lines 67-76. Ruskin cites these lines in 
Modern Painters, " Ideas of Infinity," as reveal- 
ing the work of one " whose authority is almost 
without appeal on all questions relating to the 
influence of external things upon the pure 
human soul." 

In October, 1806, the Wordsworths and 
Sara Hutchinson left Dove Cottage for Cole- 
orton, Leicestershire, to spend the winter at a 
farmho"se of Sir George Beaumont. While 
there, Wordsworth planned the grounds of 
Coleorton Hall and wrote many poems which 
forever associate him with the historic place. 
Here Scott and Coleridge visited him. On 
1 hearing "The Prelude " recited to him here, 



PAGES 356-359 



NOTES 



857 



Coleridge wrote that pathetic poem "To a 
Gentleman. " (Sir George Beaumont was an 
artist of repute and a lover of letters. His in- 
timate and helpful relations to Wordsworth 
and Coleridge will be found recorded in Me- 
viorials of Coleorton. 

Page 350. Thought of a Briton on the 
Subjugation of Switzerland. 

In 1H>2 Napoleon crushed out the liberties of 
Switzerland, in 1807 he was master of Europe, 
and was making gigantic preparations to in- 
vade England. 

Page 350. To Thomas Clarkson, on the 
Final Passing of the Bill for the Abo- 
lition of the Slave Trade. 

Clarkson's work began when he selected his 
subject for his Latin essay at St. John's Col- 
lege, Cambridge: "Anne liceat invitos in ser- 
vitutem dare?" From that time he devoted 
himself to the abolition of the slave trade. 
The most powerful opposition arose against 
him, and not until the accession of Fox, in 
1806, did the cause gain advantage in Parlia- 
ment ; in March, 1807, the Government declared 
the slave trade illegal. 

Clarkson lived from 1795 to 1800 at Eusmere, 
near Ullswater, where the Wordsworths were 
frequent guests. 

Page 357. The Mother's Return. 

The Fenwick note here is incorrect, as the 
poem was written at Coleorton by Dorothy, 
when Wordsworth and Mary were in Lon- 
don. 

" Mrs. Wordsworth has a strong impression 
that ' The Mother's Return ' was written at 
Coleorton, where Miss Wordsworth was then 
staying with the children, during the absence 
of the former." W. W. 

Page 358. To Lady Beaumont. 

Many memorials of Wordsworth's skill as a 
landscape artist are to be seen in the grounds 
at Coleorton. 

Page 358. "Though Narrow be That 
Old Man's Cares." 

Line 10. Seven Whistlers. A kind of weird 
sisters, according: to the old tradition. 

Line 12. Gabriel's Hounds. Alluding to 
the cry of wild geese when in flight, which 
sounds like a pack of beagles in full cry. 

Page 350. Song at the Feast of 
Brougham Castle. 

Henry Lord Clifford, etc., who is the sub- 
ject of this Poem, was the son of John Lord 
Clifford, who was slain at Towton Field, which 
John Lord Clifford, as is known to the reader 
of English history, was the person who after 
the battle of Wakefield slew, in the pursuit, 
the young Earl of Rutland, son of the Duke of 
York, who had fallen in the battle, "in part 
of revenge" (say the Authors of the History 
of Cumberland and Westmoreland); "for the 



Earl's Father had slain his." A deed which 
worthily blemished the author (saith Speed) ; 
but who, as he adds, "dare promise any thing 
temperate of himself in the heat of martial 
fury ? chiefly, when it was resolved not to leave 
any branch of the York line standing ; for so 
one maketh this Lord to speak." This, no 
doubt, I would observe by the bye, was an 
action sufficiently in the vindictive spirit of the 
times, and yet not altogether so bad as repre- 
sented ; " for the Earl was no child, as some 
writers would have him, but able to bear arms, 
being- sixteen or seventeen years of age, as is 
evident from this (say the Memoirs of the 
Countess of Pembroke, who was laudably 
anxious to wipe away, as far as could be, this 
stigma from the illustrious name to which she 
was born), that he was the next Child to King 
Edward the Fourth, which his mother had by 
Richard Duke of York, and that King was 
then eighteen years of age : and for the small 
distance betwixt her children, see Austin Vin- 
cent, in his Book of Nobility, p. 622, where he 
writes of them all." It may further be ob- 
served, that Lord Clifford, who was then him- 
self only twenty-five years of age, had been a 
leading man and commander two or three 
years together in the army of Lancaster, before 
this time ; and, therefore, would be less likely 
to think that the Earl of Rutland might be en- 
titled to mercy from his youth. — But, inde- 
pendent of this act, at best a cruel and savage 
one, the Family of Clifford had done enough to 
draw upon them the vehement hatred of the 
House of York : so that after the Battle of 
Towton there was no hope for them but in 
flight and concealment. Henry, the subject of 
the Poem, was deprived of his estate and 
honours during the space of twenty-four years ; 
all which time he lived as a shepherd in York- 
shire, or in Cumberland, where the estate of his 
Father-in-law (Sir Lancelot Threlkeld) lay. He 
was restored to his estate and honours in the 
first year of Henry the Seventh. It is recorded 
that, " when called to Parliament, lie behaved 
nobly and wisely ; but otherwise came seldom 
to London or the Court ; and rather delighted 
to live in the country, where he repaired sev- 
eral of his Castles, which had gone to decay 
during the late troubles." Thus far is chiefly 
collected from Nicholson and Burn ; and I can 
add, from my own knowledge, that there is a 
tradition current in the village of Threlkeld 
and its neighbourhood, his principal retreat, that 
in the course of his shepherd-life he had ac- 
quired great astronomical knowledge. I can- 
not conclude this note without adding a word 
upon the subject of those numerous and noble 
feudal Edifices, spoken of in the Poem, the 
ruins of some of which are, at this day, so great 
an ornament to that interesting country. The 
Cliffords had always been distinguished for an 
honourable pride in these Castles ; and we have 
seen that, after the wars of York and Lancas- 
ter, they were rebuilt ; in the civil wars of 
Charles the First they were again laid waste, 
and again restored almost to their former mag- 



NOTES 



page 359 



nificence by the celebrated Lady Anne Clif- 
ford, Countess of Pembroke, etc. Not more 
than twenty-five years after this was done, 
when the estates of Clifford had passed into 
ths Family of Tufton, three of these Castles, 
namely, Brough, Brougham, and Pendragon, 
were demolished, and the timber and other 
materials sold by Thomas Earl of Thanet. We 
will hope that, when this order was issued, the 
Earl had not consulted the text of Isaiah, 58th 
chap., 12th verse, to which the inscription 
placed over the gate of Pendragon Castle by 
the Countess of Pembroke (1 believe his Grand- 
mother), at the time she repaired that struc- 
ture, refers the reader: — "And they that shall 
be of thee shall build the old waste places: thou 
shalt raise up the foundations of many gem ra- 
tions; and thou shalt be called. The repairer of 
the breach, The restorer of paths to dwell in. 
The Earl of Thanet, the present, possessor of 
the Estates, with a due respect for the memory 
of his ancestors, and a proper sense of the value 
and beauty of these remains of antiquity, has 
(I am told) given orders that they shall be pre- 
served from all depredations. W. W. 

Lines 1-4. Brougham Castle is situated on 
the river Emont, about one mile and a half 
from Penrith. It is now in ruins. During the 
last half of the sixteenth century the castle 
was neglected, and it suffered much as Furness 
Abbey has suffered, — the stone of which has 
been used for dwellings. " Brave and bonny " 
Cumberland during the Border Wars and the 
Wars of the Roses erected castle after castle, 
many ruins of which now stand, grim historians 
of the political life of those days. See "Pre- 
lude," vi. 190-220. 

Line 7. From first battle of St. Albans, 
1455, to battle of Bosworth, 1485. 

Line 13. The marriage of Henry VII. with 
Elizabeth of York. 

Line 27. Earth helped him with the cry of 
blood. This line is from " The Battle of Bos- 
worth Field," by Sir John Beaumont (brother 
to the Dramatist), whose poems are written 
with much spirit, elegance, and harmony, and 
have deservedly been reprinted lately in Chal- 
mers's Collection of English Poets. W. W. 

Line .'36. Skipton. Castle in Yorkshire com- 
prised in the estates of the Cliffords, deserted 
while the Peasant Lord was attainted. When 
the dissolution of the Monasteries was followed 
by insurrection the dispossessed Heads were 
finally repulsed at Skipton by the Earl of 
Northumberland. 

Line 40. Pendragon. Another of the castles 
of the Cliffords, near the source of the river 
Eden, Cumberland, destroyed in 1G85. Its 
origin is ascribed to Uther Pendragon, the 
mighty Briton who withstood so long the rav- 
ages of the ruthless Saxons. Tradition says he 
tried to alter the course of the river to better 
fortify this castle, but failed. 

" Let Uther Pendragon do what he can, 
The river Eden will run as it ran." 

Lines 44, 45. Brough Castle on the Hillbeck 



stream, which flows into the Eden, and is prob- 
ably older than the Norman Conquest. 

Lines 40, 47. And she, etc. Appleby Castle, 
a ruin since 15(55. 

Line 54. The mother of Henry Lord Clifford 
was Margaret, daughter of Lord Vesci. 

Line 73. Carrock's side. Not far from Castle 
Sowerby, Cumberland. 

Lines 80-92. Mosedale, etc. The vale of Mose- 
dale is north of Blencathara (Saddleback), a 
mountain not far from Keswick. Glenderama- 
kin rises on the high ground not far from Sad- 
dleback. 

Lines 94-100. Sir Lancelot Threlkeld con- 
cealed the boy on his estates in Cumberland. 

In " The Waggoner " we have : — 

" And see beyond that hamlet small 
The ruined towers of Threlkeld Hall. 
There at Blencathara's rugged feet, 
Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat 
To noble Clifford." 

The hall is now a ruin, save one portion used 
as a farmhouse. 

Line 122. fish. It is imagined by the people 
of the country that there are two immortal Fish, 
inhabitants of this Tarn, which lies in the 
mountains not far from Threlkeld. — Blenca- 
thara, mentioned before, is the old and proper 
name of the mountain vulgarly called Saddle- 
back. W. W. 

Lines 142-145. These lines have a genuine 
epic ring, and reflect the life of the time — a 
time filled with the prejudices, the passions, 
and the pomp of war. The Northern Heights 
seem to have contributed their full share 
toward all these. In 1584 we find that Cum- 
berland and Westmoreland furnished "Eight 
thousand three hundred and fifty horsemen, 
archers, and billmen." The Kendal men are 
mentioned with honor at the battle of Flod- 
den — 

" There are the bows of Kentdale bold 
Who fierce will fight and never flee." 

Wordsworth's Muse loves to range 

" Where untroubled peace and concord dwells," 

and seldom does she lead him into the fields of 
chivalry and romance. In but two instances 
do we have subjects which would permit of the 
full epic treatment. 

In this poem he does not dwell, as Scott 
would have done, upon the mustering of the 
forces, the description of the leaders, the shock 
of battle, and the deeds of prowess, but upon 
those qualities of the Shepherd Lord which 
distinguish him as a man and by which he was 
endeared to all. The treatment is subjective 
rather than objective ; and in its rapid move- 
ment from the jubilate at the opening, through 
the various phases of family fortune, to the 
slowly moving, meditative stanzas at the close, 
the poem is representative of that variety of 
form and feeling of which Wordsworth was 
master. This is, I take it, what Coleridge 
means when he says : — 

"From no contemporary writer could so 



PAGE 361 



NOTES 



859 



many lines be quoted, without reference to the 
poem in which they are to be found, for their 
own independent weight and beauty." 

Liues 142, 143. 

Armour rusting in his halls 
On the blood of Clifford calls. 

The martial character of the Cliffords is well 
known to the readers of English history ; but 
it may not be improper here to say, by way of 
comment on these lines and what follows, that 
besides several others who perished in the same 
manner, the four immediate Progenitors of the 
Person in whose hearing this is supposed to be 
spoken all died in the Field. W. W. 

Page 361. The White Doe of Rylstone. 

Although this poem was begun in 1807 it was 
some years before it assumed its final form. 
Wordsworth visited the scene of the poem — 
the Craven district of Yorkshire — on his return 
f rom Coleorton to Grasmere in the summer of 
1807. 

The events upon which the poem is based 
occurred in 1569, the twelfth year of the reign 
of Queen Elizabeth, as given in the old ballad 
in Percy Reliques, " The Rising of the North." 
The imprisonment of Mary Queen of Scots 
embittered her followers in the north and a plan 
for her marriage to the Duke of Norfolk and 
the restoration of the old faith was formed by 
many of the English nobles, among them the 
Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland. 
When this was known to Elizabeth she sent 
Norfolk to the Tower and summoned the Earls 
to appear at court. But instead of complying 
the Earls gathered their vassals at Brancepeth 
Castle in Yorkshire, where they were joined by_ 
the head of the ancient family, Richard Norton, ' 
and his eight sons. They entered Durham, had 
mass said, and then set out for York. On their 
way they laid siege to Barnard Castle, which was 
held by Sir George Bowes, a follower of Eliza- 
beth. While this was taking place Sussex came 
against them from York and the insurgents, 
losing heart, returned towards the Border and 
the Earls escaped into Scotland. Norton and 
his sons fell into the hands of Sussex and were 
put to death. These are the events of the 
old ballad, but Wordsworth's poem centres its 
interest about the fate of the Nortons and the 
old tradition of that sole survivor, Emily with 
her White Doe. 

The scenery surrounding the old Hall, the 
sanctities of the famous Priory, and the decay 
of ancient chivalry are impressive to the modern 
visitor. 

" The Poem of ' The White Doe of Rylstone ' 
is founded on a local tradition, and on the Bal- 
lad in Percy's Collection, entitled ' The Rising 
of the North.' The tradition is as follows: — 
' About this time,' not long after the Dissolu- 
tion, ' a White Doe,' say the aged people of 
the neighbourhood, ' long continued to make a 
weekly pilgrimage from Rylstone over the fells 
of Bolton, and was constantly found in the 
Abbey Churchyard during divine service ; after 
the close of which she returned home as regu- 



larly as the rest of the congregation.' " — Dr. 
Whitakek's History of the Htanery of Craven. 

"Rylstone was the property and residence of 
the Nortons, distinguished in that ill-advised 
and unfortunate Insurrection ; which led me 
to connect with this tradition the principal cir- 
cumstances of their fate, as recorded in the 
Ballad. 

"'Bolton Priory,' says Dr. Whitaker in his 
excellent book. The History and Antiquities of 
the Deanery of Craven, ' stands upon a beauti- 
ful curvature of the Wharf, on a level suffi- 
ciently elevated to protect it from inundations, 
and low enough for every purpose of picturesque 
effect. 

" ' Opposite to the East window of the Priory 
Church, the river washes the foot of a rock 
nearly perpendicular, and of the richest purple, 
where several of the mineral beds, which break 
out instead of maintaining their usual inclina- 
tion to the horizon, are twisted by some incon- 
ceivable process into undulating and spiral 
lines. To the South all is soft and delicious ; 
the eye reposes upon a few rich pastures, a 
moderate reach of the river, sufficiently tran- 
quil to form a mirror to the sun, and the ' 
bounding hills beyond, neither too near nor too 
lofty to exclude, even in winter, any portion of 
his rays. 

" ' But after all, the glories of Bolton are on 
the North. Whatever the most fastidious taste 
could require to constitute a perfect landscape, 
is not only found here, but in its proper place. 
In front, and immediately under the eye, is a 
smooth expanse of park-like enclosure, spotted 
with native elm, ash, etc., of the finest growth : 
on the right a skirting oak wood, with jutting 
points of grey rock ; on the left a rising copse. 
Still forward are seen the aged groves of Bolton 
Park, the growth of centuries ; and farther yet, 
the barren and rocky distances of Simon-seat 
and Barden Fell contrasted with the warmth, 
fertility, and luxuriant foliage of the valley 
below. 

" ' About half a mile above Bolton the valley 
closes, and either side of the Wharf is over- 
hung by solemn woods, from which huge per- 
pendicular masses of grey rock jut out at 
intervals. 

" ' This sequestered scene was almost inacces- 
sible till of late, that ridings have been cut on 
both sides of the river, and the most interesting 
points laid open by judicious thinnings in the 
woods. Here a tributary stream rushes from a 
Avaterfall, and bursts through a woody glen to 
mingle its waters with the Wharf : there the 
Wharf itself is nearly lost in a deep cleft in the 
rock, and next becomes a horned flood enclosing 
a woody island — sometimes it reposes for a 
moment, and then resumes its native character, 
lively, irregular, and impetuous. 

"'The deft mentioned above is the tremen- 
dous Strid. This chasm, being incapable of 
receiving the winter floods, has formed on 
either side a broad strand of naked gritstone 
full of rock-basins, or "pots of the Linn," 
which bear witness to the restless impetuosity 



86o 



NOTES 



PAGES 362-365 



of so many Northern torrents. But, if here 
Wharf is lost to the eye, it amply repays an- 
other sense by its deep and solemn roar, like 
" the Voice of the angry Spirit of the Waters," 
heard far above and beneath, amidst the silence 
of the surrounding woods. 

" ' The terminating object of the landscape is 
the remains of Barden Tower, interesting from 
their form and situation, and still more so from 
the recollections which they excite.' " W. W. 

Dedication. In this poem the author sug- 
gests the kind of interpretation to which the 
spiritual romance of the White Doe is suscep- 
tible. 

Line 1. In treUised shed, etc. In the garden 
at Dove Cottage. 

Page 362. "Action is transitory." This and 
the five lines that follow were either read or 
recited by me, more than thirty years since, to 
the late Mr. Hazlitt, who quoted some expres- 
sions in them (imperfectly remembered) in a 
work of his published several years ago. W. W. 
These six lines are from "The Borderers," act 
iii. 405-4 1(>. 

Canto First. Line 1. From Bolton'' s old 
monastic tower. It is to be regretted that at 
the present day Bolton Abbey wants this or- 
nament : but the Poem, according to the imag- 
ination of the Poet, is composed in Queen 
Elizabeth's time. " Formerly," says Dr. Whit- 
aker, " over the Transept was a tower. This is 
proved not only from the mention of bells at 
the Dissolution, when they could have had no 
other place, but from the pointed roof of the 
choir, which must have terminated westward, 
in some building of superior height to the 
ridge." W. W. 

Line 27. .4 Chapel. The Nave of the 
Church having been reserved at the Dissolu- 
tion for the use of the Saxon Cure, is still a pa- 
rochial Chapel : and, at this day, is as well kept 
as the neatest English Cathedral. W. W. 

This chapel still stands ; the rest of the 
church is a ruin. 

Line 34. Prior's Oak. At a small distance 
from the great gateway stood the Prior's Oak, 
which was felled about the year 1720, and sold 
for 70/. According to the price of wood at that 
time, it coidd scarcelv have contained less than 
1400 feet of timber. W. W. 

The location of the tree is not now known. 

Line 58. A solitary Doe. A White Doe, 
say the aged people of the neighbourhood, long 
continued to make a weekly pilgrimage from 
Rylstone over the fells of Bolton, and was 
constantly found in the Abbey Churchyard 
during divine service. W. W., 1713. 

Line 12(i. She sees a warrior carved in stone. 
No record of this can now be found at Bolton. 
It may have been only a creation of the poet. 

Line 170. It teas a solitary mound. The 
grave of Francis Norton cannot be found. 

Line 226. When Lady Adliza mourned. 
The detail of this tradition may be found in 
Dr. Whitaker's book, and in a Poem of this 
Collection, " The Force of Prayer." W. W. 

Line 242. yon chantry door. At the East end 



of the North aisle of Bolton Priory Church, 
is a chantry belonging to Bethmesly Hall, and 
a vault where, according to tradition, the Clap- 
hams (who inherited this estate, by the female 
line, from the Mauleverers) were interred up- 
right. John de Clapham, of whom this fero- 
cious act is recorded, was a man of great note 
in his time: he was a vehement partisan ;>t 
the house of Lancaster, in whom the spirit of 
his chieftains, the Cliffords, seemed to survive. 
W. W. 

Line 268. Who loved the Shepherd-lord to 
meet. Among these Poems will be found one 
entitled, "Song at the Feast of Brougham 
Castle, upon the Restoration of Lord Clifford, 
the Shepherd, to the Estates and Honours of 
his Ancestors." To that Poem is annexed an 
account of this personage, chiefly extracted 
from Burn and Nicholson's History of Cumber- 
land and Westmoreland. It gives me pleasure 
to add these further particulars concerning him, 
from Dr. Whitaker, who says he " retired to 
the solitude of Barden, where he seems to have 
enlarged the tower out of a common keeper's 
lodge, and where he found a retreat equally 
favourable to taste, to instruction, and to devo- 
tion. The narrow limits of his residence show 
that he had learned to despise the pomp of 
greatness, and that a small train of servants 
could suffice him, who had lived to the age of 
thirty a servant himself. I think this noble- 
man resided here almost entirely^when in York- 
shire, for all his charters which I have seen are 
dated at Barden. 

" His early habits, and the want of those 
artificial measures of time which even shep- 
# herds now possess, had given him a turn for 
observing the motions of the heavenly bodies : 
and, having purchased such an apparatus as 
could then be procured, he amused and in- 
formed himself by those pursuits, with the aid 
of the Canons of Bolton, some of whom are 
said to have been well versed in what was then 
known of the science. 

" I suspect this nobleman to have been some- 
times occupied in a more visionary pursuit, and 
probably in the same company. 

" For, from the family evidences, I have met 
with two MSS. on the subject of Alchemy, 
which, from the character, spelling, etc., may 
almost certainly be referred to the reign of 
Henry the Seventh. If these were originally 
deposited with the MSS. of the Cliffords, it 
might have been for the use of this nobleman. 
If they were brought from Bolton at the Disso- 
lution, they must have been the work of those 
Canons whom he almost exclusively conversed 
with. 

" In these peaceful employments Lord Clif- 
ford spent the whole reign of Henry the Seventh, 
and the first years of his son. But in the year 
1513, when almost sixty years old, he was ap- 
pointed to a principal command over the army 
which fought at Flodden, and showed that the 
military genius of the family had neither been 
chilled in him by age, nor extinguished by habits 
of peace. 



PAGES 365-374 



NOTES 



861 



" He survived the battle of Flodden ten 
years, and died April 23d, 1523, aged about 70. 
I shall endeavour to appropriate to him a tomb, 
vault, and chantry, in the choir of the church 
of Bolton, as I should be sorry to believe that 
he was deposited, when dead, at a distance 
from the place which 111 his lifetime he loved so 
well. 

" By his last will he appointed Ins body to 
be interred at Shap, if he died in Westmore- 
land ; or at Bolton, if he died in Yorkshire." 

With respect to the Canons of Bolton, Dr. 
Whitaker shows from MSS. that not only al- 
chemy but astronomy was a favourite pursuit 
with them. W. W. 

Line 294. Borden's lowly quietness. Barden 
Tower, at about three miles from Bolton Priory, 
on west bank of the Wharf. 

Canto Second. Line 16. Banner. Called 
the Banner of the Five Wounds. 

Line 43. Bylstone-hall. Of this there are 
only a few remains to be seen. 

Canto Thikd. Line 2. Of Brancepeth. 
Brancepeth Castle stands near the river Were, 
a few miles from the city of Durham. It for- 
merly belonged to the Nevilles, Earls of West- 
moreland. See Dr. Percy's account. W. W. 

Line 103. Baby Hall. Raby Castle, Dur- 
ham. 

Lines 123, 124.^ From the old ballad. W. W. 

Line 131. Clifford-moor. Not far from Weth- 
erhy. 

Line 203. From the old ballad. W. W. 

Lines 207, 208. Lord Dacre. Howard's aid. 
Naworth Castle in Cumberland has over its 
entrance the arms of Dacre and Howard. 

Line 221. mitred Thurston. See the Histo- 
rians for the account of this memorable battle, 
usually denominated the Battle of the Stand- 
ard. W. W. 

Line 235. In that other day of Neville'' s Cross. 
" In the night before the battle of Durham was 
strncken and begun, the 17th clay of October, 
anno 1340, there did appear to John Fosser, 
then Prior of the abbey of Durham, a Vision, 
commanding him to take the holy Corporax- 
cloth, wherewith St. Cuthbert did cover the 
chalice when he used to say mass, and to put 
the same holy relique like to a banner-cloth 
upon the point of a spear, and the next morn- 
ing to go and repair to a place on the west side 
of the city of Durham, called the Red Hills, 
where the Maid's Bower wont to be, and there 
to remain and abide till the end of the battle. 
To which vision the Prior obeying, and taking 
the same for a revelation of God's grace and 
mercy by the mediation of Holy St. Cuthbert, 
did accordingly the next morning, with the 
monks of the said abbey, repair to the said Red 
Hills, and there most devoutly humbling and 
prostrating themselves in prayer for the victory 
in the said battle: (a great multitude of the 
Scots running and pressing by them, with inten- 
tion to have spoiled them, yet had no power to 
commit any violence under such holy persons, 
so occupied in prayer, being protected and de- 
fended by the mighty Providence of Almighty 



God, and by the mediation of Holy St. Cuth- 
bert, and the presence of the holy relique). 
And, after many conflicts and warlike exploits 
there had and done between the English men 
and the King of Scots and his company, the said 
battle ended, and the victory was obtained, to 
the great overthrow and confusion of the Scots, 
their enemies : And then the said Prior and 
monks accompanied with Ralph Lord Nevil, 
and John Nevil his son, and the Lord Percy, 
and many other nobles of England, returned 
home and went to the abbey church, there join- 
ing in hearty prayer and thanksgiving to God 
and Holy St. Cuthbert for the victory achieved 
that day." 

This battle was afterwards called the Battle 
of Neville's Cross from the following circum- 
stance : — 

" On the west side of the city of Durham, 
where two roads pass each other, a most not- 
able, famous, and goodly cross of stone-work 
was erected and set up to the honour of God for 
the victory there obtained in the field of battle, 
and known by the name of Nevil's Cross, and 
built at the sole cost of the Lord Ralph Nevil, 
one of the most excellent and chief persons in 
the said battle." The Relique of St. Cuthbert 
afterwards became of great importance in mili- 
tary events. For soon after this battle, says 
the same author, "The Prior caused a goodly 
and sumptuous banner to be made" (which is 
then described at great length), "and in the 
midst of the same banner-cloth was the said 
holy relique and corporax-cloth enclosed, etc., 
and so sumptuously finished, and absolutely 
perfected, this banner was dedicated to Holy 
St. Cuthbert, of intent and purpose that for the 
future it should be carried to any battle, as occa- 
sion should serve ; and was never carried and 
showed at any battle but by the especial grace 
of God Almighty, and the mediation of Holy 
St. Cuthbert, it brought home victory ; which 
banner-cloth, after the dissolution of the abbey, 
fell into the possession of Dean AYhittinoham, 
whose wife, called Katharine, being a French 
woman (as is most credibly reported by eye- 
witnesses), did most injuriously burn the same 
in her fire, to the open contempt and disgrace 
of all ancient and goodly reliques." — Extracted 
from a book entitled Durham Cathedral, as it 
stood before the Dissolution of the Monastery. It 
appears, from the old metrical History, that 
the above-mentioned banner was carried by the 
Earl of Surrey to Flodden Field. W. W. 

Canto Fourth. Line 170. Barnard's 
Towers. On the Tees, Yorkshire. 

Canto Fifth. Line (i. Norton Tower. It 
is so called to this day, and is thus described by 
Dr. Whitaker: — " Rylstone Fell yet exhibits a 
monument of the old warfare between the Nor- 
tons and Cliffords. On a point of very high 
ground, commanding an immense prospect, and 
protected by two deep ravines, are the remains 
of a square tower, expressly said by Dodsworth 
to have been built by Richard Norton. The 
walls are of strong grout-work, about four feet 
thick. It seems to have been three stories 



862 



NOTES 



PAGES 37 7-3S3 



high. Breaches have been industriously made 
in all the sides, almost to the ground, to render 
it untenable. 

" But Norton Tower was probably a sort of 
pleasure-house in summer, as there are, adjoin- 
ing to it, several large mounds (two of them are 
pretty entire), of which no other account can be 
given than that they were butts for large com- 
panies of archers. 

" The place is savagely wild, and admir- 
ably adapted to the uses of a watch tower." 

w. w. 

Of this only the roofless walls now stand. 

Canto Seventh. Line 18. despoil and de- 
solation. " After the attainder of Richard Nor- 
ton, his estates were forfeited to the crown, 
where they remained till the 2d or 3d of James ; 
they were then granted to Francis Earl of Cum- 
berland." From an accurate survey made at 
that time, several particulars have been ex- 
tracted by Dr. W. It appears that " the man- 
sion-house was then in decay. Immediately 
adjoining is a close, called the Vivery, so called, 
undoubtedly, from the French Vivier, or mod- 
ern Latin Vivarium ; for there are near the 
house large remains of a pleasure-ground, such 
as were introduced in the earlier part of Eliza- 
beth's time, with topiary works, fish-ponds, an 
island, etc. The whole township was ranged 
by an hundred and thirty red deer, the property 
of the Lord, which, together with the wood, 
had, after the attainder of Mr. Norton, been 
committed to Sir Stephen Tempest. The wood, 
it seems, had been abandoned to depredations, 
before which time it appears that the neigh- 
bourhood must have exhibited a forest-like and 
sylvan scene. In this survey, among the old 
tenants is mentioned one Richard Kitchen, but- 
ler to Mr. Norton, who rose in rebellion with 
his master, and was executed at Ripon." 
W. W. 

Line 157. Amerdale. " At the extremity of 
the parish of Burnsal, the valley of Wharf 
forks off into two great branches, one of which 
retains the name of Wharfdale, to the source 
of the river ; the other is usually called Litton- 
dale, but more anciently and properly, Amer- 
dale. Dernbrook, which runs along an obscure 
valley from the N.W., is derived from a Teu- 
tonic word, signifying concealment." — Dr. 
Whitakek. W. W. 

Line 212. " (lioti ua agtir." On one of the 
bells of Rylstone church, which seems coeval 
with the building of the tower, is this cypher, 
"I.N." for John Norton, and the motto, " ffioft 
us antif." W. W. 

Line 253. rock-encircled Pound. Which is 
thus described by Dr. Whitaker: "On the 
plain summit of the hill are the foundations of 
a strong wall stretching from the S.W. to the 
N.E. corner of the tower, and to the edge of a 
very deep glen. From this glen, a ditch, sev- 
eral hundred yards long, runs south to another 
deep and rugged ravine. On the N. and W., 
where the banks are very steep, no Avail or 
mound is discoverable, paling being the only 
fence that could stand on such ground. 



" From the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Bor- 
der, it appears that such pounds for deer, sheep, 
etc., were far from being uncommon in the south 
of Scotland. The principle of them was some- 
thing like that of a wire mouse-trap. On the 
declivity of a steep hill, the bottom and sides 
of which were fenced so as to be impassable, a 
wall was constructed nearly level with the sur- 
face on the outside, yet so high within, that 
without wings it was impossible to escape in the 
opposite direction. Care was probably taken 
that these enclosures should contain better feed 
than the neighbouring parks or forests ; and 
whoever is acquainted with the habits of these 
sequacious animals, will easily conceive, that if 
the leader was once tempted to descend into 
the snare, a herd would follow." 

I cannot conclude without recommending to 
the notice of all lovers of beautiful scenery 
Bolton Abbey and its neighbourhood. This 
enchanting spot belongs to the Duke of Devon- 
shire ; and the superintendence of it has for 
some years been entrusted to the Rev. William 
Carr, who has most skilfully opened out its fea- 
tures ; and, in whatever he has added, has done 
justice to the place, by working with an in- 
visible hand of art in the very spirit of nature. 
W. W. 

For a contrast of the two types of criticism in 
this great poem, compare Jeffrey's in the Edin- 
burgh Review, and Prof. Shairpe's in ilsjjects of 
Poetry. 

1808 

Page 382. Composed while the Author 
was . . . Writing a Tract. 

Dove Cottage now became too small for his 
growing family, and this year Wordsworth re- 
moved to Allan Bank, across the lake at the 
foot of Silver How. At this time he was at 
work on his pamphlet the " Convention of Cin- 
tra," now printed in prose works, vol. i., and 
" The Excursion." 

Page 382. Geobge and Sarah Green. 

This poem was never published by Words- 
worth. It appeared in De Quincey's Memorials 
of Grasmere. The parents lost their lives in a 
snowstorm, on the way from Langdale to Eas- 
dale, and six children were left orphans. The 
Wordsworths found homes for them. April 
20, Dorothy wrote Lady Beaumont : " I am 
happy to inform you that the orphans have 
been fixed under the care of very respectable 
people. ... I am going to transcribe a poem 
composed by my brother a few days after his 
return." Memorials of Coleorton, ii. p. 53. 

1809 

Page 383. Hoffer. 

The sonnets of this year on theTyrolese 
herdsmen — patriots who fought in vain against 
the French under the leadership of Andrew 
Hoffer, an innkeeper in the Passeierthal — 
sound the note of Independence and Liberty 
which he early learned among the shepherds of 
his own Westmoreland hills. 



PAGES 384-399 



NOTES 



863 



Page 384. " And is it among Rude Untu- 
tored Dales." 

This and the two sonnets which follow sing 
the praises of the Spanish patriot, Palafox. 

Page 384. " Hail, Zakagoza." 

In this Sonnet I am under some obligations 
to one of an Italian author, to which I cannot 
refer. W. W. 

Page 385. "Brave Schill! by Death 
Delivered, take thy Flight." 

Ferdinand von Schill attempted to liberate 
Germain from the tyranny of Bonaparte, but 
was killed at Stralsund in 1809. 

Page 3S5. "Call not the Royal Swede 

Unfortunate." 

Gustavus IV., who abdicated in 1809, and 
•went to London. See sonnet "The Voice of 
Song." 

Page 385. " Look now on that Adven- 
turer." 

This sonnet on Napoleon is in contrast to that 
which precedes. 

Page 386. " Is there a Power," etc. 
This sonnet evidently refers to Palafox. 

1810 

Page 387. On a Celebrated Event in 
Ancient History. 

T. Quintius Flaminius, who defeated Philip 
of Macedon and gave freedom to Greece in 
196 b. c, at the celebration of the Isthmian 
Games. 

Page 387. Upon the Same Event. 

Alluding to the fact that the ./Etolians after 
aiding Flaminius at Cynoscephalse insisted on 
the expulsion of the Macedonians. 

Page 388. O'ERWEENrNG Statesmen. 

See Laborde's Character of the Spanish Peo- 
ple ; from him the statement of these last lines 
is taken W. W. 

Page 388. Epitaphs Translated from 
Chiabrera. 

The nine Epitaphs which follow are from the 
Italian poet Chiabrera who was bom in Savona, 
1552. 

II. Line 13. 

Ivi vivea giooondo e i suoi pensieri 
Erano tutti rose. 

The Translator had not skill to come nearer 
to his original. W. W. 

VIII. Line 15. In justice to the Author, I 
subjoin the original : — 

e degli amici 

Non lasciava languire i bei pensieri. 

w. w. 



1811 

Early in this year Wordsworth removed to 
the Parsonage opposite the church. 

Page 393. Epistle to Sir George How- 
land Beaumont, Bart. 

In August Wordsworth went to Bootle with 
his family in order that his children might 
have a change. They went by way of Red 
Bank, Loughrigg Tarn and Little Langdale, to 
Yewdale, and over Walna Scar to the Duddon, 
thence to Bootle. 

Line 59. Monads Isle. Wordsworth in a 
letter, written from Bootle to Sir George Beau- 
mont Aug. 28, 1811, says: " The Isle of Man is 
right opposite our window." 

Line 189. that Abode. Sir George purchased 
Loughrigg Tarn, intending to build a summer 
cottage upon it in order to be near Wordsworth 
a part of the year, but for some reason the cot- 
tage was not built, the Tarn was sold and the 
money given to Wordsworth ; he used it to 
purchase the yew trees which still stand in the 
Poet's Corner, Grasmere Churchyard. 

In July, 1804, Wordsworth wrote Sir George 
Beaumont : " Loughrigg Tarn is a perpetual 
mortification to me when I think that you and 
Lady Beaumont were so near having a summer 
seat here." 

Note. — Loughrigg Tarn, alluded to in 
the foregoing Epistle, resembles, though much 
smaller in compass, the Lake Nemi, or Sj>eculu7n 
Dianoz as it is often called, not only in its clear 
waters and circular form, and the beauty im- 
mediately surrounding it, but also as being over- 
looked by the eminence of Langdale Pikes as 
Lake Nemi is by that of Monte Calvo. Since 
this Epistle was written Loughrigg Tarn has 
lost much of its beauty by the felling of many 
natural clumps of wood, relics of the old forest, 
particularly upon the farm called " The Oaks," 
so called from the abundance of that tree which 
grew there. 

It is to be regretted, upon public grounds, 
that Sir George Beaumont did not carry into 
effect his intention of constructing here a Sum- 
mer Retreat in the style I have described ; as 
his taste would have set an example how build- 
ings, with all the accommodations modern so- 
ciety requires, might be introduced even into 
the most secluded parts of this country without 
injuring their native character. W. W. 

Page 398. On Perusing the Foregoing 
Epistle. 

This must have been written in 1841, but I 
place it here, as it should be read with the fore- 
going. 

Page 399. Upon the Sight of a Beau- 
tiful Picture, painted by Sir G. H. Beau- 
mont. 

Writing to Sir George Beaumont from Bootle, 
Aug. 28, 1811, Wordsworth says: "Over the 
chimneypiece is hung your little picture from 
the neighbourhood of Coleorton." 



864 



NOTES 



PAGES 399-41O 



Page 399. Inscriptions : 

In the grounds of coleorton. 

Although this poem was written in 1S08 it 
heli.ngs naturally with these Coleorton poems. 

The student should read Memorials of Coleor- 
ton, vol. i. 1805-7, for an account of the work 
which Wordsworth did for Sir George during 
these years. 

" Although the cedar has yielded to the rav- 
ages of time, the inscription still remains on the 
stone." — Knight. 

In a garden of sir george eeaumont, 

BART. 

Line 8. This little Niche. "The niche may 
still be seen at Coleorton." — Knight. 

Written at the request of sir george 
beaumont, bart. 

This was written in 1808, hut belongs natu- 
rally here. In 1811 Wordsworth wrote to Sir 
George relative to an attempt at recording these 
lines: " I hope this will do: I tried a hundred 
different ways, but cannot hit upon anything 
better." 

For a seat in the groves of coleor- 
ton. 

Line 4. In 1811 Wordsworth wrote to Lady 
Beaumont: " Grace Dieu is itself so interesting 
a spot, and has naturally and historically such 
a connection with Coleorton, that I could not 
deny myself the pleasure of paying it this mark 
of attention." 

1812 

During this year Wordsworth's life was 
darkened by the death of little Catherine and 
Thomas, and not much creative work was done. 
The estrangement from Coleridge also began 
at this time. 

Page 401. Song for the Spinning Wheel. 

It will be interesting in connection with this 
poem to read the account of Ruskin's success 
in reinstating the spinning-wheel in the Lakes 
as given by Canon Rawnsley in his Buskin i?i 
the English Lakes. 

Page 401. Composed on the Eve of the 
Marriage of a Friend in the Vale of 
Grasmere. 

" This poem refers to the marriage of Mrs. 
Wordsworth's brother, Thomas Hutchinson, 
to Mary Monkhouse, November 1, 1812." — 
Knight. 

Page 401. Water-Fowl. 

" This first appeared in ' A Description of 
the Scenery of the Lakes,' 182.'' " — Dowden. 
See " The Recluse," book i. 

1813 

During this year the Parsonage was given up 
and they settled at Rydal Mount. 

Page 402. View from the Top of Black 
Comb. 
The Druid-haunted hill of Black Comb is 



near Bootle in the south of Cumberland. Here 
is the scene of Faber's poem "Jsir Lancelot." 

Page 403. November 1813. 

This poem refers to the victory of the Allied 
Forces over Napoleon. The aged Sovereign 
was George III. 



1814 

Page 403. The Excursion. 

"The Excursion" was in process from 1795 
to 1814. The story of Margaret in the first 
book and a few lines at the close of the 
fourth book took shape at Racedown and 
Alfoxden, 1795-8. At Dove Cottage and Allan 
Bank the work was completed, while Coleridge 
was dictating The Friend Tinder the same roof. 
Dorothy's Grasmere Journal, 1801-2, frequently 
alludes to the poet's care in writing and re- 
fashioning "The Pedlar," as she always called 
the poem. She says : " William worked hard 
on the ' Pedlar ; ' " " Sate up late at the * Ped- 
lar ; ' " " William worked hard at the * Pedlar ' 
and tired himself." It was published in quarto 
in 1S14 and octavo 1820. It was upon the 
quarto that Jeffrey stamped his judicial foot 
with the exclamation, " This will never do!" 
. . . adding: "The case of Mr. Wordsworth, 
we perceive, is now manifestly hopeless ; and we 
give him up as altogether incurable, and be- 
yond the power of criticism." It is a long way 
from Jeffrey to Arnold; and in the meantime 
the point of view in regard to Wordsworth 
has changed from judicial to sympathetic, so 
that as Mr. Walter Raleigh says : " To any 
one who has felt, even remotely, the strange 
elevation of thought and the lonely strength 
of emotion that upheld the poet throughout 
his dealings with this human agony (in the 
' White Doe '), the comments of Jeffrey came 
like the noises of a street brawl breaking in 
upon the performance of a grave and moving 
symphony." 

To the Right Hon. William, Earl of 
Lonsdale, K. G., etc. See sonnet, "Lowther, 
in thy majestic Pile are seen," and note. 

Book First. The local allusions in "The Ex- 
cursion " refer mainly to places in Grasmere and 
the vales of Little and Great Langdale. The 
characters and incidents are in main historical ; 
each is idealized at times to suit the purpose 
of the poet. Like the rest of Wordsworth's 
works, "The Excursion" gains much in force 
and beauty when read in the scenes to which 
it alludes. The first book has the least of local 
coloring, and is in many respects the most poet- 
ical. The Wanderer, as Wordsworth tells us 
in the Fenwick note, was one James Patrick, 
a Scotchman, who lived in the town of Kendal. 
His grave may be seen in the churchyard at 
Kendal. To one familiar with The Prelude, 
it will be evident that in creating this char- 
acter the poet has repeated much of his 
autobiography ; the Wanderer is another 
Wordsworth. 



PAGES 4IO-427 



NOTES 



S65 



Lines 1-1(3. ' T was summer, etc. See "Nut- 
ting," the scenery of which is at Hawkshead. 

Line 5;;. market-village. Hawkshead. 

Line 132. So the foundations of his mind were 
laid. See " Prelude," ii. 

Line 197. Such was the Boy, etc. This is 
perhaps the most Wordsworthian note in " The 
Excursion." 

• Line 250. The divine Milton. Charles Lamb, in 
sending Wordsworth a first edition of " Paradise 
Regained," wrote : " Charles Lamb, to the best 
kuower of Milton, and therefore the worthiest 
occupant of this pleasant edition. Jan. 2d, 1820." 

Line oil. much did he see of men. At the 
risk of giving- a shock to the prejudices of 
artificial society, I have ever been ready to pay 
homage to the aristocracy of nature ; under a 
conviction that vigorous human-heartedness is 
the constituent principle of true taste. It may 
still, however, be satisfactory to have prose 
testimony how far a Character, employed for 
purposes of imagination, is founded upon gen- 
eral fact. I, therefore, subjoin an extract from 
an author who had opportunities of being well 
acquainted with a class of men, from whom my 
own personal knowledge emboldened me to 
draw this portrait. 

'"We learn from Caesar and other Roman 
Writers, that the travelling merchants who fre- 
quented Gaul and other barbarous countries, 
either newly conquered by the Roman arms, or 
bordering on the Roman conquests, were ever 
the first to make the inhabitants of those 
countries familiarly acquainted with the Ro- 
man modes of life, and to inspire them with an 
inclination to follow the Roman fashions, and 
to enjoy Roman conveniences. In North Amer- 
ica, travelling merchants from the Settlements 
have done and continue to do much more to- 
wards civilising the Indian natives, than all the 
missionaries, papist or protestant, who have 
ever been sent among them. 

" It is farther to be observed, for the credit of 
this most useful class of men, that they com- 
monly contribute, by their personal manners, 
no less than by the sale of their wares, to the 
refinement of the people among whom they 
travel. Their dealings form them to great 
quickness of wit and acnteness of judgment. 
Having constant occasion to recommend them- 
selves and their goods, they acquire habits of 
the most obliging attention, and the most in- 
sinuating address. As in their peregrinations 
they have opportunity of contemplating the 
manners of various men and various cities, they 
become eminently skilled in the knowledge of. 
the world. As they wander, each alone, through 
thinly-inhabited districts, t/tey form habits of re- 
flection and of sublime contemplation. With all 
these qualifications, no wonder that they should 
often be, in remote parts of the country, the 
best mirrors of fashion, and censors of man- 
ners; and should contribute much to polish the 
roughness and soften the rusticity of our peas- 
antry. It is not more than twenty or thirty 
years since a young man going from any part 
of Scotland to England, of purpose to carry the 



pack, was considered as going to lead the life 
and acquire the fortune of a gentleman. When, 
after twenty years' absence in that honourable 
line of employment, he returned with his acqui- 
sitions to his native country, he was regarded 
as a gentleman to all intents and purposes." 
— Hekon's Journey in Scotland, vol. i. p. 89. 
W. W. 

Line 370. He could afford to suffer, etc. See 
" Lines Left upon a Seat in a Yew-Tree, " 11. 
48-63. 

Line 420. Plain his garb, etc. A portrait of 
Y\ ordsworth himself as given by many eon- 
temporaries. 

Line 511. "I speak," continued he, " of One,'''' 
etc. The local setting here is in the southwest 
of England — Dorsetshire and Somersetshire. 
In the incidents and pictures of this wonderful 
poem we have Wordsworth at his best; there 
are no theories, no maxims or proverbs for 
practical use — only the solemn and moving 
spectacle ministering to the spirit of wonder 
and awe. Coleridge says of it : — 

" I was in my twenty-fourth year when I had 
the happiness of knowing Mr. Wordsworth 
personally, and, while memory lasts, I shall 
hardly forget the sudden effect produced on 
my mind by his recitation of a manuscript poem 
which still remains unpublished, but of which 
the stanza and tone of style were the same as 
those of ' The Female Vagrant,' as originally 
printed in the first volume of the Lyrical Bal- 
lads. There was here no mark of strained 
thought or forced diction, no crowd or turbu- 
lence of imagery ; and, as the poet hath himself 
well described in his ' Lines on Re-visiting the 
Wye,' manly reflection and human associations 
had given both variety and an additional inter- 
est to natural objects, which in the passion and 
appetite of the first love they had seemed to 
him neither to need or permit." 

Book Second. The localities in which the 
scenes of this book are laid may be readily 
identified although some of the details are baf- 
fling. The route taken by the Poet and the 
Wanderer was that on the west of Grasmere 
Lake over Red Bank to Ellswater and the vales 
of Great and Little Langdale. 

Line 02. Nor was he loth to enter ragged huts, 
etc. See "Song at the Feast of Brougham 
Castle : " — 
" Love he had found in huts where poor men lie," etc. 

Line 02. mountains stern and desolate. The 
Langdales. 

Line 120. annual Wake. Folk festivals, com- 
mon in the vales then and not yet extinct. 
Cf. "Prelude," viii. 1-70. 

Line 127. broad hill. Lingmoor, — which 
divides Great Langdale from Little Langdale. 

Line 155. In a spot, etc. Blea Tarn in 
Little Langdale. 

Line 175. Chaplain. See Wordsworth's ac- 
count of the Solitary in the Fenwick note intro- 
ducing this poem. 

Line 213. That promised everlasting joy to 
France. See " The Prelude," ix. 



866 



NOTES 



PAGES 427-439 



Line 318. wide vale. Great Langdale. 
Line :>24. A steep ascent . . . dreary plain. 
They evidently ascended Ling-moor at its high- 
est point to the Tarn, on its summit. 

Line 325. tumultuous waste, etc. From the 
top of Lingmoor many of the mountains of the 
lakes are visible. 
Line 328. little lowly vale. Little Langdale. 
Line 338. liquid pool. Blea Tarn. 
Line 330. one abode. Blea Tarn house. 
Lines 381), 387. band of rustic persons, etc. A 
vivid description of the type of ceremony at 
that time current in the vales, and even now 
not altogether extinct in Cumberland and 
Westmoreland. 

Line 404. wound from crag to crag, etc. 
Descending to Blea Tarn Cottage. 
_ Line 420. a little turf-built seat. The loca- 
tion of this will give the traveler some trouble ; 
it is evidently near the Ghyll. 
^ Line G38. the Cottage. As humble as Dove 
Cottage at Grasmere. It has three small rooms 
on lower and four on upper floor. It is used 
now as a semi-public house. 

Line 602. two huge Peaks. The Langdale 
Pikes. 

Line 696. Many are the notes, etc. One who 
lias been in the Langdales " when the Storm 
rides high " will never forget how Wordsworth 
has caught the spirit of the scene in this pas- 
sage. 

Line 741. The Housewife, etc. The character 
of the hostess and all the incidents associated 
with this episode belong to Patterdale. See 
Fanwick note. 

Nothing like the closing passage in this book 
is to be found in any other poet. It reveals 
the truth of Coleridge's fifth characteristic of 
Wordsworth's work. He says: ''Lastly, and 
pre-eminently, I challenge for this poet the gift 
of imagination in the highest and strictest sense 
of the word. . . . In imaginative power he stands 
nearest of all moderns to Shakespeare and Mil- 
ton ; and yet in a kind perfectly unborrowed 
and his own." 

Book Third. The scenery of the book is 
that associated with Blea Tarn and Little Lang- 
dale. 

Line 14. Horn Nature hems you in, etc. A 
characteristic of every vale in the district, es- 
pecially that of Little Langdale. There is no 
egress except by a single road without a climb. 
Line 50. a semicirque of turf-clad ground, 
etc. _ This description is wonderfully true to the 
conditions about the Tarn as they are to-day, 
and careful search will reveal its everv detail : 
" the mass of rock," "the holly," the "softly 
creeping- brook " and the fir trees. 

Lines 04-100. Buskin cites these lines in 
Modern Painters, vol.i., "Truth of open Sky." 
Line 112. Lost in unsearchable eternity! 
Since this paragraph was composed, I have read 
with so much pleasure, in Burnet's Theory of 
the Earth, a passage expressing corresponding 
sentiments, excited by objects of a similar na- 
ture, that I cannot, forbear to transcribe it. 
" Siquod vera Natura nobis dedit spectacu- 



lum, in hac tellure, vere gratum, et philosopho 
dignum, id semel mihi contigisse arbitror ; eimi 
ex celsissima rupe speculabundus ad oram ma- 
ris Mediterranei, bine aequor cseruleum, illinc 
tractus Alpinos prospexi ; nihil quidem niagis 
dispar aut dissimile, nee in suo genere, magis 
egregiura et singulare. Hoc theatrum ego 
lacile prsetulerim Romania cunctis, Graecisve ; 
atque id quod natura hie spectandum exhibet, 
scenieis ludis omnibus, aut amphitheatri cer- 
taminibus. Nihil hie elegans aut venubtum, sed 
ingens et magnificum, et quod placet magni- 
tudine sua et quadam specie immensitatis. 
Hinc intuebar maris ajquabilem superficiem, 
usque et usque diffusam, quantum maximum 
oculorum acies ferri potuit; illinc disruptissi- 
mam terrse faciem, et vastas moles varie ele- 
vatasaut depressas, erectas, propendeutes, re- 
clinatas, coacervatas, omni situ inaaquali et 
turbido._ Placuit, ex line parte, Nature unitas 
et simplicitas, et inexhausta qusedam planities ; 
ex altera, multiformis confusio magnorum cor- 
porum et insanae rerum strages: quas cum 
intuebar, non urbis alicujus nut oppidi, sed 
conf racti muiuli rudera, ante oculos habere mihi 
visus sum. 

" In singulis fere montibus erat aliquid inso- 
lens et mirabile, sed praj ceteris mihi plaeebat 
ilia, qua sedebam, rupes ; erat maxima et altis- 
sima, et qua terrain respiciebat, molliori ascensu 
altitudinein suam dissimulabat: qua vero mare, 
horrendiim praeeeps, et quasi ad perpendiculum 
facta, instar parietis. Prajterea tacies ilia 
marina ade6 erat laevis an imiformis (quod in 
rupibus aliquando observare licet) ac si scissa 
fnisset a summo ad imum, in illo piano; vel 
terras motu aliquo, aut fulmine, divulsa. 

"Ima ]>ars rupis erat cava, reeessusque ha- 
buit, et saxeosspecus, euntesin vacuum montem ; 
sive natura pridem factos, sive exesos mari, et 
undarum crebris ictibus: In bos enim cum im- 
petu rnebant et fragore, sestnantis maris fluctus; 
quos iternm spnmantes reddidit antrum, et 
quasi ab imo ventre evomnit. 

"'Dextrum latus montis erat praeruptnm, 
aspero saxo et nuda caute : sinistrum non adeo 
neglexerat Natura, arboribus ntpote ornatum : 
et prope pedem montis rivus limpidae aquae 
prorupit ; qui cum vieinam vallem irrigaverat, 
lento motu serpens, et per varios maeandros, 
quasi ad protrahendam vitam, in magno mari 
absorptus subito periit. Denique in summo 
vertice promontorii, commode eminebat saxum, 
eui insidebam contemplabundus. Vale augnsta 
sedes. Rege digna : .\ugusta rupes, semper 
mihi memoranda ! " P. 80. Tdluris Tlaoria 
sacra, etc., Editio secunda. W. W. 

Lines 143-148. that huge Pile . . . on Sanaa's 
naked plain. Stonehenge. See " Guilt and Sor- 
row," p. 10. 

Lines 231, 232. Wisdom is oft-times nearer 
ichen^ we stoop than when we soar. See Aubrey 
de Vere, Wisdom and Truth of Wordsrrorth's 
Poetry, in vol. i., " Essavs chiefly on Poetry." 

Line 307. Blow winds of autumn, etc. See 
" Composed upon an Evening of Extraordinary 
Splendour and Beauty." 



PAGES 44I-45I 



NOTES 



867 



Lines 518-532. On Devon's leafy shorts . . . 
lonely Downs. Wordsworth here reverts to 
memories of Stowey with Coleridge, See " Pre- 
lude," xiv. 

Line 71(i. The potent shock I felt, etc. See 
" Prelude," ix. 

Line 883. gigantic stream. The Hudson 
River. 

Line 884. a city. New York. 

Line 931. Of Mississippi, or that northern 
stream. " A man is supposed to improve by 
^oi'.ig out into the World, by visiting London. 
Artificial man does ; he extends with his sphere ; 
but. alas ! that sphere is microscopic ; it is 
formed of minutiae, and be surrenders his gen- 
uine vision to the artist, in order to embrace 
it in his ken. His bodily senses grow acute, 
even to barren and inhuman pruriency ; while 
his mental become proportionally obtuse. The 
reverse is the Man of Mind : he who is placed in 
the sphere of Nature and of God, might be a 
mock at Tattersall's and Brooks's, and a sneer 
at .St. James's : be would certainly be swallowed 
alive by the first Pizarro that crossed him : — 
Hut when he walks along the river of Amazons ; 
when he rests his eye on the unrivalled Andes ; 
when he measures the long and watered savan- 
nah ; or contemplates, from a sudden promon- 
tory, the distant, vast Pacific — and feels 
himself a freeman in this vast theatre, and 
commanding each ready produced fruit of this 
wilderness, and each progeny of this stream — 
his exultation is not less than imperial. He is 
as gentle, too, as he is great : his emotions of 
tenderness keep pace with his elevation of senti- 
ment ; for he says, ' These were made by a good 
Being, who, unsought by me, placed me here to 
enjoy them.' He becomes at once a child and 
a king. His mind is in himself ; from hence he 
argues, and from hence he acts, and he argues 
unerringly, and acts magisterially : his mind in 
himself is also in his God; and therefore he 
loves, and therefore he soars." — From the notes 
upon "The Hurricane," a Poem, by William 
Gilbert. 

The Reader, I am sure, will thank me for the 
above quotation, which, though from a strange 
book, is one of the finest passages of modern 
English prose. W. W. 

Line !)47. Muccawiss. Indian Muckawis, 
Whip-poor-will. 

Book Fourth. In this book the discussion 
with the disciple of Candide is continued in the 
solitude of Blea Tarn. 

Lines 10-17. One adequate support, etc. In 
these lines Wordsworth reveals that ethical 
philosophy so often repeated in the shorter 
poems which is his noblest gift to the world, 
and in which he is without an equal. Here 
we have what Coleridge calls his "meditative 
poetry," a union of deep and subtle thought 
with sensibility, Arthur Hallam, writing from 
Cambridge to Gladstone at Oxford in 1820 on 
the great question of Man's relation to God, 
says : " Let me quote to their purpose the 
words of my favourite poet ; it will do 11s good 

to hear his voice, though but for a moment." 



He then quotes these lines. See Motley's Life 
of Gladstone, vol. i. p. 67. 

Line 39, Yet I will praise thee, etc. Sir 
Leslie Stephen, who lias written a most illu- 
minating essay on Wordsworth's Ethics, says : 
" The purpose then of the 'Excursion,' and of 
Wordsworth's poetry in general is to show how 
the higher faculty reveals a harmony which we 
overlook when with the Solitary we skim along 
the surface of things." 

Line 111. What visionary powers, etc. A 
reversion here in memory to the experiences re- 
vealed in the second book of "The Prelude." 

Line 123, Those fervent raptures are for ever 
flown, etc. The ball-conscious instincts of youth 
have passed into enlightened reason through 
the years that bring the philosophic mind. 
The identity of the two revelations constitutes 
Wordsworth's optimism. 

Line 130. ' Tis, by comparison, etc. See, upon 
this subject, Baxter's most interesting review 
of his own opinions and sentiments in the de- 
cline of life. It may be found (lately reprinted) 
in Dr. Wordsworth's Ecclesiastical Biography. 

w. w. 

Line 197. not fearing for our creed, etc. The 
most significant tribute to the truth of this 
philosophy has been given by Sir Lt slie 
Stephen. He says: "Other poetry becomes 
trifling when we are making our inevitable 
passages through the Valley of the Shadow of 
Death. Wordsworth's alone retains its power. 
We love him the more as we grow older and 
become impressed with the sadness and serious- 
ness of life. . . . He is a prophet and a moral- 
ist as well as a mere singer." 

Line 205. Alas! etc. This subject is treated 
at length in the Ode — " Intimations of Immor- 
tality." W. W. 

Line 324. Knowing the heart of man, etc. 
The passage quoted from Daniel is taken from 
a poem addressed to the Lady Margaret, Coun- 
tess of Cumberland, and the two last lines, 
printed in Italics, are by him translated from 
Seneca. The whole Poem is very beautiful. 
I will transcribe four stanzas from it, as they 
contain an admirable picture of the state of 
a wise Man's mind in a time of public com- 
motion. 

■' Nor is lie moved with all the thunder-cracks 
Of tyrant's threats, or with the surly brow 
Of Power, that proudly sits on others' crimes ; 
Charged with more crying sins than those he checks 
The storms of sad confusion that may grow 
Up in the present for the coming times. 
Appal lint him ; that hath no side at all, 
But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. 

" Although his heart (so near allied to earth) 
Cannot lint pity the perplexed state 
Of troublous and distressed mortality, 
That thus make way unto the, ugly birth 
Of their own sori^we, and do still beget 
Affliction upon Imbecility : 
Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, 
He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done 

" And whilst distraught ambition compasses, 
And is encompassed, while as craft deceives, 



868 NOTES 



PAGES 452-476 



And is deceived : whilst man doth ransiek man, 
And builds on blood, and rises by distress ; 
And th' Inheritance of desolation leaves 
To great-expectnig hopes : He looks thereon, 
As from the Bhore of peace, with uuwet eye, 
And bears no venture in Impiety. 

" Thus, Lady, fares that man that hath prepared 
A rest for his desires ; and sees all things 
Beneath him ; and hath learned this book of man, 
Full of the notes of frailty ; and compared 
The best of glory with her sufferings : 
By whom, I see, you labour all you can 
To plant your heart ! and set your thoughts as near 
His glorious mansion as your powers can bear." 

w. w. 

Line 343. Up from the creeping plant, etc. 
Here is a recognition of the great scientific 
doctrine of evolution which has revolutionized 
modern philosophy, and a prophecy that the 
knowledge it brings leads to love and reverence 
rather than to skepticism. 

Lines 402, etc. I heard . . . a voice sent forth, 
etc. See " Yes, it was the mountain Echo." 

Line 489. Take courage, etc. These homely 
lines were made the butt of ridicule by Words- 
worth's assailants, but Wisdom is justified of her 
children, and a century lias revealed their signifi- 
cance. They have become the eternal warning 
of Science. 

Line 763. We live by Admiration, Hope 
and Love, etc. Our moral being is built up 
through the recognition by admiration, hope, 
and love of those common sights and sounds 
which are meaningless to the world at large. 

Line 851. In that fair clime, etc. "No 
Hellene is old," says the Egyptian priest in 
Plato, " in mind you are all young." 

Line 859. beardless Youth. Apollo. 

Line 865. beaming Goddess. Diana. 

Line 910. good Saint Fillan. Scott alludes 
to the Spring of Saint Fillan in Canto i., " Lady 
of the Lake." There is one at the eastern end of 
Loch Earn and another at Saint Fillan's on the 
road to Tyndrum. This is known as Holy Pool. 

Line 911. Saint Giles. The Church of Saint 
Giles, High St., Edinburgh, is the Westminster 
Abbey of Scotland. 

Line 977. Only to be examined, etc. Words- 
worth's continued protest against such a process 
as an end in itself, apart from a union with the 
vital soul, has at last justified itself in the 
judgment of all thinking minds. 

Line 997. Crowned was he, etc. Voltaire 
was thus honored at Paris when he was eighty 
years old. 

Line 1146. And central peace, etc. These 
lines illustrate Coleridge's third characteristic of 
Wordsworth's poetry : " The sinewy strength 
and originality of single lines and paragraphs." 

Book Fifth. The scene of this book is in 
the Vale of Grasmere. 

Line 3. attractive scat, etc. The tarn where 
the scene of books iii. and iv. is laid. 

Line 12. sole outlet. The road leading to 
the village of Little Langdale, 

Lines 29,30. Knowledge . . . should . . . have, 
etc. Mr. Matthew Arnold as president of the 
Wordsworth Society in 1883 said: "A mona,s- 



tery is under the rules of poverty, chastity and 
obedience. He who conies under the discipline 
of Wordsworth conies under these same rules. 
Wordsworth constantly both preached and 
practised them." 

Line SO. a grey church-tower. This at first 
thought must be in Little Langdale. but the 
poet himself says in the Fenwick note that he 
passes at once to the Vale of Grasmere. 

Line 97. stately House, etc. This is the 
Hackett Cottage alluded to in the " Epistle to 
Sir George Beaumont " — 

" High on the sunny hill,'' etc. 

The poet was a frequent visitor here. 

Line 134. village-churchyard. St. Oswald's, 
Grasmere. 

Line 144. Not raised in nice proportions, etc. 
This description is in almost every detail that 
of St. Oswald's Church, Grasmere, and applies 
to it in its present state. Among the "* marble 
monuments " may now be sesn the memorial to 
Wordsworth. 

Line 226. Where sun and shade were inter- 
mixed. The oak is no more, but yew trees 
planted by Wordsworth himself furnish " plea- 
sant awning " not far from the wall on the east 
of the churchyard where they repaired for their 
discussion. 

Line 411. How gay the habitations, etc 
"On Nature's invitation do I come," lines 33- 
45. 

Line 441. The . . . Pastor. This character 
is in the main that of the Rev. Robert 
Walker, " the wonderful Walker " of Sea- 
thwaite Chapel. See Duddon Sonnets. 

Line 640. Or rather, as we stand. 

Leo. You, Sir, could help me to the history 
Of half these graves V 

Pries!. For eight-score winters past, 

With what I 've witnessed, and with what I 've heard, 
Perhaps I might ; . . . 
By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, 
We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round ; 
Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 

The Brothers. W. W. 

Line 670. You behold, etc. Here the poet 
reverts to the Hackett Cottage again in Little, 
Langdale, and the dark mountain is Lingmoor, 
as he tells us in the Fen wick note to " Epistle to 
Sir George Beaumont." 

Line 917. streams, whose murmtir, etc. See 
" Resolution and Independence : " — 
' ' And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. ' ' 

Line 975. And gentle Nature, etc. 

"And suffering Nature grieved that one should die." 
Southey's Retrospect. W. W. 

Line 978. And ivhence that tribute. The 
sentiments and opinions here uttered are in uni- 
son with those expressed in the following Essay 
upon Epitanhs, which was furnished by me for 
Mr. Coleridge's periodical work, The Friend ; 
and as they are dictated by a spirit congenial to 
that, which pervades this and the two succeed- 



page 477 



NOTES 



869 



ing books, the sympathising reader will not 
bd displeased to see the Essay here annexed. 
\Y. W. 

Line 1012. Life, I repeat, is energy of love, 
etc. 

" The cloud of mortal destiny 
Others will front it fearlessly 
But who, like him, will put it by ? " 

Abnold, Memorial Verses. 

" In the first edition of ' The Excursion,' 1S14, 
Wordsworth printed with his notes the following 
essay, which first appeared in The Friend, Feb. 
22, 1810." — J. K. '1 UT1N. 



ESSAY UPON EPITAPHS 

It needs scarcely be said, that an Epitaph 
presupposes a Monument, upon which it is to be 
engraven. Almost all Nations have wished that 
■certain external signs should point out the places 
where their dead are interred. Among savage 
tribes unacquainted with letters this has mostly 
been done either by rude stones placed near the 
graves, or by mounds of earth raised over them. 
This custom proceeded obviously from a two- 
fold desire : first to guard the remains of the 
deceased from irreverent approach or from sav- 
age violation : and secondly to preserve their 
memory. "Never any," says Camden, "neg- 
lected burial but some savage nations ; as the 
Bactrians, which cast their dead to the dogs ; 
some varlet philosophers, as Diogenes, who de- 
sired to be devoured of fishes ; some dissolute 
courtiers, as Maecenas, who was wont to say, 
Non tumulum euro ; sepelit natura relictos. 

' I 'm careless of a grave : — Nature her dead will save.' " 

As soon as nations had learned the use of let- 
ters, epitaphs were inscribed upon these monu- 
ments ; in order that their intention might be 
more surely and adequately fulfilled. I have 
derived monuments and epitaphs from two 
sources of feeling, but these do in fact resolve 
themselves into one. The invention of epitaphs, 
Weever, in his Discourse of Funeral Monuments, 
says rightly, "proceeded from the presage or 
fore-feeling of immortality, implanted in all 
men naturally, and is referred to the scholars 
of Linus the Theban poet, who flourished about 
the year of the world two thousand seven hun- 
dred ; who first bewailed this Linus their Mas- 
ter, when he was slain, in doleful verses, then 
called of him (Elina, afterwards Epitaphia, for 
that they were first sung at burials, after en- 
graved upon the sepulchres." 

And, verily, without the consciousness of a 
principle of immortality in the human soul, Man 
could never have had awakened in him the de- 
sire to live in the remembrance of his fellows: 
mere love, or the yearning of kind towards kind, 
could not have produced it. The do? or horse 
perishes in the field, or in the stall, by the side 
of his companions, and is incapable of anticipat- 
ing the sorrow with which his surrounding as- 
sociates shall bemoan his death, or pine for his 
loss ; he cannot pre-conceive this regret, he can 



farm no thought of it ; and therefore cannot 
possibly have a desire to leave such regret or 
remembrance behind him. Add to the princi- 
ple of love which exists in the inferior animals, 
the faculty of reason which exists in Man alone; 
will the conjunction of these account for the de- 
sire ? Doubtless it is a necessary consequence 
of this conjunction ; yet not, I think, as a direct 
result, but only to be come at through an inter- 
mediate thought, viz. that of an intimation or 
assurance within us, that some part of our na- 
ture is imperishable. At least the precedence, 
in order oi birth, of one feeling to the other, is 
unquestionable. If we look back upon the days 
of childhood, we shall find that the time is not 
in remembrance when, with respi ct to our own 
individual Being, the mind was without this 
assurance ; whereas, the wish to be remembered 
by our friends or kindred after death, or even 
in absence, is, as we shall discover, a sensation 
that does not form itself till the social feelings 
have been developed, and the Reason has con- 
nected itself with a wide range of objects. For- 
lorn, and cut off from communication with the 
best part of his nature, must that man be, who 
should derive the sense of immortality, as it ex- 
ists in the mind of a child, from the same un- 
thinking gaiety or liveliness of animal spirits 
with which the lamb in the meadow or any other 
irrational creature is endowed ; who should as- 
cribe it, in short, to blank ignorance in the child ; 
to an inability arising from the imperfect state 
of his faculties to come, in any point of his be- 
ing, into contact with a notion of death ; or to 
an unreflecting acquiescence in what has been 
instilled into him ! Has such an unfolder of the 
mysteries of nature, though he may have for- 
gotten his former self, ever noticed the early, 
obstinate, and unappeasable inquisitiveness of 
children upon the subject of origination ? This 
single fact proves outwardly the monstronsness 
of those suppositions : for, if we had no direct 
external testimony that the minds of very young 
children meditate feelingly upon death and im- 
mortality, these inquiries, which we all know 
they are perpetually makinsr concerning the 
whence, do necessarily include correspondent 
habits of interrogation concerning the whither. 
Origin and tendency are notions inseparably co- 
relative. Never did a child stand by the side 
of a running stream, pondering within himself 
what power was the feeder of the perpetual 
current, from what never-wearied sources the 
body of water was supplied, but he must have 
been inevitably propelled to follow this question 
by another: "Towards what abyss is it in pro- 
gress ? what receptacle can contain the mighty 
influx?" And the spirit of the answer must 
have been, though the word might be sea or 
ocean, accompanied perhaps with an image 
gathered from a map, or from the real object 
in nature — these might have been the letter, 
but the spirit of the answer must have been as 
inevitably, — a receptacle without bounds or di- 
mensions ; — nothing- less than infinity. We 
may, then, be justified in asserting, that the 
sense of immortality, if not a co-existent and 



870 



NOTES 



PAGE 477 



twin birth with Reason, is among the earliest 
of her offspring : and we may further assert, 
that from these conjoined, and under their 
countenance, the human affections are gradu- 
ally formed and opened out. This is not the 
place to enter into the recesses of these investi- 
gations ; but the subject requires me here to 
make a plain avowal, that, for my own part, it 
is to me inconceivable, that the sympathies of 
love towards each other, which grow with our 
growth, could ever attain any new strength, or 
even preserve the old, after we had received 
from the outward senses the impression of 
death, and were in the habit of having that im- 
pression daily renewed and its accompanying 
feeling brought home to ourselves, and to those 
we love ; if the same were not counteracted by 
those communications with our internal Being, 
•which are anterior to all these experiences, and 
with which revelation coincides, and has through 
that coincidence alone (for otherwise it could not 
possess it) a power to affect us. I confess, with 
me the conviction is absolute that, if the impres- 
sion and sense of death were not thus counter- 
balanced, such a hollowness would pervade the 
whole system of things, such a want of corre- 
spondence and consistency, a disproportion so 
astounding betwixt means and ends, that there 
could be no repose, no joy. Were we to grow 
up unfostered by this genial warmth, a frost 
would chill the spirit, so penetrating and power- 
ful that there could be no motions of the life of 
love ; and infinitely less could we have any wish 
to be remembered after we had passed away 
from a world in which each man had moved 
about like a shadow. — If, then, in a creature 
endowed with the faculties of foresight and rea- 
son, the social affections could not have unfolded 
themselves uncountenanced by the faith that 
Man is an immortal bdng, and if, consequently, 
neither could the individual dying have had a 
desire to survive in the remembrance of his fel- 
lows, nor on their side could they have felt a 
wish to preserve for future times vestiges of the 
departed ; it follows, as a final inference, that 
without the belief in immortality, wherein these 
several desires originate, neither monuments nor 
epitaphs, in affectionate or laudatory commem- 
oration of the deceased, could have existed in 
the world. 

Simonides, it is related, upon landing in a 
strange country, found the corse of an unknown 
person lying by the seaside ; he buried it, and 
was honoured throughout Greece for the piety 
of that act. Another ancient Philosopher, 
chancing to fix his eyes upon a dead body, re- 
garded the same with slight, if nut with con- 
tempt, saying, "See the shell of the flown 
bird ! " But it is not to be supposed that the 
moral and tender-hearted Simonides was incapa- 
ble of the lofty movements of thought to which 
that other Sage gave way at the moment while 
his soul was intent only upon the indestructible 
being ; nor, on the other hand, that he, in whose 
sight a lifeless human body was of no more 
value than the worthless shell from which the 
living fowl had departed, would not, in a dif- 



ferent mood of mind, have been .affected by 
those earthly considerations which had incited 
the philosophic Poet to the performance of that 
pious duty. And with regard to this latter we 
may be assured that, if he had been destitute of 
the capability of communing with the more ex- 
alted thoughts that appertain to human nature, 
he would have cared no more for the corse of 
the stranger than for the dead body of a seal or 
porpoise which might have been c;ust up by the 
waves. We respect the corporeal frame of Man, 
not merely because it is the habitation of a ra- 
tional, but of an immortal Soul. Each of these 
Sages was in sympathy with the best feelings of 
our nature ; feelings which, though they seem 
opposite to each other, have another and a finer 
connection than that of contrast. — It is a con- 
nection formed through the subtle progress by 
which, both in the natural and the moral world, 
qualities pass insensibly into their contraries, 
and things revolve upon each other. As, in sail- 
ing upon the orb of this planet, a voyage to- 
wards the regions where the sun sets conducts 
gradually to the quarter where we have been 
accustomed to behold it come forth at its rising ; 
and, in like manner, a voyage towards the east, 
the birth-place in our imagination of the morn- 
ing, leads finally to the quarter where the sun 
is last seen when he departs from our eyes ; so 
the contemplative Soul, travelling in the direc- 
tion of mortality, advances to the country of 
everlasting life; and, in like manner, may she 
continue to explore those cheerful tracts till she 
is brought back, for her advantage and benefit, 
to the land of transitory things — of sorrow and 
of tears. 

On a midway point, therefore, which com- 
mands the thoughts and feelings of the two 
Sages whom we have represented in contrast, 
does the Author of that species of composition, 
the laws of which it is our present purpose to 
explain, take his stand. Accordingly, recurring 
to the twofold desire of guarding the remains 
of the deceased and preserving their memory, it 
may be said that a sepulchral monument is a 
tribute to a man as a human being ; and that an 
epitaph (in the ordinary meaning attached to 
the word) includes this general feeling and some- 
thing more ; and is a record to preserve the 
memory of the dead, as a tribute due to his 
individual worth, for a satisfaction to the sor- 
rowing hearts of the survivors, and for the com- 
mon benefit of the living : which record is to be 
accomplished, not in a general manner, but, 
where it can, in c/o.sv- connection with the bodily 
remains of the deceased : and these, it may be 
added, among the modern nations of Europe, 
are deposited within, or contiguous to, their 
places of worship. In ancient times, as is well 
known, it was the custom to bury the dead be- 
yond the walls of towns and cities ; and among 
the Greeks and Romans they were frequently 
interred by the waysides. 

I could here pause with pleasure, and invite 
the Reader to indulge with me in contemplation 
of the advantages which must have attended 
such a practice. We might ruminate upon the 



PAGE 477 



NOTES 



871 



beauty which the monuments, thus placed, must 
have borrowed from the surrounding images of 
nature — from the trees, the wild flowers, from 
a stream running perhaps within sight or hear- 
ing, from the beaten road stretching its weary 
length hard by. Many tender similitudes must 
these objects have presented to the mind of the 
traveller leaning upon one of the tombs, or re- 
posing in the coolness of its shade, whether he 
had halted from weariness or in compliance with 
the invitation, "Pause, Traveller!" so often 
found upon the monuments. And to its epitaph 
also must have been supplied strong appeals to 
visible appearances or immediate impressions, 
lively and affecting analogies of life as a journey 
— death as a sleep overcoming the tired way- 
farer — of misfortune as a storm that falls sud- 
denly upon him — of beauty as a flower that 
passeth away, or of innocent pleasure as one that 
may be gathered — of virtue that standeth firm 
as a rock against the beating waves — of hope 
" undermined insensibly like the poplar by the 
side of the river that has fed it," or blasted in 
a moment like a pine-tree by the stroke of light- 
ning upon the mountain-top — of admonitions 
and heart-stirring remembrances, like a refresh- 
ing breeze that comes without warning, or the 
taste of the waters of an unexpected fountain. 
These and similar suggestions must have given, 
formerly, to the language of the senseless stone 
a voice enforced and endeared by the benignity 
of that nature with which it was in unison. — 
We, in modern times, have lost much of these 
advantages ; and they are but in a small degree 
counterbalanced to the inhabitants of large 
towns and cities by the custom of depositing the 
dead within, or contiguous to, their places of 
worship ; however splendid or imposing may be 
the appearance of those edifices, or however in- 
teresting or salutary the recollections associated 
with them. Even were it not true that tombs 
lose their monitory virtue when thus obtruded 
upon the notice of men occupied with the cares 
of the world, and too often sullied and defiled 
by those cares, yet still, when death is in our 
thoughts, nothing can make amends for the 
want of the soothing influences of nature, and 
for the absence of those types of renovation and 
decay which the fields and woods offer to the 
notice of the serious and contemplative mind. 
To feel the force of this sentiment, let a man 
only compare in imagination the unsightly man- 
ner in which our monuments are crowded to- 
gether in the busy, noisy, unclean, and almost 
grassless churchyard of a large town, with the 
still seclusion of a Turkish cemetery, in some 
remote place, and yet further sanctified by the 
grove of cypress in which it is embosomed. 
Thoughts in the same temper as these have al- 
ready been expressed with true sensibility by an 
ingenuous Poet of the present day. The subject 
of his poem is " All Saints Church, Derby : " 
he has been deploring the forbidding and un- 
seemly appearance of its burial-ground, and ut- 
tering a wish that in past times the practice had 
been adopted of interring the inhabitants of 
large towns in the country ; — 



"Then in some rural, cahn, sequestered spot 
Where healing Nature her benignant look 
Ne'er changes, s.ive at that lorn season, when, 
With tresses drooping o'er her sable stole, 
She yearly mourns the mortal doom of man, 
Her noblest work, (so Israel's virgins erst, 
With annual moan upon the mountains wept 
Their fairest gone,) there in that rural scene, 
So placid, so congenial to the wish 
The Christian feels, of peaceful rest within 
The silent grave, I would have stayed : 



— wandered forth, where the cold dew of heaven 

Lay on the humbler graves around, what time 

The pale moon gazed upon the turfy mounds, 

Pensive, as though like me, in lonely muse, 

'T were brooding on the dead inhumed beneath. 

There while with him, the holy man of Uz, 

O'er human destiny I sympathised, 

Counting the long, long periods prophecy 

Decrees to roll, ere the great day arrives 

Of resurrection, oft the blue-eyed Spring 

Had met me with her blossoms, as the Dove, 

Of old, returned with olive leaf, to cheer 

The Patriarch mourning o'er a world destroyed : 

And I would bless her visit; for to ine 

'T is sweet to trace the consonance that links 

As one, the works of Nature and the word 

Of God. " John Edwards. 

A village churchyard, lying as it does in the 
lap of nature, may indeed be most favourably 
contrasted with that of a town of crowded pop- 
ulation; and sepulture therein combines many 
of the best tendencies which belong to the mode 
practised by the Ancients with others peculiar 
to itself. The sensations of pious cheerfulness, 
which attend the celebration of the sabbath- 
day in rural places, are profitably chastised by 
the sight of the graves of kindred and friends, 
gathered together in that general home towards 
which the thoughtful yet happy spectators 
themselves are journeying. Hence a parish 
church, in the stillness of the country, is a visi- 
ble centre of a community of the living and the 
dead ; a point to which are habitually referred 
the nearest concerns of both. 

As, then, both in cities and in villages, the 
dead are deposited in close connection with our 
places of worship, with us the composition of an 
epitaph naturally turns, still more than among 
the nations of antiquity, upon the most serious 
and solemn affections of the human mind ; upon 
departed worth — upon personal or social sor- 
row and admiration — upon religion, individual 
and social — upon time, and upon eternity. Ac- 
cordingly, it suffices, in ordinary cases, to secure 
a composition of this kind from censure, that it 
contain nothing that shall shock or be inconsist- 
ent with this spirit. But, to entitle an epitaph 
to praise, more than this is necessary. It ought 
to contain some thought or feeling belonging to 
the mortal or immortal part of our nature touch- 
ingly expressed ; and if that be done, however 
general or even trite the sentiment may be, every 
man of pure mind will read the words with plea- 
sure and gratitude. A husband bewails a wife ; 
a parent breathes a sigh of disappointed hope 
over a lost child ; a son utters a sentiment of 
filial reverence for :i departed father ormother ; 
a friend perhaps inscribes an encomium record- 



872 



NOTES 



PACE 477 



ing the companionable qualities, or the solid 
virtues, of the tenant of the grave, whose de- 
parture has left a sadness upon his memory. 
This and a pious admonition to the living-, and 
a humble expression of Christian confidence in 
immortality, is the language of a thousand 
churchyards ; and it does not often happen that 
anything, in a greater degree discriminate or 
appropriate to the dead or to the living, is to be 
found in them. This want of discrimination 
has been ascribed by Dr. Johnson, in his Essay 
upon the epitaphs of Pope, to two causes : first, 
the scantiness of the objects of human praise ; 
and, secondly, the want of variety in the char- 
acters of men ; or, to use his own words, "to 
the fact, that the greater part of mankind have 
no character at all." Such language may be 
holden without blame among the generalities of 
common conversation ; but does not become a 
critic and a moralist speaking seriously upon a 
serious subject. The objects of admiration in 
human nature are not scanty, but abundant: 
and every man has a character of his own to the 
eye that has skill to perceive it. The real cause 
of the acknowledged want of discrimination in 
sepulchral memorials is this : That to analyse 
the characters of others, especially of those 
■whom we love, is not a common or natural em- 
ployment of men at any time. We are not 
anxious unerringly to understand the constitu- 
tion of the minds of those who have soothed, 
who have cheered, who have supported us ; 
with whom we have bien long and daily pleased 
or delighted. The affections are their own justi- 
fication. The light of love in our hearts is a 
satisfactory evidence that there is a body of 
worth in the minds of our friends or kindred, 
whence that light has proceeded. We shrink 
from the thought of placing their merits and 
defects to be weighed against each other in the 
nice balance of pure intellect ; nor do we find 
much temptation to detect the shades by which 
a good quality of virtue is discriminated in them 
from an excellence known by the same general 
name as it exists in the mind of another ; and 
least of all do we incline to these refinements 
■when under the pressure of sorrow, admiration, 
or regret, or when actuated by any of those 
feelings which incite men to prolong the memory 
of their friends and kindred by records placed 
in the bosom of the all-uniting and equalising 
receptacle of the dead. 

The first requisite, then, in an Epitaph is, that 
it should speak, in a tone which shall sink into 
the heart, the general language of humanity as 
connected with the subject of death — the source 
from which an epitaph proceeds — of death, and 
of life. To be born and to die are the two 
points in which all men feel themselves to be in 
absolute coincidence. This general language 
may be uttered so strikingly as to entitle an 
epitaph to high praise ; yet it cannot lay claim 
to the highest unless other excellences be super- 
added. Passing through all intermediate steps, 
we will attempt to determine at once what these 
excellences are, and wherein consists the per- 
fection of this species of composition. — It will 



be found to lie in a due proportion of the com- 
mon or universal feeling of humanity to sensa- 
tions excited by a distinct and clear conception, 
conveyed to the reader's mind, of the individual 
whose death is deplored and whose memory is 
to be preserved ; at least of his character as, 
after death, it appeared to those who loved him 
and lament his loss. The general sympathy 
ought to be quickened, provoked, and diversi- 
fied, by particular thoughts, actions, images, — 
circumstances of age, occupation, manner of 
life, prosperity which the deceased had known, 
or adversity to which he had been subject ; and 
these ought to be bound together and solemnised 
into one harmony by the general sympathy. 
The two powers should temper, restrain, and 
exalt each other. The reader ought to know 
who and what the man was whom he is called 
upon to think of with interest. A distinct con- 
ception should be given (implicitly wdiere it can, 
rather than explicitly) of the individual la- 
mented. — But the writer of an epitaph is not 
an anatomist, who dissects the internal frame 
of the mind ; he is not even a painter, who exe- 
cutes a portrait at leisure and in entire tran- 
quillity : his delineation, we must remember, is 
performed by the side of the grave ; and, what 
is more, the grave of one whom he loves and ad- 
mires. What purity and brightness is that 
virtue clothed in. the image of which must no 
longer bless our living eyes ! The character of 
a deceased friend or beloved kinsman is not seen 

— no, nor ought to be seen — otherwise than as 
a tree through a tender haze or a luminous mist, 
that spiritualises and beautifies it ; that takes 
away, indeed, but only to the end that the 
parts which are not abstracted may appear 
more dignified and lovely ; may impress and 
affect the more. .Shall we say, then, that this 
is not truth, not a faithful image ; and that, 
accordingly, the purposes of commemoration 
cannot be answered? — It is truth, and of the 
highest order ; for, though doubtless thing-s are 
not apparent which did exist ; yet, the object 
being looked at through this medium, parts 
and proportions are brought into distinct view 
which before had been only imperfectly or un- 
consciously seen : it is truth hallowed by love 

— the joint offspring of the worth of the dead 
and the affections of the living ! This may 
easily be brought to the test. Let one, whose 
eyes have been sharpened by personal hostility 
to discover what was amiss in the character of 
a good man, hear the tidings of his death, arid 
what a change is wrought in a moment ! En- 
mity melts away ; and, as it disappears, unsight- 
liness, disproportion, and deformity, vanish ; 
and, through the influence of commiseration, a 
harmony of love and beauty succeeds. Bring 
such a man to the tombstone on which shall be 
inscribed an epitaph on his adversary, composed 
in the spirit which we have recommended. 
Would he turn from it as from an idle tale ? 
No ; — the thoughtful look, the sigh, and per- 
haps the involuntary tear, would testify that it 
had a sane, a generous, and good meaning ; and 
that on the writer's mind had remained an im- 



page 477 



NOTES 



§73 



pression which was a true abstract of the char- 
acter of the deceased ; that his gifts and graces 
were remembered in the simplicity in which 
they ought to be remembered. The composi- 
tion and quality of the mind of a virtuous man, 
contemplated by the side of the grave where his 
body is mouldering, ought to appear, and be 
felt as something midway between what he was 
on earth walking about with his living frailties, 
and what he may be presumed to be as a Spirit 
in heaven. 

It suffices, therefore, that the trunk and the 
main branches of the worth of the deceased 
be boldly and unaffectedly represented. Any 
further detail, minutely and scrupulously pur- 
sued, especially if this be done with laborious 
and antithetic discriminations, must inevitably 
frustrate its own purpose ; forcing the passing 
Spectator to this conclusion, — either that the 
dead did not possess the merits ascribed to him, 
or that they who have raised a monument to 
his memory, and must therefore be supposed 
to have been closely connected with him, were 
incapable of perceiving those merits ; or at least 
during the act of composition had lost sight of 
them ; for, the understanding having been so 
busy in its petty occupation, how could the 
heart of the mourner be other than cold ? and 
in either of these cases, whether the fault be on 
the part of the buried person or the survivors, 
the memorial is unaffecting and profitless. 

Much better is it to fall short in discrimina- 
tion than to pursue it too far, or to labour it 
unfeelingly. For in no place are we so much 
disposed to dwell upon those points of nature 
and condition wherein all men resemble each 
other, as in the temple where the universal 
Father is worshipped, or by the side of the 
grave which gathers all human Beings to itself, 
and "equalises the lofty and the low." We 
suffer and we weep with the same heart ; we 
love and are anxious for one another in one 
spirit ; our hopes look to the same quarter ; and 
the virtues by which we are all to be furthered 
and supported, as patience, meekness, good- 
will, justice, temperance, and temperate de- 
sires, are in an equal decree the concern of us 
all. Let an Epitaph, then, contain at least 
these acknowledgments to our common nature; 
nor let the sense of their importance be sacri- 
ficed to a balance of opposite qualities or minute 
distinctions in individual character ; which if 
they do not (as will for the most part be the 
case), when examined, resolve themselves into 
a trick of words, will, even when they are true 
and just, for the most part be grievously out of 
place ; for, as it is probable that few only have 
explored these intricacies of human nature, so 
can the tracing of them be interesting only to a 
few. But an epitaph is not a proud writing 
shut up for the studious : it is exposed to all — 
to the wise and the most ignorant ; it is conde- 
scending, perspicuous, and lovingly solicits re- 
gard ; its story and admonitions are brief, that 
the thoughtless, the busy, and indolent, may 
not be deterred, nor the impatient tired : the 
stooping old man cons the engraven record like 



a second horn-book; — the child is proud that 
he can read it; — and the stranger is introduced 
through its mediation to the company of a t iu ml : 
it is concerning all, and for all : — in the church- 
yard it is open to the day ; the sun looks down 
upon the stone, and the rains of heaven beat 
against it. 

Yet, though the writer who would excite 
sympathy is bound in this case, more than in 
any other, to give proof that he himself has 
been moved, it is to be remembered that to 
raise a monument is a sober and a reflective 
act ; that the inscription which it, bears is in- 
tended to be permanent and for universal peru- 
sal ; and that, for this reason, the thoughts and 
feelings expressed should be permanent also 
— liberated from that weakness and anguish 
of sorrow which is in nature transitory, and 
which with instinctive decency retires from no- 
tice. The passions should be subdued, the emo- 
tions controlled ; strong, indeed, but nothing 
ungovernable or wholly involuntary. Seem- 
liness requires this, and truth requires it also : 
for how can the narrator otherwise be trusted ? 
Moreover, a grave is a tranquillising object : 
resignation in course of time springs up from it 
as naturally as the wild flowers, besprinkling 
the turf with which it may be covered, or gath- 
ering round the monument by which it is de- 
fended. The very form and substance of the 
monument which has received the inscription, 
and the appearance of the letters, testifying 
with what a slow and laborious hand they must 
have been engraven, might seem to reproach 
the author who had given way upon this occa- 
sion to transports of mind, or to quick turns of 
conflicting passion ; though the same might 
constitute the life and beauty of a funeral ora- 
tion or elegiac poem. 

These sensations and judgments, acted upon 
perhaps unconsciously, have been one of the 
main causes why epitaphs so often personate 
the deceased, and represent him as speaking 
from his own tomb-stone. The departed Mor- 
tal is introduced telling you himself that his 
pains are gone ; that a state of rest is come ; 
and he conjures you to weep for him no longer. 
He admonishes with the voice of one experi- 
enced in the vanity of those affections which 
are confined to earthly objects, and gives a ver- 
dict like a superior Being, performing the office 
of a judge, who has no temptations to mislead 
him, and whose decision cannot but be dispas- 
sionate. Thus is death disarmed of its sting, 
and affliction unsubstantialised. By this tender 
fiction, the survivors bind themselves to a se- 
dater sorrow, and employ the intervention of 
the imagination in order that the reason may 
speak her own language earlier than she would 
otherwise have been enabled to do. This shad- 
owy interposition also harmoniously unites the 
two worlds of the living and the dead by their 
appropriate affections. And it may be observed 
that here we have an additional proof of the 
propriety with which sepulchral inscriptions 
were referred to the consciousness of immortal- 
ity as their primal source. 



8 7 4 



NOTES 



PAGES 477-489 



I do not speak with a wish to recommend 
that an epitaph should be cast in this mould 
preferably to the still more common one, in 
which what is said comes from the survivors 
directly ; but rather to point out how natural 
those feelings are which have induced men, in 
all states and ranks of society, so frequently to 
adopt this mode. And this I have done chiefly 
in order that the laws which ought to govern 
the composition of the other may be better un- 
derstood. This latter mode, namely, that in 
which the survivors speak in their own persons, 
seems to me upon the whole greatly preferable, 
as it admits a wider range of notices ; and, 
above all, because, excluding the fiction which 
is the groundwork of the other, it rests upon a 
more solid basis. 

Enough has been said to convey our notion 
of a perfect epitaph ; but it must be borne in 
mind that one is meant which will best answer 
the general ends of that species of composition. 
According to the course pointed out, the worth 
of private life, through all varieties of situation 
and character, will be most honourably and 
profitably preserved in' memory. Nor would 
the model recommended less suit public men in 
all instances, save of those persons who by the 
greatness of their services in the employments 
of peace or war, or by the surpassing excellence 
of their works in art, literature, or science, 
have made themselves not only universally 
known, but have filled the heart of their coun- 
try with everlasting gratitude. Yet I must 
here pause to correct myself. In describing 
the general tenor of thought which epitaphs 
ought to hold, I have omitted to say, that if it 
be the actions of a man, or even some one. con- 
spicuous or beneficial act of local or general 
utility, which have distinguished him, and ex- 
cited a desire that he should be remembered, 
then, of course, ought the attention to be di- 
rected chiefly to those actions or that act : and 
such sentiments dwelt upon as naturally arise 
out of them or it. Having made this necessary 
distinction, I proceed. — The mighty benefac- 
tors of mankind, as they are not only known 
by the immediate survivors, but will continue 
to be known familiarly to latest posterity, do 
not stand in need of biographic sketches in such 
a place ; nor of delineations of character to in- 
dividualise them. This is already done by 
their Works, in the memories of men. Their 
naked names, and a grand comprehensive sen- 
timent of civic gratitude, patriotic love, or 
human admiration — or the utterance of some 
elementary principle most essential in the con- 
stitution of true virtue — or a declaration touch- 
ing that pious humility and self-abasement, 
which are ever most profound as minds are 
most susceptible of genuine exaltation — or an 
intuition, communicated in adequate words, of 
the sublimity of intellectual power ; — these 
are the only tribute which can here be paid — 
the only offering that upon such an altar would 
not be unworthy. 

" What needs my Shakspeare for his honoured bones 
The labour of an age in piled stones, 



Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid 

Under a star-ypointing pyramid ? 

Dear Son of Memory, great Heir of Fame, 

What ueed'st thou such weak witness of thy name ? 

Thou in o\ir wonder and astonishment 

Hast built thyself a livelong monument, 

And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie, 

That kings for such a tomb would wish to die." 

Book Sixth. The scene of this book is the 
Churchyard of St. Oswald, Grasmere. 

Line 8. the spiritual fabric of her Church. 
See "Ecclesiastical Sonnets." 

Professor Dowden says of W01 /Isworth : " Un- 
derneath the poet lay a North Country states- 
man." Senator Hoar says : " No man of his 
time, statesman, philosopher, poet, saw with 
such unerring instinct into the great moral forces 
that determine the currents of history." 

Line 19. and spires whose ' silent finger points 
to heaven.'' An instinctive taste teaches men 
to build their churches in flat countries with 
spire-steeples, which, as they cannot be referred 
to any other object, point as with silent finger to 
the sky and stars, and sometimes, when they 
reflect the brazen light of a rich though rainy 
sunset, appear like a pyramid of flame burning 
heavenward. See The Friend, by S. T. Cole- 
ridge, No. 14, p. 223. W. W. 

Line 48. Men. whose delight, etc. See "Sea- 
thwaite Chapel." 

Line 97. A Visitor. A schoolfellow of 
Wordsworth's. See Fenwick note to this poem. 

Line 235. our Swain. This character lived 
in Patterdale. See Fenwick note. 

Line 275. He lived not, etc. This character 
was born and bred in Grasmere. See Fenwick 
note. 

Line 407. in a petty town. The story here 
told was one which the poet heard when a 
schoolboy from Ann Tyson at Hawkshead. See 
Fenwick note. 

Line 451 . under a borrowed name. Vande- 
put. See Fenwick note. 

Line 497. a dial. There are no records of 
such a dial at Grasmere Church. 

Line (ilO. These Dalesmen trust, etc. See 
"The Brothers." 

Line 6*25. Stone lift its forehead emulous, etc. 

" Plain is the stone that marks the Poet's rest ; 
Not marble worked beneath Itilian skies — 
A grey slate headstone tells where Wordsworth lies, 
Cleft from the native hills he loved the best." 

H. T>. Rawnslet, 
Sonnets at the English Lakes. 

Line f>76. A woman rests. She was the 
poet's neighbor at Town-End. See Fenwick 
note. 

Line 779. A long stone-seat. This used to he 
at the left of the entrance-gate, opposite the 
Parsonage. 

Line 792. Mother's grave. The poet says, 
" Every particular was exactly as I 've re- 
lated." See Fenwick note. 

Line 9">0. The natural feeling of equality, etc. 
" The Cumbrian dalesmen have afforded per- 
haps as near a realization as human fates have 



PAGES 492-505 



NOTES 



875 



yet allowed of the rural society which states- 
men desire for their country's greatness." — 
F. W. H. Myers. 

Line 1144. sprung self-raised from earth, etc. 
These humble dwellings remind the contem- 
plative spectator of a production of Nature, and 
may rather he said to have grown, than to have 
been erected. — Wordsworth, Scenery of the 
Lakes. 

"All is peace, rusticity, and happy povertv, 
in its neatest and most becoming attire." — 
Gray, Journal at the Lakes. 

Book Seventh. The discussion is contin- 
ued in the churchyard at Grasmere. 

Line 7. Snowdoii's sovereign brow. See 
" The Prelude," xiv. 1-G2. 

Line 9. A u-andering Youth. Alluding to 
his tour in Wales with his friend Jones in 1790. 
See " Descriptive Sketches," note. 

Line 37. village-school. " The schoolhouse 
used to be near the Lich gate at the west of the 
churchyard, and the children used that part of 
the churchyard as a playground! which had 
not yet been used for burials." — Dr. Crad- 
dock. 

Line 43. The length of road, etc. The poet is 
now looking toward Helvellyn to the east, and 
the " easy inlet of the vale " is the old Roman 
road leading to Keswick through the gap in the 
mountains where the bones of King Dunmail, 
Cumberland's last king, lie. Hence it is known 
as Dunmail Raise. See " The Waggoner," 
canto i. 209-212. 

" And now have reached that pile of stones, 
Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones ; 
His who had once supreme command, 
Last king of Rocky Cumberland." 

Line 55. lowly Parsonage. This house still 
stands on the right of the Raise, beyond the 
famous Swan Inn. The clergyman and his 
family were intimate associates with Words- 
worth. See Fenwick note. 

Line 90. Fair Rosamond. Rosamond Clif- 
ford, daughter of Walter R. Clifford. She was 
the mistress of Henry II., poisoned by Queen 
Eleanor, 1177, and buried at Godstow. Chil- 
dren of ihe Wood. Old English ballad and 
play. 

Line 92. sage Whittington. London's fa- 
mous Lord Mayor. 

Line 140. the chapel stood. 

" Wytheluirn's noblest house of prayer, 
As lowly as the lowliest dwelling." 

The Waggoner. 

This chapel stands on the right of the road, 
opposite " Nas's Head Inn." Just beyond the 
chapel now stands a memorial to Matthew 
Arnold. It was from Nag's Head that the 
party set out as recorded in his " Resignation," 
which contains some striking Wordsworthian 
lines : — 

" And now, in front, behold outspread 
Those upper regions we must tread ! 
Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells, 
The cheerful silence of the fells." 



Line 171. Was trimmed and brightened, etc. 
Much of this description applies equally well to 
JJove Cottage, where the poet lived, and to the 
older type ot houses in the vale. 

Line 200. meek 1'artner of his age. Mrs. 
Sympson died Jan. 24, 1806, aged XI. 

Line 285. Death felt upon him, etc. He was 
found dead in his garden across the road on 
June 27, 1607, in his ninety-second year. Canon 
Rawnsley says: '"Just such another clergyman 
was the late Vicar of Wytheburn, who died in 
1892." 

Line 291. Were gathered to each other. The 
burial-place of the bympsons may be seen in 
Grasmere Churchyard, not far from that of the 
Poet's Corner, where Wordsworth and his fam- 
ily are buried. 

Line 310. A Priest abides. See note to 
"Seathwaite Chapel." 

Line 348. Behind yon hill. If the speaker is 
in Grasmere Churchyard, iSeathwaite would be 
beyond several hills ; but the Fenwick note 
alludes to the cottage "called Hackett," be- 
tween the two Langdales, hence the hill is that 
between Langdale and the Duddon. 

Line 352. A simple stone, etc. The Chapel 
and Parsonage have been remodeled, and the 
simple stone has been turned over and a fresh 
inscription cut. 

Line 400. a gentle Dalesman lies. Not at 
Grasmere, but at Hawes-Water. See Fenwick 
note. 

Line 405. Soundless, with all its streams. 
Wordsworth's delicate sense of sound is every- 
where revealed in his poetry. See " Words- 
worth's Treatment of Sound," by W. A. Heard, 
I \ ordsworthiana . 

Line 413. lofty crags. The Helvellyn range. 

Line 595. his doings leave me to deplore tall 
ash-tree, etc. " I 'member there was a walling 
chap just going to shoot a girt stoan to bits 
wi' powder in the grounds at Rydal, and Words- 
worth came up and saaved it, and wrote sum- 
mat on it." — Reminiscences of Wordsworth 
among the Peasantry of Westmoreland. H. D. 
Rawnsley. 

Line 003. him. John Gough of Kendal. This 
sketch is exceedingly accurate in all respects 
except that he was still alive when " The Ex- 
cursion " was written. 

Line 616. That Sycamore, etc. 

" This Sycamore oft musical with Bees ; 
Such Tents the Patriarchs loved." 

S. T. Coleridge. W. W. 

Line 037. of Gold-rill side. "A farm not far 
from the Knott house in Patterdale." — H. D. 
Rawnsley. 

Line 700. Dear Youth. See Fenwick note. 

Line 758. boastful Tyrant, See " I Grieved 
for Buonaparte." 

Line 903. a gateivay. An allusion to the 
Knott houses, in Fenwick note to "The Ex- 
cursion." "The house still stands under Place 
Fell, on the southeast side of the valley of 
Patterdale." — H. D. Rawnsley. 

Line 980. Perish the roses and the flowers of 



876 



NOTES 



PAGES 506-521 



kings. The "Transit gloria mundi " is finely 
expressed in the Introduction to the Foundation- 
charters of some of the ancient Abbeys. Some 
expressions here used are taken from that of 
the Abbey of St. Mary's, Furness, the transla- 
tion of which is as follows : — ■ 

"Considering every day the uncertainty of 
life, that the roses and flowers of Kings, Em- 
perors, and Dukes, and the crowns and palms 
of all the great wither and decay ; and that all 
things, with an uninterrupted course, tend to dis- 
solution and death : I therefore," etc. W. W. 
The reader of " The Excursion " is compelled 
to admit the old accusation against its author: 
that he often falls from the heights of poetic 
vision to the level of the trivial and appar- 
ently commonplace. Sir Henry Taylor said of 
his conversation, "He keeps tumbling out the 
highest and deepest thoughts that the mind of 
man can reach, in a stream of discourse which 
is so oddly broken by the little hitches and inter- 
ruptions of common life that we admire and 
laugh at him by turns." 

Book Eighth. The scene of this book is in 
the churchyard at Grasmere and at the Parson- 
age on Dummail Raise. 

Line 89. / have lived to mark, etc. "Truly 
described from what I myself saw during my 
boyhood and early youth." Fenwick note. 

Line 101. Or straggling burgh, etc. Penrith, 
the Pen Hill of olden times, with its series of 
castles on the Esmond and Lowther. 

Line 111. Earth has lent her waters, etc. In 
treating this subject, it was impossible not to 
recollect with gratitude the pleasing picture 
which in his poem of the Fleece the excellent 
and amiable Dyer has given of the influences of 
manufacturing industry upon the face of this 
Island. He wrote at a time when machinery 
was first beginning to be introduced, and his 
benevolent heart prompted him to augur from 
it nothing but ,good. Truth has compelled me 
to dwell upon the baneful effects arising- out of 
an ill-regulated and excessive application of 
powers so admirable in themselves. W. W. 

Line 151. With you I grieve, etc. In his 
pamphlet "On the Convention of Cintra," 
which Canning called the most eloquent pro- 
duction since Burke, Wordsworth said: " While 
mechanic arts, manufactures, agriculture, com- 
merce, and all the products of knowledge which 
are confined to gross, definite, and tangible ob- 
jects have been putting on more brilliant 
colours, the splendour of the imagination has 
been failing." 

Line 199. yet do I exult, etc. This reveals 
conclusively that Wordsworth's so-called hatred 
of Science has no foundation in fact. It was 
not Science he hated, but some of the results 
which came from a narrow conception of it. 
He says: "Poetry is the breath and fervid 
spirit of all knowledge ; it is the impassioned 
expression which is in the countenance of all 
Science." 

Line 413. Christ-cross-row. The alphabet 
arranged in form of a cross in the old Horn- 
books. 



In this book the poet rises to the height of 
his great argument of Nature and Man : — 

" Wisdom sheathed 
In song love-humble; contemplations high, 
That built like larks their nest upon the ground ; 
In sight and vision; sympathies profound 
That spanned the total ot humanity.'' 

Aubrey de Vebe. 

The fundamental teaching of this book is to 
be found in all of the poet's work after 1800, 
)y, henll . e threw off the spell of Godwinism and 
lhe Wealth of Nations, and returned to the 
sweetly human affections. Some called this a 
desertion, and their sentiments were embodied 
in Browning's "Lost Leader." 

Book Ninth. The scene of the concluding 
book of "The Excursion" is at the Parsonage 
and on Loughrigg Fell, at the foot of Gras- 
mere Lake. 

Line 3. An active Principle, etc. See " The 
Prelude," ii. 399-418, and "Tintern Abbev " 
11.88-111. J 

It was this philosophy of Wordsworth that 
profoundly interested such minds as John 
Stuart Mill and George Eliot. 

Line 59. High peaks. Fairfield and Helvel- 
lyn and Helm Crag. 

Line 68. full river. The Rotha, which rises 
in Easdale, flows past the churchyard into 
Grasmere Lake. 

" Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, 
O Rotha, with thy living wave ! 
Sing him thy best ! for few or none 
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone." 
Arnold. 

Line 81. placed by age, etc. See " Ode to Ly- 
cons, and " Evening of Extraordinary Splen- 
dour and Beauty." 

Line 299. Binding herself by statute, etc. 
lhe discovery of Dr. Bell affords marvellous 
facilities for carrying this into effect ; and it is 
impossible to overrate the benefit which might 
accrue to humanity from the universal applica- 
tion of this simple engine under an enlightened 
and conscientious government. W. W. 

Scotland passed her Education Act in 1872 
and England in 1880. The present activity of 
England in regard to education as a means of 
protecting her against the industrial competi- 
tion of Germany and the United States is sig- 
nificant testimony to the wisdom of Words- 
worth ; for it is in these two countries that 
national education in all grades has made the 
greatest strides. 

Line 363. With such foundations laid, etc. 
This appeal to the soul of England reveals 
Wordsworth in the heights, seeing with the 
eyes and speaking with the voice of a prophet- 
Line 422. As if preparing for the peace of 
evening. See sonnet, " Composed by the side 
of Grasmere Lake." 

Lines 495-498. yon rocky isle . . . that other, 
etc._ This description applies to Rydal Mere. 

Line 570. We clomb a green hilPs side. 
Loughrigg Fell, looking toward Grasmere. 



PAGES 521-532 



NOTES 



877 



Line 575. Church-tower. St. Oswald's, Gras- 
mere. 

Lines 500-608. Already had the sun, etc. See 
" Composed upon an Evening of Extraordinary 
Splendour and Beauty." 

Line 000. Mysterious rites, etc. Memorials 
of Druidism are still to be seen in the Lakes. 
See " Monument commonly called Long Meg 
and her Daughters," p. 721. 

Line 774. one cottage. The scene closes at 
Blea Tarn House, Little Langdale. 

In looking back over "The Excursion" we 
may say with Hazlitt: " It resembles that part 
of the country in which the scene is laid. It has 
the same vastness and magnificence, with the 
same nakedness and confusion. It has the 
same overwhelming oppressive power." 

Sir Leslie Stephen, alluding to the influence of 
" The Excursion " on George Eliot, says : " It is 
a work, which, in spite of all critical condemna- 
tions, has properly impressed the spiritual de- 
velopment of many eminent persons." 

1814 

Page 525. Laodamia. 

1814 marks an era in the poetical life of 
Wordsworth. In the preparation of his eldest 
son for the University, he was drawn more 
closely to the classic writers, especially Virgil, 
and this country-loving poet had new delights 
for him. The picture in the sixth iEneid sug- 
gested" to him this loftiest and most pathetic of 
his poems. 

The hero and heroine are taken from Homel- 
and Ovid, and the poem is one of the finest and 
richest expressions of classic beauty and finish. 
It is in marked contrast to the severe rugged- 
ness of "Michael," and the magical smoothness 
of " The Solitary Reaper," yet it is like them 
in the perfect harmony of theme and the ex- 
pression. 

Aubrey de Vere says : " After I had read 
' Laodamia ' [which was his introduction to 
Wordsworth], some strong calm hand seemed 
to have been laid on my head ; a new world 
opened itself out. 1 was translated into another 
planet of song." 

Line 160. spiry trees, etc. For the account 
of these long-lived trees, see Pliny's Natural 
History, lib. xvi. cap. 44 ; and for the features 
in the character of Protesilaus see the " Iphige- 
nia in Aulis " of Euripides. Virgil places the 
Shade of Laodamia in a mournful region, among 
unhappy Lovers. 

" His Laodamia, 

It comes. " 

w. w. 

Page 527. Dion. 

Another product of this revival of interest in 
the classics was " Dion." 

"This poem began with the following stanza, 
which has been displaced on account of its de- 
taining the reader too long from the subject, 
and as rather precluding, than preparing for, 
the due effect of the allusion to the genius of 
Plato : — 



" Fair is the Swan, whose majesty, prevailing 
O'er breezeless water, on Locarno's lake, 
Bears him on while proudly sailing 
He leaves behind a moon-illumined wake : 
Behold ! the mantling spirit of reserve 
Fashions his neck into a goodly curve ; 
An arch thrown back between luxuriant wings 
Of whitest garniture, like fir-tree boughs 
To which, on some unruffled morning, clings 
A flaky weight of winter's purest snows ! 
— Behold ! — as with a gushing impulse heaves 
That downy prow, and Eoftly cleaves 
The mirror of the crystal flood, 
Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood, 
And pendent rocks, where'er, in gliding state, 
Winds the mute Creature without visible Mate 
Or Bival, save the Queen of night 
Showering down a silver light, 
From heaven, upon her chosen Favourite ! " 

w. w. 

Lamb wrote : " The story of Dion is divine — 
the genius of Plato falling on him like moon- 
light, the finest thing ever expressed." 

Prof. Dowden thinks the date of this poem was 
more probably 1816. 

Page 530. Composed at Cora Linn. 

On the 18th of July, 1814, Wordsworth, in 
company with his wife and Sara Hutchinson, 
left Rydal for a tour in Scotland. 

Line 6. Tower. This part of the Old Castle 
of Corra still stands. 

Page 532. Yarrow Visited. 

In his first visit to Scotland Wordsworth was 
fortunate in having made the acquaintance of 
Walter Scott; now he meets him whom Scott, 
while gathering the Border Minstrelsy, had dis- 
covered on the hills of Ettrick — James Hogg. 
Having spent the night at Traquair, on the fol- 
lowing morning the Ettrick Shepherd met them 
and became their guide to the "bonny holms of 
Yarrow." They were now in the one spot of all 
that " singing country " toward which they had 
looked with the fondest anticipation. The spon- 
taneous interrogation, mingled with surprise 
and perhaps disappointment, bursts forth, — 
" And is this — Yarrow '.' " 

There is no place in the Lowlands so rich in 
tender associations and natural beauty as the 
vale of Yarrow. It has been the subject of 
those nameless singers whose ballads were first 
caught and given to the world by Scott in his 
Border Minstrelsy. One who visits this scene 
should be familiar with such ballads as "The 
Douglas Tragedy," "The Dowie Dens of Yar- 
row," " Lament of the Border Widow," " The 
Song of Outlaw Murray," and "AuldMaitland," 
all of which belong to Yarrow and Ettrick. On 
an early morning in August, 1887, I went alone 
on my first visit to these vales. The sun was just 
beginning to scatter the clothing of mist and re- 
veal the braes and bens with their graceful 
flowing outline, the clear streams winding 
through the fern and heather, the mouldering 
towers of Dryhope, where the Border chieftains 
came to woo the lovely Mary Scott, the Flower 
of Yarrow, and clear St. Mary's Loch visiblv 
delighted with her exquisite setting of emerald 



873 



'NOTES 



PAGES 534-541 



and purple. Then it was that I appreciated 
these lines, — 

" Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
A softness still and holy," — 

such was the pensive loveliness of the scene. 

1815 

Wordsworth published a new edition of his 
poems this year in two volumes. It was dedi- 
cated to Sir George Beaumont and contained 
his illustrations to "The White Doe of Ryl- 
stone," "Lucy Gray," "The Thorn," and 
"Peter Bell." With these poems the first 
great period in the creative work of the poet 
closes. From this time the vision and the fac- 
ulty divine — so significant in conception and 
execution, in dignity and intensity of feeling, 
in sweetness, purity, and melody — passed away 
to return only at rare moments. 

On receiving a gift copy of the edition from 
Wordsworth, Lamb wrote: "I am glad that 
you have not sacrificed a verse to those scoun- 
drels [the critics], I would not have had you 
offer up the poorest rag that lingered upon the 
stript shoulders of little Alice Fell, to have 
atoned all their malice. ... I would rather be 
a doorkeeper in your margin, than have their 
text swelling with my eulogies." 

Page 534. To B. R. Haydon. 

A more brilliant or a more pathetic career 
than that of Haydon is hardly to be found. 
Confessedly a genius of the highest order ; with 
a love for his art which has never been sur- 
passed ; sublimely courageous in his devotion to 
what he considered to be his duty as a' leader of 
" Historic Painting; " surrounded by the most 
steadfast friends and the most subtle enemies ; 
now upon the highest wave of favor, now lodg- 
ing in a debtor's jail, and at last driven to de- 
spair at being cheated of his deserts ; repeating 
the wail — 

" Stretch me no longer on this tough world," — 

he takes his own life. 

What the sympathy of a man like Words- 
worth meant to him is shown in his correspond- 
ence. On receiving this sonnet he wrote: "It 
is the highest honour that ever was paid or ever 
can be paid to me. You are the first English 
poet who has ever done complete justice to my 
delightful art." 

The Judgment of Solomon and ChrisVs Entry 
into Jerusalem showed conclusively that Haydon 
was the first historical painter that England 
had produced. The latter is now the property 
of the Catholic Cathedral in Cincinnati. 

In the diary of Henry Crabb Robinson, June 
11, 1820, is the following: "Breakfasted with 
Monkbouse; Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth there. 
We talked of Haydon ; Wordsworth wants to 
have a large sum raised to enable Haydon to 
continue in his profession." 

Page 534. Artegal and Elidure. 
The allusions in this poem are from Milton's 
History, and not from " The Preface." 



Lines 1,2. In the ' " Epitaphium Damonis" 
Milton says (162 et seq.) : — 
" Of Brutus Dardan Chief my song shall be, 
How with his barks he plunged the British Sea." 

In his Latin poem " Mansus," Milton sketched 
something of his plan for an epic based on the 
same legendary history of Britain. 

Line 14. giants. Alluding to the legend of 
Geoffrey of Monmouth, which tells how, after 
expelling the giants from Albion, Brutus gave 
the name Britain to the land. 

Line 17. Corineus. A Trojan chief who 
came with Brutus and to whom Cornwall was 
given. 

Line 34. Guendolen. Locrine, son of Brutus, 
married Guendolen of Cornwall, but loved Es~ 
treldis, a German princess, by whom he had a 
daughter. Guendolen raised an army in Corn- 
wall, defeated Locrine. See " Comus," 11. 824- 
830. 

Line 41 . Leir succeeded Locrine in Cornwall. 
See Shakespeare's King Lear. 

Line 74. Artegal. Archigallo. See Milton's 
History. 

Line 97. Troynovant. Troia nova, later Tri- 
novantum, now London. 

Line 234. Brother by a Brother saved. Allud- 
ing to Milton's History. 

Page 538. "The Fairest, Brightest, 
Hues of Ether Fade." 

This and the following eight sonnets were 
originally published in the edition of 1815. The 
precise year of their composition is not known, 
but Prof. Knight says they fall between 1810 and 
1815. 

Page 540. " Mark the Concentred Ha- 
zels." 

The scene of this sonnet is the terrace at 
Under Lancrigg where the poet composed " The 
Prelude." 

Page 541. " Brook, whose Society the 
Poet Seeks." 

This brook is evidently the Rotha, or its trib- 
utary Easdale Beck, associated with Emma's 
dell. See note to " It was an April morning." 

1816 

Page 541. Ode — the Morning of the 
Day ArroiNTED for a General Thanks- 
giving. 

Wholly unworthy of touching upon the mo- 
mentous subject here treated would that Poet 
be, before whose eyes the present distresses 
under which this kingdom labours could inter- 
pose a veil sufficiently thick to hide, or even 
to obscure, the splendour of this great moral 
triumph. If I have given way to exultation, 
unchecked by these distresses, it might be 
sufficient to protect me from a charge of insen- 
sibility, should I state my own belief that the 
sufferings will be transitory. Upon the wisdom 
of a very large majority of the British nation 
rested that generosity which poured out the 



pages 541-55° 



NOTES 



879 



treasures of this country for the deliverance of 
Europe : and in the same national wisdom, pre- 
siding in time of peace over an energy not in- 
ferior to that which has heen displayed in war, 
they confide, who encourage a firm hope that the 
cup of our wealth will be gradually replenished. 
There will, doubtless, be no few ready to indulge 
in regrets and repinings ; and to feed a morbid 
satisfaction, by aggravating these burthens in 
imagination ; in order that calamity so confi- 
dently prophesied, as it has not taken the shape 
which their sagacity allotted to it, may appear 
as grievous as possible under another. But the 
body of the nation will not quarrel with the gain, 
because it might have been purchased at a less 
price ; and, acknowledging in these sufferings, 
which they feel to have been in a great degree 
unavoidable, a consecration of their noble 
efforts, they will vigorously apply themselves 
to remedy the evil. 

Nor is it at the expense of rational patriotism, 
or in disregard of sound philosophy, that I have 
given vent to feelings tending to encourage a 
martial spirit in the bosoms of my countrymen, 
at a time when there is a general outcry against 
the prevalence of these dispositions. The British 
army, both by its skill and valour in the field, 
and by the discipline which rendered it, to the 
inhabitants of the several countries where its 
operations were carried on, a protection from 
the violence of their own troops, has performed 
services that will not allow the language of 
gratitude and admiration to be suppressed or 
restrained (whatever be the temper of the pub- 
lic mind) through a scrupulous dread lest the 
tribute due to the past should prove an injurious 
incentive for the future. Every man deserving 
the name of Briton adds his voice to the chorus 
which extols the exploits of his countrymen, 
with a consciousness, at times overpowering the 
effort, that they transcend all praise. — But 
this particular sentiment, thus irresistibly ex- 
cited, is not sufficient. The nation would err 
grievously if she suffered the abuse which other 
states have made of military power to prevent 
her from perceiving that no people ever was or 
can be independent, free, or secure, much less 
great, in any sane application of the word, with- 
out a cultivation of military virtues. Nor let 
it be overlooked that the benefits derivable 
from these sources are placed within the reach 
of Great Britain, under conditions peculiarly 
favourable. The 'same insular position which, 
by rendering territorial incorporation impos- 
sible, utterly precludes the desire of conquest 
under the -most seductive shape it can assume, 
enables her to rely, for her defence against for- 
eign foes, chiefly upon a species of armed force 
from which her own liberties have nothing to 
fear. Such are the privileges of her situation ; 
and, by permitting, they invite her to give way 
to the courageous instincts of human nature, 
and to strengthen and refine them by culture. 

But some have more than insinuated that a 
design exists to subvert the civil character of 
the EYiglish people by unconstitutional applica- 
tions and unnecessary increase of military power. 



The advisers and abettors of such a design, were 
it possible that it should exist, would be guilty 
of the most heinous crime, which, npon this 
planet, can be committed. Trusting that this 
apprehension arises from the delusive influences 
of an honourable jealousy, let me hope that the 
martial qualities which 1 venerate will be fos- 
tered by adhering to those good old usages 
which experience has sanctioned, and by avail- 
ing ourselves of new means of indisputable 
promise : particularly by applying, in its ut- 
most possible extent, that system of tuition 
whose master-spring is a habit of gradually en- 
lightened subordination ; — by imparting know- 
ledge, civil, moral, and religious, in such mea- 
sure that the mind, among all classes of the 
community, may love, admire, and be prepared 
and accomplished to defend, that country under 
whose protection its faculties have been un- 
folded and its riches acquired ; — by just deal- 
ing towards all orders of the state, so that, no 
members of it being trampled upon, courage 
may everywhere continue to rest immoveably 
upon its ancient English foundation, personal 
self-respect; — by adequate rewards and per- 
manent honours conferred upon the deserving ; 
— by encouraging athletic exercises and manly 
sports among the peasantry of the country ; — 
and by especial care to provide and support in- 
stitutions in which, during a time of peace, a 
reasonable proportion of the youth of the coun- 
try may be instructed in military science. 

I have only to add that I should feel little 
satisfaction in giving to the world these limited 
attempts to celebrate the virtues of my coun- 
try, if I did not encourage a hope that a sub- 
ject, which it has fallen within my province to 
treat only in the mass, will by other poets be 
illustrated in that detail which its importance 
calls for, and which will allow opportunities to 
give the merited applause to persons as well 
as to THINGS. 

The ode was published along with other 
pieces, now interspersed through this volume. 

w. w. 

Line 122, 

"Discipline the rule whereof is passion." 

Lord Brooke. W. W. 

Compare this and the following tribute to 
Wellington with that of Tennyson in the " Ode 
on the Death of the Duke of Wellington." 

Page 549. The French Army in Russia. 
Alluding to that disastrous retreat of Napo- 
leon from Moscow. 

Page 550. " By Moscow Self-Devoted to 
a Blaze." 

Alluding to the burning of the city by order 
of the governor, to prevent it from falling into 
the hands of Napoleon. 

Page 550. The Germans on the Heights 
of Hochheim. 

The event is thus recorded in the journals 
of the day : " When the Austrians took Hoch- 



88o 



NOTES 



pages 550-571 



heim, in one part of the engagement they got to 
the brow of the hill, whence they had their first 
view of the Rhine. They instantly halted — not 
a gun was fired — not a voice heard : they stood 
gazing on the river with those feelings which 
the events of the last fifteen years at once called 
up. Prince Schwartzenberg rode up to know 
the cause of this sudden stop ; they then gave 
three cheers, rushed after the enemy, and drove 
them into the water." W. W. 

Page 551. Siege of Vienna Raised by 
John Sobieski. 

Line 14. He conquering, etc. "See Filicaia's 
ode addressed to Sir John Sobieski, King of Po- 
land. Sobieski relieved Vienna when it was 
besieged by the Turks, 1083." — Knight. 

Page 551. Occasioned by the Battle of 
Waterloo. 

Line 9. Assorted, etc. 

Jl From all the world's encumbrance did himself assoil." 
Spenseb. W. W. 

Page 551. Emperors and Kings, etc. 
Line 8. After the battle of Waterloo. 

Page 552. Feelings of a French Royal- 
ist. 

"Alluding to the treachery of Napoleon in 
capturing and executing the Due d'Engliien, 
grandson of the Prince of Conde\ on suspicion 
of his complicity in a plot to overthrow him." 
— Knight. 

1817 

Page 556. Vernal Ode. 

There is no poem of Wordsworth's which re- 
veals loftier spiritual insight or nobler philo- 
sophic truth than this Orphic Ode, and the two 
poems which follow it. The transience of ex- 
ternal things brings no sorrow to one who can 
exercise such faith. 

Page 558. Ode to Lycoris. 

While these poems are less direct in allusions 
to places, yet to one who has once felt the mean- 
ing and cbarm of Rydal they abound in sights 
and sounds peculiar to it. 

" In the Fenwick note to ' To the Same,' ' the 
two that follow' are 'September 1819,' and 
its sequel ' Upon the Same Occasion.' " — 
Knight. 

Page 561. The Pass of Kirkstone. 

If one is staying at Grasmere a pleasant tramp 
of two days may be made by crossing Helvellyn 
by Grisdale Tarn to Patterdale, and returning 
by way of Kirkstone Pass and Ambleside. 
From Patterdale one passes Brother's Water, the 
scene of the " Daffodils," and near the summit 
of the Pass on the right the Kirk stones. The 
views on the route are of surpassing beauty. 
From the inn to Ambleside the scenery is in 
marked contrast to the ruggedness and desola- 
tion of the ascent. 



Lines 41-48. Among the evidences of Roman 
occupation in these regions are the roads. Kirk- 
stone Pass was one of the roads by which Agri- 
cola led his two columns into Westmoreland. 

1818 

Page 564. The Pilgrim's Dream. 

The allusions in- this poem and ii. and iii. 
which follow are to the middle road over White 
Moss Common. See "The Primrose of the 
Rock," note. 

Page 566. Composed upon an Evening of 
Extraordinary Splendour and Beauty. 

After the production of the immortal Ode 
(1806) Wordsworth's inspiration did not again 
reach that lofty height, unless upon this occa- 
sion, a sunset among the Westmoreland hills, 
where earth and heaven are commingled with a 
natural magic and moral sublimity, which was 
his peculiar gift to English poetry. 

The poet is looking toward Grasmere and 
the hills about and beyond it. 

Line 49. Wings at my shoulders seem to play. 
In these lines I am under obligation to the 
exquisite picture of "Jacob's Dream," by Mr. 
Allston, now in America. It is pleasant to 
make this public acknowledgment to a man of 
genius, whom I have the honour to rank among 
my friends. W. W. 

1819 

Page 567. "Pure Element of Waters! 
Wheresoe'er." 

This and the two following were suggested 
by Mr. W. Westall's views of the Caves, etc., 
in Yorkshire. W. W. 

In " The Prelude," vi. 194, Wordsworth says 
that making quest for scenes renowned for 
beauty, he and his sister " pried into Yorkshire 
dales." 

Page 568. Aerial Rock. 
Lines 7-9. See Fenwick note to " The River 
Duddon," p. 592. 

Page 570. To the River Derwent. 

This river of Wordsworth's youth rises in 
Borrowdale, near the Eagle's Crag. See " The 
Prelude," i. 270-288. 

Page 570. " Grief, thou hast lost an 
Ever-Ready Friend." 

See Ruskin and the English Lakes, by Canon 
Rawnsley, chap. v. 

Page 571. "I heard (alas! 'twas only 
in a Dream)." 

See the Phaedon of Plato, by which this son- 
net was suggested. W. W. 

Page 571. The Haunted Tree. 

Some of the noblest forest trees in England 
stand in Rydal Park. The "Lady" was the 
poet's daughter, Dora. 



PAGES 573-576 



NOTES 



1820 



The larger part of the poems of this year rise 
out of two experiences in the life of the poet : 
tlie visit to the Continent, and reminiscences of 
his various visits to the Duddou valley. The 
most interesting commentaries on the first series 
are Dorothy's Journal, and Diary, JR< miniscences 
and Correspondence of Henry Crabb Robinson, 
vol. i. 

Page 573. " There is a Little Unpre- 
tending Rill." 

It is evident from the Fenwick note that the 
rill beside which the poet and his sister rested 
011 their walk from Kendal to Grasmere in the 
spring of 1794 was Skel-Ghyll Reck, which one 
sees on the road from Bowness to Ambleside, 
just before reaching Low Wood. It rises from 
the Wansfell on the right, and passes behind 
Dove's Nest, the home of Mrs. Hemans, under 
the road to the lake. See H. D. Rawnsley, The 
Enylish Lakes, vol. ii. chap. iv. 

Page 574. On the Detraction which 
Followed the Publication of a Certain 
Poem. 

Under date of June 11, 1820, Henry Crabb 
Robinson writes : " Breakfasted with Monk- 
house. Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth there. He 
has resolved to make some concession to the 
public taste in ' Peter Bell.' ... I never saw 
him so ready to yield to the opinion of others." 

Page 574. Oxford, May 30, 1820. 

Wordsworth, with his wife and sister, set out 
for London on their way to the Continent in 
the early summer and were at Oxford on May 
30. This visit inspired two sonnets. 

Page 575. June 1820. 

The Wordswortbs arrived in London early in 
June to be present at the marriage of Mr. 
Monkhouse. They stayed with Christopher 
Wordsworth at the Rectory, Lambeth. It 
was during this time that the poet visited 
Richmond, where Thomson is buried. 

Line 2. Groves. Wallachia. W. W. 

Lines 12-14. See Thomson, "The Seasons," 
Spring. 

Page 575. Memorials of a Tour on the 
Continent, 1820. 

This Series was written between 1820 and 
1822. 

Under date of July 10, lS20,Dorothy writes 
in her Journal: "We — William, Mary and 
Dorothy Wordsworth — left the Rectory House, 
Lambeth, at a quarter to eight o'clock. Had 
the Union coach to ourselves till within two 
stages of Canterbury." 

Page 575. Fish-Women — On Landing at 
Calais. 

If in this sonnet I should seem to have borne 
a little too hard upon the personal appearance 
of the worthy Poissards of Calais, let me take 



shelter under the authority of my lamented 
friend, the late Sir George Beaumont. He, a 
most accurate observer, used to say of them, 
that their features and countenances seemed to 
have conformed to those of the creatures they 
dealt in ; at all events the resemblance was 
striking. W. W. 

Page 576. Bruges. 

This is not the first poetical tribute which in 
our times has been paid to this beautiful city. 
Mr. Southey, in the "Poet's Pilgrimage," 
speaks of it in lines which I cannot deny myself 
the pleasure of connecting with my own. 

" Time hath not wronged her, nor hath ruin sought 
Rudely her splendid structures to destroy, 
Save in those recent days, with evil fraught, 

When mutability, in drunken joy 
Triumphant, and irom all restraint released, 
Let loose her fierce and many-headed beast. 

" But for the scars in that unhappy rage 

Inflicted, firm she stands and undecayed ; 
Like our first Sires, a beautiful old age 

Is hers in venerable years arrayed ; 
And yet, to her, benignant stars may bring, 
What fate denies to man, — a second spring. 

" When I may read of tilts in days of old, 

And tourneys graced by Chieftains of renown, 
Fair dames, grave citizens, and warriors bold, 
If fancy would pourtray some stately town, 
Which for such pomp fit theatre should be, 
Fair Bruges, I shall then remember thee." 

In this city are many vestiges of the splen- 
dour of the Burgundian Dukedom, and the 
long black mantle universally worn by the fe- 
males is probably a remnant of the old Spanish 
connection, which, if I do not much deceive 
myself, is traceable in the grave deportment of 
its inhabitants. Bruges is comparatively little 
disturbed by that curious contest, or rather 
conflict, of Flemish with French propensities in 
matters of taste, so conspicuous through other 
parts of Flanders. The hotel to which we 
drove at Ghent furnished an odd instance. In 
the passages were paintings and statues, after 
tlie antique of Hebe and Apollo ; and in the 
garden a little pond, about a yard and a half in 
diameter, with a weeping willow bending over 
it, and under the shade of that tree, in the cen- 
tre of the pond, a wooden painted statue of a 
Dutch or Flemish boor, looking ineffably ten- 
der upon his mistress, and embracing her. A 
living duck, tethered at the feet of the sculp- 
tured lovers, alternately tormented a miserable 
eel and itself with endeavours to escape from its 
bonds and prison. Had we chanced to espy 
the hostess of the hotel in this quaint rural re- 
treat, the exhibition would have been complete. 
She was a true Flemish figure, in the dress of 
the days of Holbein ; her symbol of office, a 
weighty bunch of keys, pendent from her portly 
w r aist. In Brussels the modern taste in cos- 
tume, architecture, etc., has got the mastery ; 
in Ghent there is a struggle ; but in Bruges old 
images are still paramount, and an air of mo- 
nastic life among the quiet goings-on of a thinly- 
peopled city is inexpressibly soothing ; a pen- 



882 



NOTES 



PAGES 576-5S5 



sive grace seems to be cast over all, even the 
very children. — Extract from Journal. W. W. 

Page 576. After Visiting the Field of 
Waterloo. 

Dorothy tells us in her Journal, July 17, that 
their guide was one Lacoste, who was Napo- 
leon's guide through the country previous to 
the battle. He was compelled to stay by Napo- 
leon's side till the moment of flight. See Scott, 
"The Field of Waterloo," and Byron's Wa- 
terloo, Canto III., " Childe Harold," for con- 
trasts to AVordsworth's contemplative style. 

Page 577. Aix-la-Chapelle. 

Line 14. Where unremitting frosts the rocky 
crescent bleach. " Let a wall of rocks be imag- 
ined from three to six hundred feet in height, 
and rising between France and Spain, so as 
physically to separate the two kingdoms — let 
us fancy this wall curved like a crescent, with 
its convexity towards France. Lastly, let us 
suppose, that in the very middle of the wall, a 
breach of 300 feet wide has been beaten down 
by the famous Roland, and we may have a 
good idea of what the mountaineers call the 
' Breche de Roland.'" — Raymond's Pyre- 
nees. W. W. 

Page 578. Hymn for the Boatmen. 

Line 24. Miserere I)omine. See the beauti- 
ful Song in Mr. Coleridge's Tragedy, "The 
Remorse." Why is the harp of Quantoek 
silent? W. W. 

Page 578. The Source of the Danube. 

Lines 1, 'J. 
Not, like his great Compeers, indignantly 
Doth Danube spring to life ! 

Before this quarter of the Black Forest was 
inhabited, the source of the Danube might have 
suggested some of those sublime images which 
Armstrong has so finely described ; at present, 
the contrast is most striking. The Spring ap- 
pears in a capacious stone Basin in front of a 
Ducal palace, with a pleasure-ground opposite ; 
then, passing under the pavement, takes the 
form of a little, clear, bright, black, vigorous rill, 
barely wide enough to tempt the agility of a 
child five years old to leap over it, — and enter- 
ing the garden, it joins, after a course of a few 
hundred yards, a stream much more considera- 
ble than itself. The copiousness of the spring 
at Doneschingen must have procured for it 
the honour of being named the Source of the 
Danube. W. W. 

Page 578. On Approaching the Staub- 
Bach, Lauterbrunnen. 

" The Staub-bach " is a narrow Stream, 
■which, after a long course on the heights, conies 
to the sharp edge of a somewhat overhanging 
precipice, overleaps it with a bound, and after 
a fall of 930 feet, forms again a rivulet. The 
vocal powers of these musical Beggars may 
seem to be exaggerated ; but this wild and 
savage air was utterly unlike any sounds I had 



ever heard; the notes reached me from a dis- 
tance, and on what occasion they were sung I 
could not guess, only they seemed to belong, 
in some way or other, to the Waterfall — and 
reminded me of religious services chanted to 
Streams and Fountains in Pagan times. Mr. 
Southey has thus accurately characterised the 
peculiarity of this music: " While we were at 
the Waterfall, some half-score peasants, chiefly 
women and girls, assembled just out of reach 
of the Spring, and set up — surely, the wildest 
chorus that ever was heard by human ears, — 
a song not of articulate sounds, but in which 
the voice was used as a mere instrument of 
music, more flexible than any which art could 
produce, — sweet, powerful, and thrilling be- 
yond description." See Notes to A Tale of 
Paraguay. W. W. 

Page 580. Engelberg, the Hill of An- 
gels. 

The Convent whose site was pointed out, 
according to tradition, in this manner, is seated 
at its base. The architecture of the building 
is unimpressive, but the situation is worthy of 
the honour which the imagination of the moun- 
taineers has conferred upon it. W. AY . 

Page 584. The Last Supper. 

Lines 1, 2. 
Tho' 1 searching damps and many an envious flaw 
Have marred this Work. 

This picture of the Last Supper has not 
only been grievously injured by time, but the 
greatest part of it, if not the whole, is said to 
have been retouched, or painted over again. 
These niceties may be left to connoisseurs, — I 
speak of it as I felt. The copy exhibited in 
London some years ago, and the engraving by 
Merghen, are both admirable ; but in the origi- 
nal is a power which neither of those works has 
attained, or even approached. W. W. 

Page 584. The Eclipse of the Sun. 

Line 40. Of Figures human and divine. The 
statues ranged round the spire and along the 
roof of the Cathedral of Milan have been found 
fault with by persons whose exclusive taste 
is unfortunate for themselves. It is true that 
the same expense and labour, judiciously di- 
rected to purposes more strictly architectural, 
might have much heightened the general effect 
of the building ; for, seen from the ground, the 
Statues appear diminutive. But the coup-d'aul, 
from the best point of view, which is half way 
up the spire, must strike the unprejudiced per- 
son with admiration ; and surely the selection 
and arrangement of the Figures is exquisitely 
fitted to support the religion of the country in 
the imaginations and feelings of the spectator. 
It was with great pleasure that I saw, during 
the two ascents which we made, several chil- 
dren, of different ages, tripping up and down 
the slender spire, and pausing to look around 
them, with feelings much more animated than 
could have been derived from these or the 
finest works of art, if placed within easy reach. 



PAGES 587-592 



NOTES 



8S3 



— Remember also that you have the Alps on 
one side, and on the other the Apennines, with 
the plain of Lonibardy between ! W. W. 

Page 587. Processions. 

Lines 48, 49. 
Still, icith those white-robed Shapes — a living 

Stream, 
The glacier Pillars join in solemn guise. 

This Procession is a part of the sacramen- 
tal service performed once a month. In the 
valley of Engelberg we had the good fortune 
to be present at the Grand Festival of the Vir- 
gin — but the Procession on that day, though 
consisting of upwards of 1000 persons, assem- 
bled from all the branches of the sequestered 
valley, was much less striking (notwithstanding 
the sublimity of the surrounding scenery) ; it 
wanted both the simplicity of the other and the 
accompaniment of the Glacier-columns, whose 
sisterly resemblance to the moving Figures gave 
it a most beautiful and solemn peculiarity. 
W. W. 

Page 588. Elegiac Stanzas. 

The "Friend" alluded to in the Fenwick 
note was Henry Crabb Robinson. He writes 
thus of meeting the strangers: "In the stage 
between Berne and Solothurn, which takes a 
circuit through an unpicturesque, flat country, 
were two very interesting young men. . . . 
The elder was an American, aged twenty-one, 
named Goddard." On August 10 Wordsworth 
writes of meeting the young men: "Mr. Rob- 
inson introduced two young men, his compan- 
ions, an American and a Scotchman — genteel, 
modest youths." 

In October, 1890, when I was collecting sub- 
scriptions for the preservation of Dove Cottage, 
Mrs. H. M. Wigglesworth, of Boston, Mass., 
a sister of the young man commemorated in 
this poem, sent me a check in memory of her 
brother. Alluding to his death she wrote : 
"Wordsworth showed a very kind interest, 
wrote a letter full of sympathy to my mother, 
and later sent the memorial lines beginning, 
' Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells.' It will 
give me pleasure to add something to the sum 
you are collecting." 

Line 3. Queen. Mount Righi, — Regina 
Montium. W. W. 

Line 75. This tribute, etc. The persuasion 
here expressed was not groundless. The first 
human consolation that the afflicted mother 
felt, was derived from this tribute to her son's 
memory, a fact which the author learned, at 
his own residence, from her daughter, who vis- 
ited Europe some years afterward. W. W. 

Page 590. On Being Stranded near the 
Harbodr of Boulogne. 

Near the town of Boulogne, and overhang- 
ing the beach, are the remains of a tower which 
bears the name of Caligula, who here termi- 
nated his western expedition, of which these sea- 
shells wen- the boasted spoils. And at. no great 
distance from these ruins, Buonaparte, stand- 



ing upon a mound of earth, harangued his 
" Army of England," reminding them of the ex- 
ploits of Caesar, and pointing towards the white 
cliffs, upon which their standards were to float. 
He recommended also a subscription to be raised 
among the Soldiery to erect on that ground, in 
memory of the foundation of the "Legion of 
Honour," a Column — which was not completed 
at the time we were there. W. W. 

Page 590. After Landing — the Valley 
OF Dover, November 1820. 

Lines 0, 7. 

Wt mark majestic, herds of cattle, free 
To ruminate. 

This is a most grateful sight for an English- 
man returning to his native land. Everywhere 
one misses in the cultivated grounds abroad, 
the animated and soothing accompaniment of 
animals ranging and selecting their own food 
at will. W.W. 

Page 591. Desultory Stanzas. 

Line 37. Far as St. Maurice, from yon east- 
ern Forks. At the head of the Valais. Les 
Fourches, the point at which the two chains 
of niountains part, that inclose the Valais, 
which terminates at St. Maurice. W. W. 

Lines 49-51. ye that occupy 

Your council-stats beneath the open sky, 
On Sarneii's Mount. 

Sarnen, one of the two capitals of the Can- 
ton of Unterwalden ; the spot here alluded to 
is close to the town, and is called the Landen- 
berg, from the tyrant of that name, whose 
chateau formerly stood there. On the 1st of 
January 1308, the great day which the confed- 
erated Heroes had chosen for the deliverance 
of their country, all the castles of the Govern- 
ors were taken by force or stratagem ; and the 
Tyrants themselves conducted, with their crea- 
tures, to the frontiers, after having witnessed 
the destruction of their strongholds. From 
that time the Landenberg has been the place 
where the Legislators of this division of the 
Canton assemble. The site, which is well de- 
scribed by Ebel, is one of the most beautiful in 
Switzerland. W. W. 

Line 50. Calls me to pace her honoured 
Bridge. The bridges of Lucerne are roofed, 
ai^d open at the sides, so that the passenger has, 
at the same time, the benefit of shade, and a 
view of the magnificent country. The pictures 
are attached to the rafters ; those from Scrip- 
ture History, on the Cathedral-bridge, amount, 
according to my notes, to '-'40. Subjects from 
the Old Testament face the passenger as he 
goes towards the Cathedral, and those from the 
New as he returns. The pictures on these 
bridges, as well as those in most other parts of 
Switzerland, are not to be spoken of as works 
of art ; but they are instruments admirably 
answering the purpose for which they were 
designed. W. W. 

Pige 592. The River Duddon. 

They returned from the Continent on Nov. 



NOTES 



pages 593-595 



0, and went to Cambridge. During their visit 
to the Continent their brother Christopher had 
been promoted to be Master of Trinity Col- 
lege, Cambridge. From Cambridge they went 
into Coleorton, and returned to Kydal Mount 
Dee. 20. 

'" A Poet, whose works are not yet known as 
they deserve to be, thus enters upon his de- 
scription of the ' Kuins of Korae : ' — 

' The rising Sun 
Flames on the ruina in the purer air 
Towering aloft ;' 

and ends thus — 

' The setting Sun displays 
His visible great round, between yon towers, 
As through two shady cliffs.' 

" Mr. Crowe, in his excellent loco-descriptive 
Poam, ' Lewesdon Hill,' is still more expedi- 
tious, finishing the whole on a May-morning, 
before breakfast. 

' To-morrow for severer thought, but now 
To breakfast, and jseep festival to-day.' 

" No one believes, or is desired to believe, that 
those Poems were actually composed within 
such limits of time ; nor was there any reason 
why a prose statement should acquaint the 
reader with the plain fact, to the disturbance 
of poetic credibility. But, in the present case, 
I am compelled to mention, that this series of 
Sonnets was the growth of many years ; — the 
one which stands the 14th was the first pro- 
duced ; and others were added upon occasional 
visits to the (Stream, or as recollections of the 
scenes upon its banks awakened a wish to de- 
scribe them. In this manner I had proceeded 
insensibly, without perceiving that I was tres- 
passing upon ground pre-occupied, at least as 
far as intention went, by Mr. Coleridge ; who, 
more than twenty years ago, used to speak of 
writing a rural Poem, to be entitled ' The 
Brook,' of which he has given a sketch in a re- 
cent publication. But a particular subject can- 
not, I think, much interfere with a general one ; 
and I have been further kept from encroaching 
upon any right Mr. C. may still wish to exer- 
cise, by the restriction which the frame of the 
Sonnet imposed upon me, narrowing unavoid- 
ably the range of thought, and precluding, 
though not without its advantages, many graces 
to which a freer movement of verse would nat- 
urally have led. 

" May I not venture, then, to hope, that, in- 
stead of being a hindrance by anticipation of 
any part of the subject, these Sonnets may re- 
mind Mr. Coleridge of his own more compre- 
hensive design, and induce him to fulfil it ? 

There is a sympathy in streams, — ' one 

calleth to another ; ' and I would gladly believe, 
that ' The Brook ' will, ere long, murmur in 
concert with ' The Duddon.' But, asking 
pardon for this fancy, I need not scruple to say 
that those verses must indeed be ill-fated which 
can enter upon such pleasant walks of nature 
without receiving and giving inspiration. The 
power of waters over the minds of Poets has 



been acknowledged from the earliest ages ; — 
through the ' Flumina amem sylvasque in- 
glorius ' of Virgil, down to the sublime apos- 
trophe to the great rivers of the earth by Arm- 
strong, and the simple ejaculation of Burns 
(chosen, if I recollect right, by Mr. Coleridge, as 
a motto for his embryo ' Brook '). 

' The Muse nae Poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel' lie learned to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander, 
And na' think lang.' " W. W. 

Sonnets i., ii.. in. — Next to "The Prelude" 
and " The Excursion," the Duddon sonnets de- 
mand of the student a careful study of the topo- 
graphical allusions and the use of a discriminat- 
ing imagination. During several seasons 1 have 
studied this region ; and while I have made my 
notes quite independent of others, I have found 
them to agree in the main with those of Mr. 
Herbert Kix and Canon liawnsley. 

The birthplace of "a native Stream " is not 
easily identified, although it is on the north or 
Cumbrian side of Wrynose Fell. The explorer 
will find two possible sources, not far from the 
Three Shire Stones : one of these has a broad 
prospect of lake and mountain, while the other 
is in the middle of the " lofty waste " of Son- 
net ii. The allusions in Sonnet iii. to the 
" tripping lambs " and the " brilliant moss" — 
Bog-moss which glistens like gold when the sun 
shines upon it — are strikingly Wordsworthian. 

Sonnet ii. Line 11. huge deer. The deer 
alluded to is the Leigh, a gigantic species long 
since extinct. W. W. 

Sonnet iv. The descriptions in this sonnet 
apply to any one of the several "falls" which 
the stream makes from Wrynose Gap to the 
valley below. Canon Rawnsley thinks the 
point of view is from the main road leading to 
Cockley Beck. 

Sonnet v. When one passes from Wry- 
nose Bottom to Cockley Beck and turns to the 
northeast, one will behold the " unfruitful soli- 
tudes." The cottage may have been one of 
several in this vicinity. 

Sonnet vi. The allusions here are to flow- 
ers which grow by the Duddon from April to 
August, from the speedwell to the eyebright, 
in great profusion. 

Lines 9, 10. There bloomed the strawberry of 
the wilderness, etc. These two lines are in a 
great measure taken from "The Beauties of 
Spring, a Juvenile Poem," by the Rev. Joseph 
Sympson. He was a native of Cumberland, and 
was educated at Hawkshead school : his poems 
are little known, bvit they contain passages of 
splendid description ; and the versification of 
his " Vision of Alfred " is harmonious and ani- 
mated. In describing' the motions of the Sylphs 
that constitute the strange machinery of his 
Poem, he uses the following illustrative simile : 

" Glancing from their plumes 
A changeful light the azure vault illumes. 
Less varying hues beneath the Pole adorn 
The streamy glorips of the Boreal morn, 
That wavering to and fro their radiance shed 
On Bothnia's gulf with glassy ice o'erspread. 



PAGES 595-598 



NOTES 



S85 



Where the lone native, as he homeward glides, 
On polished sandals o'er the imprisoned tides, 
And still the balance of his Irame preserves, 
Wheeled on alternate foot in lengthening curves, 
Sees at a glance, above him and below, 
Two rival heavens with equal splendour glow. 
Sphered in the centre of the world he seems; 
For all around with soft effulgence gleams; 
Stars, moons, and meteors, ray opposed to ray, 
And solemn midnight pours the blaze of day." 

He was a man of ardent feeling, and his facul- 
ties of mind, particularly his memory, were ex- 
traordinary. Brief notices of his life ought to 
find a place in the History of Westmoreland. 

w. w. 

Sonnet viii. In passing from Cockley Beck 
to Birks Brig if one looks back to the north one 
will get a glimpse of the features of the valley 
revealed in this sonn'et. Wordsworth calls the 
Duddon "blue Streamlet " from the aspect 
given it as it passes over the blue-gray slate 
stones. 

Sonnets ix., x. These sonnets refer to the 
third of the four stepping-stones on the Duddon, 
those opposite Seathwuite, and under Walla- 
barrow Orag. 

Sonnets xi., xir. In these sonnets we return 
to Birks Brig below the first Stepping-Stones. 
Canon Rawnsley thinks the scene is in the field 
below that of Sonnets ix., x., because there a 
sky-blue stone may be seen midstream. 

Sonnets xiii., xiv. The scene of these son- 
nets is that from Pen Crag, which stands in the 
centre of the vale. The "hamlet" is Sea- 
thwaite ; " barn and byre " are those of New- 
field farmhouses, in Wordsworth's day an inn 
and farm combined; while the "spouting 
mill " is now a ruin to be seen near Seathwaite 
Chapel on the beck. Newfield is no longer an 
inn, but generous hospitality will be found there 
as I can testify. At the foot of this crag the 
Duddon plunges out of sight as if shunning 
"the haunts of men." 

Sonnet xv. The "chasm" is that of xiv.; 
while the "niche," according to Canon Rawns- 
ley, is that to be seen on the southern face of 
the Crag by one standing at Newfield Farm. 

Sonnet xvi. " The weathering of the vol- 
canic ash of the Crag, and the cliff of Walla- 
barrow opposite would naturally have suggested 
this sonnet." — H. D. Rawnsley. 

Sonnets xvii., xviii. The Eagle requires a 
large domain for its support : but several pairs, 
not many years ago, were constantly resident in 
this country, building their nests in the steeps 
of Borrowdale, Wast dale, Ennerdale, and on 
the eastern side of Helvellyn. Often have I 
heard anglers speak of the grandeur of their 
appearance, as they hovered over Red Tarn, in 
one of the coves of this mountain. The bird 
frequently returns, but is always destroyed. 
Not long since, one visited Rydal lake, and re- 
mained sonic hums near its banks ; the conster- 
nation which it occasioned among the different 
species of fowl, particularly the herons, was 
expressed by loud screams. The horse also is 
naturally afraid of the eagle. — There were 



several Roman stations among these mountains ; 
the most considerable seems to have been in a 
meadow at the head of Windermere, estab- 
lished, undoubtedly, as a check over the passes 
of Kirkstone, Dunmail-raise, and of Hardknot 
and Wrynose. On the margin of Rydal lake, a 
coin of Trajan was discovered very lately. — 
The Roman Fort here alluded to, called by 
the country people " llardknot GV/s^e," is most 
impressively situated halt-way down the hill on 
the right of the road that descends from Hard- 
knot into Eskdale. It has escaped the notice 
of most antiquarians, and is but slightly men- 
tioned by Lysons. — The Dkuidical Circle is 
about half a mile to the left of the road as- 
cending Stoneside from the vale of Duddon : 
the country people call it " Sunken Church.'''' 

The reader who may have been interested in 
the foregoing Sonnets (which together may be 
considered as a Poem) will not be displeased to 
find in this place a prose account, of the Duddon, 
extracted from Green's comprehensive Guide to 
the Lakes, lately published. "The road lead- 
ing from Coniston to Broughton is over high 
ground, and commands a view of the River 
Duddon; which, at high water, is a grand 
sight, having the beautiful and fertile lands of 
Lancashire and Cumberland stretching each 
way from its margin. In this extensive view, 
the face of nature is displayed in a wonder- 
ful variety of hill and dale, wooded grounds 
and buildings ; amongst the latter Broughton 
Tower, seated on £he crown of a hill, rising ele- 
gantly from the valley, is an object of extraor- 
dinary interest. Fertility on each sirle is gradu- 
ally diminished, and lost in the superior heights 
of Backcomb, in Cumberland, and the high 
lands between Kirkby and Ulverstone. 

" The road from Broughton to Seathwaite is 
on the banks of the Duddon, and on its Lanca- 
shire side it is of various elevations. The river 
is an amusing companion, one while brawling 
and tumbling over rocky precipices, until the 
agitated water becomes again calm by arriving 
at a smoother and less precipitous bed, but its 
course is soon again ruffled, and the current 
thrown into every variety of foam which the 
rocky channel of a river can give to water." — 
Vide Green's Guide to the Lakes, vol. i. pp. 98- 
100. 

After all, the traveller would be most grati- 
fied who should approach this beautiful Stream, 
neither at its source, as is done in the Sonnets, 
nor from its termination ; but from Coniston 
over Walna Scar ; first descending into a little 
circular valley, a collateral compartment of the 
long winding vale through which flows the 
Duddon. This recess, towards the close of 
September, when the after-grass of the mea- 
dows is still of a fresh green, with the leaves of 
many of the trees faded, but perhaps none 
fallen, is truly enchanting. At a point elevated 
enough to show the various objects in the val- 
ley, and not so high as to diminish their im- 
portance, the stranger will instinctively halt. 
On the foreground, a little below the most 
favourable station, a rude foot-bridge is thrown 



886 



NOTES 



PAGE 598 



over the bed of the noisy brook foaming by the 
wayside. Russet and craggy hills, of bold and 
varied outline, surround the level valley, which 
is besprinkled with grey rocks plumed with 
birch trees. A few homesteads are inter- 
spersed, in some places peeping out from among 
the rocks like hermitages, whose site has been 
chosen for the benefit of sunshine as well as 
shelter ; in other instances, the dwelling-house, 
barn, and byre, compose together a cruciform 
structure, which, with its embowering trees, 
and the ivy clothing part of the walls and roof 
like a fleece, call to mind the remains of an 
ancient abbey. Time, in most cases, and nature 
everywhere, have given a sanctity to the humble 
works of man that are scattered over this peace- 
ful retirement. Hence a harmony of tone and 
colour, a consummation and perfection of 
beauty, which would have been marred had 
aim or purpose interfered with the course of 
convenience, utility 7 , or necessity. This unvi- 
tiated region stands in no need of the veil of twi- 
light to soften or disguise its features. As it 
glistens in the morning sunshine, it would fill 
the spectator's heart with gladsomeness. Look- 
ing from our chosen station, he would feel an 
impatience to rove among its pathways, to be 
greeted by the milkmaid, to wander from house 
to house exchanging "good-morrows" as he 
passed the open doors ; but, at evening, when 
the sun is set, and a pearly light gleams from 
the western quarter of the sjty, with an answer- 
ing light from the smooth surface of the mea- 
dows ; when the trees are dusky, but each kind 
still distinguishable ; when the cool air has con- 
densed the blue smoke rising from the cottage 
chimneys ; when the dark mossy stones seem to 
sleep in the bed of the foaming brook ; then he 
would be unwilling to move forward, not less 
from a reluctance to relinquish what he beholds, 
than from an apprehension of disturbing, by his 
approach, the quietness beneath him. Issuing 
from the plain of this valley, the brook de- 
scends in a rapid torrent passing by the church- 
yard of Seathwaite. The traveller is thus con- 
ducted at once into the midst of the wild and 
beautiful scenery which gave occasion to the 
Sonnets from the 14th to the 20th inclusive. 
From the point where the Seathwaite brook 
joins the Duddon is a view upwards into the 
pass through which the river makes its way into 
the plain of Donnerdale. The perpendicular 
rock on the right bears the ancient British name 
of The Pen ; the one opposite is called Walla- 
barrow Crao, a name that occurs in other 
places to designate rocks of the same character. 
The chaotic aspect of the scene is well marked 
by the expression of a stranger, who strolled 
out while dinner was preparing, and at his re- 
turn, being asked by his host, "What way he 
had been wandering?" replied, "As far as it 
is finished ! " 

The bed of the Duddon is here strewn with 
large fragments of rocks fallen from aloft ; 
which, as Mr. Green truly says, " are happily 
adapted to the many-shaped waterfalls " (or 
rather waterbreaks, for none of them are high) 



"displayed in the short space of half a mile." 
That diere is some hazard in frequenting these 
desolate places, I myself have had proof ; for 
one night an immense mass of rock fell upon 
the very spot where, with a friend, 1 had lin- 
gered the day before. " The concussion," says 
Mr. Green, speaking of the event (for he also, 
in the practice of his art, 011 that day sat ex- 
posed for a still longer time to the same peril), 
" was heard, not without alarm, by the neigh- 
bouring shepherds." But to return to .Sea- 
thwaite Churchyard : it contains the following 
inscription : — 

" In memory of the Reverend Robert Walker, 
\\h<> died the 25th of June 1802, in the 93d year 
of his age, and 67th of his curacy at Seathw aifce. 

" Also, of Anne his wife, who died the 28th 
of January, in the 93d year of her age." 

In the parish-register bf feeathwaite Chapel 
is this notice : — 

" Buried, June 28th, the Rev. Robert 
Walker. He was curate of Seathwaite sixty- 
six years. He was a man singular for his tem- 
perance, industry, and integrity." 

This individual is the Pastor alluded to, in 
the 18th .Sonnet, as a worthy compeer of the 
country parson of Chaucer, etc. In the seventh 
book of the "Excursion," an abstract of his 
character is given, beginning, 

" A Priest abides before whose life such doubts 
Fall to the ground ; — " 

and some account of his life, for it is worthy of 
being recorded, will not be out of place here. 
W. W. 

The Chapel has been rebuilt and the Parson- 
age enlarged. 

MEMOIR OF THE REV. ROBERT WALKER 

In the year 1709, Robert Walker was born at 
Under-crag, in Seathwaite ; he was the youngest 
of twelve children. His eldest brother, who 
inherited the small family estate, died at 
Under-crag, aged ninety-four, being twenty- 
four years older than the subject of this memoir, 
who was born of the same mother. Robert was 
a sickly infant ; and, through his boyhood and 
youth, continuing to be of delicate frame and 
tender health, it was deemed best, according to 
the country phrase, to breed him a scholar ; for 
it was not likely that he would be able to earn 
a livelihood by bodily labour. At that period 
few of these dales were furnished with school- 
houses ; the children being taught to read and 
write in the chapel ; and in the same consecrated 
building, where he officiated for so many years 
both as preacher and schoolmaster, he himself 
received the rudiments of his education. In his 
youth he became schoolmaster at Loweswater ; 
not being called upon, probably, in that situa- 
tion to teach more than reading, writing:, and 
arithmetic. But, by the assistance of a " Gentle- 
man " in the neighbourhood, he acquired, at 
leisure hours, a knowledge of the classics, and 
became qualified for taking holy orders. Upon 
his ordination, he had the offer of two curacies : 
the one, Torver, in the vale of Coniston, — the 



PAGE 598 



NOTES 



887 



other, Seathwaite, in his native vale. The value 
of eacli was the same, viz. tive pounds per an- 
num; but the cure of Seathwaite having a cot- 
tage attached to it, as he wished to marry, he 
chose it in preference. The young- person on 
whom his affections were fixed, though in the 
condition of a domestic servant, had given 
promise, by her serious and modest deportment, 
and by her virtuous dispositions, that she was 
worthy to become the helpmate of a man enter- 
ing upon a plan of life such as he had marked 
out for himself. By her frugality she had 
stored up a small sum of money, with which 
they began housekeeping. In 1735 or 1730, he 
entered upon his curacy ; and, nineteen years 
afterwards, his situation is thus described, in 
some letters to be found in the Annual Register 
for 17U0, from which the following is ex- 
tracted : — 

"To Mr.- 

" Coniston, July '2G, 1754. 
" Sir — I was the other day upon a party of 
pleasure, about five or six miles from this place, 
where I met with a very striking object, and of 
a nature not very common. Going into a clergy- 
man's house (of whom I had frequently heard), 
I found him sitting at the head of a long square 
table, such as is commonly used in this country 
by the lower class of people, dressed in a coarse 
blue frock, trimmed with black horn buttons ; 
a cheeked shirt, a leathern strap about his neck 
for a stock, a coarse apron, and a pair of great 
wooden-soled shoes plated with iron to preserve 
them (what we call clogs in these parts), with a 
child upon his knee, eating his breakfast ; his 
wife, and the remainder of his children, were 
some of them employed in waiting upon each 
other, the rest in teasing and spinning wool, at 
which trade he is a great proficient ; and more- 
over, when it is made ready for sale, will lay it, 
by sixteen or thirty-two pounds' weight, upon 
his back, and on foot, seven or eight miles, will 
carry it to the market, even in the depth of 
winter. I was not much surprised at all this, 
as you may possibly be, having heard a great 
deal of it related before. But I must confess 
myself astonished with the alacrity and the 
good humour that appeared both in the clergy- 
man and his wife, and more so at the sense and 
ingenuity of the clergyman himself." . . . 

Then follows a letter from another person, 
dated 1755, from which an extract shall be 
given : — 

''By his frugality and good management he 
keeps the wolf from the door, as we say ; and 
if he advances a little in the world, it is owing 
more to his own care than to anything else he 
has to rely upon. I don't find his inclination is 
running after further preferment. He is settled 
among the people, that are happy among them- 
selves ; and lives in the greatest unanimity and 
friendship with them ; and, I believe, the min- 
ister and people are exceedingly satisfied with 
each other ; and indeed how should they be dis- 
satisfied when they have a person of so much 
worth and probity for their pastor ? A man 



who, for his candour and meekness, his sober, 
chaste, and virtuous conversation, his soundness 
in principle and practice, is an ornament to his 
profession, and an honour to the country he is 
in ; and bear with me if I say, the plainness of 
his dress, the sanctity of his manners, the sim- 
plicity of his doctrine, and the vehemence of his 
expression, have a sort of resemblance to the 
pure practice of primitive Christianity." 

We will now give his own account of himself, 
to be found in the same place. 

From the Rev. Robert Walker 
"Sir — Yours of the 2(>th instant was com- 
municated to me by Mr. C — — , and I should 
have returned an immediate answer, but the 
hand of Providence, then laying heavy upon an 
amiable pledge of conjugal endearment, hath 
since taken from me a promising girl, which 
the disconsolate mother too pensively laments 
the loss of; though we have yet eight living, 
all healthful, hopeful children, whose names 
and ages are as follows : — Zaccheus, aged al- 
most eighteen years ; Elizabeth, sixteen years 
and ten months ; Mary, fifteen ; Moses, thirteen 
years and three months; Sarah, ten years and 
three months ; Mabel, eight years and three 
months ; William Tyson, three years and eight 
months ; and Anne Esther, one year and three 
months ; besides Anne, who died two years and 
six months ago, and was then aged between 
nine and ten ; and Eleanor, who died the 23d 
inst., January, aged six years and ten months. 
Zaccheus, the eldest child, is now learning the 
trade of a tanner, and has two years and a half 
of his apprenticeship to serve. The annual 
income of my chapel at present, as near as I 
can compute it, may amount to about 17/., of 
which is paid in cash, viz. 5/. from the bounty 
of Queen Anne, and 5/. from W. P., Esq., of 

P , out of the annual rents, he being lord of 

the manor, and 3/. from the several inhabitants 
of L , settled upon the tenements as a rent- 
charge ; the house and gardens I value at 41. 
yearly, and not worth more ; and I believe the 
surplice fees and voluntary contributions, one 
year with another, may be worth .'!/. : but as 
the inhabitants are few in number, and the fees 
very low, this last-mentioned sum consists 
merely in free-will offerings. 

" I am situated greatly to my satisfaction 
with regard to the conduct and behaviour of 
my auditory, who not only live in the happy 
ignorance of the follies and vices of the age, but 
in mutual peace and goodwill with one another, 
and are seemingly (I hope really too) sincere 
Christians, and sound members of the estab- 
lished church, not one dissenter of any denomi- 
nation being amongst them all. I got to the 
value of 40/. for my wife's fortune, but had no 
real estate of my own, being the youngest son 
of twelve children, born of obscure parents ; 
and, though my income has been but small, 
and my family large, yet, by a providential 
blessing upon my own diligent endeavours, 
the kindness of friends, and a cheap country to 
live in, we have always had the necessaries of 



888 



NOTES 



PAGE 598 



life. JBy what I have written (which is a true 
and exact account, to the best of my knowledge) 
I hope you will not think your favour to me 
out of the late worthy Dr. Stratford's effects 
quite misbestowed, for which I must ever grate- 
fully own myself, Sir, your much obliged and 
most obedient humble servant, 

"R. W., Curate of S . 

" To Mr. C, of Lancaster." 

About the time when this letter was written, 
the Bishop of Chester recommended the scheme 
of joining the curacy of Ulpha to the contiguous 
one of Seathwaite, and tbe nomination was of- 
fered to Mr. Walker ; but an unexpected diffi- 
culty arising, Mr. W., in a letter to the Bishop 
(a copy of which, in his own beautiful hand- 
writing, now lies before me), thus expresses 
himself. " If he," meaning the person in whom 
the difficulty originated, "had suggested any 
such objection before, I should utterly have de- 
clined any attempt to the curacy of Ulpha : in- 
deed, I was always apprehensive it might be 
disagreeable to my auditory at Seathwaite, as 
they have been always accustomed to double 
duty, and the inhabitants of Ulpha despair of 
being able to support a schoolmaster who is not 
curate there also ; which suppressed all thoughts 
in me of serving them both." And in a second 
letter to the Bishop he writes : — 

"My Lord — I have the favour of yours of 
the 1st instant, and am exceedingly obliged on 
account of the Ulpha ' affair : if that curacy 
should lapse into your Lordship's hands, I 
would beg leave rather to decline than embrace 
it ; for the chapels of Seathwaite and Ulpha, 
annexed together, would be apt to cause a gen- 
eral discontent among the inhabitants of both 
places ; by either thinking themselves slighted, 
being only served alternately, or neglected in 
tbe duty, or attributing it to covetousness in 
me ; all which occasions of murmuring I would 
willingly avoid." And in concluding his former 
letter, he expresses a similar sentiment upon the 
same occasion, "desiring, if it be possible, how- 
ever, as much as iu me lieth, to live peaceably 
with all men." 

The year following, the curacy of Seathwaite 
was again augmented ; and, to effect this aug- 
mentation, fifty pounds had been advanced by 
himself; and, in 17<>0, lands were purchased 
with eight hundred pounds. Scanty as was his 
income, the frequent offer of much better bene- 
fices could not tempt Mr. W. to quit a situation 
where he had been so long happy, with a con- 
sciousness of being useful. Among his papers 
I find the following copy of a letter, dated 1775, 
twenty years after his refusal of the curacy of 
Ulpha, which will show what exertions had been 
made for one of his sons. 

"May it please your Grace — Our re- 
mote situation here makes it difficult to get the 
necessary information for transacting business 
regularly ; such is the reason of my giving your 
Grace the present trouble. 



"The bearer (my son) is desirous of offering 
himself candidate for deacon's orders at your 
Grace's ensuing ordination ; the first, on the 
25th instant, so that his papers could not be 
transmitted in due time. As he is now fully at 
age, and I have afforded him education to the 
utmost of my ability, it would give me great 
satisfaction (if your Grace would take him, and 
find him qualified) to have him ordained. His 
constitution has been tender for some years ; be 
entered the college of Dublin, but his health 
would not permit him to continue there, or I 
would have supported him much longer. He 
has been with me at home above a year, in 
which time he has gained great strength of 
body, sufficient, I hope, to enable him for per- 
forming the function. Divine Providence, 
assisted by liberal benefactors, has blest my 
endeavours, from a small income, to rear a 
numerous family ; and as my time of life ren- 
ders me now unfit for much future expectancy 
from this world, I should be glad to see my son 
settled in a promising way to acquire an honest 
livelihood for himself. His behaviour, so far 
in life, has been irreproachable ; and I hope he 
will not degenerate, in principles or practice, 
from the precepts and pattern of an indulgent 
parent. Your Grace's favourable reception of 
this, from a distant corner of the diocese, and 
an obscure hand, will excite filial gratitude, and 
a due use shall be made of the obligation vouch- 
safed thereby to your Grace's very dutiful and 
most obedient Son and Servant, 

" Robert Walker." 

The same man, who was thus liberal in the 
education of his numerous famity, was even 
munificent in hospitality as a parish priest. 
Every Sunday were served upon the long table, 
at which he has been described sitting with a 
child upon his knee, messes of broth for the 
refreshment of those of his congregation who 
came from a distance, and usually took their 
seats as parts of his own household. It seems 
scarcely possible that this custom could have 
commenced before the augmentation of his cure ; 
and what would to many have been a high price 
of self-denial was paid, by the pastor and his 
family, for this gratification ; as the treat coxild 
only be provided by dressing at one time the 
whole, perhaps, of their weekly allowance of 
fresh animal food ; consequently, for a succes- 
sion of days, the table was covered with cold 
victuals only. His generosity in old age may 
be still further illustrated by a little circum- 
stance relating to an orphan grandson, then ten 
years of age, which I find in a copy of a letter 
.to one of his sons ; he requests that half a guinea 
may be left for " little Robert's pocket-money," 
who was then at school : intrusting it to the care 
of a lady, who, as he says, " may sometimes 
frustrate his squandering it away foolishly," and 
promising to send him an equal allowance an- 
nually for the same purpose. Tbe conclusion 
of the same letter is so characteristic, that I 
cannot forbear to transcribe it. " We," mann- 
ing his wife and himself, " are in our wonted 



PAGE 598 



NOTES 



8S9 



state of health, allowing- for the hasty strides 
of old age knocking- daily at our door, and 
threateningly telling us we are not only mortal, 
but must expect ere long to take our leave of 
our ancient cottage, and lie down in our last 
dormitory. Pray pardon my neglect to answer 
yours : let us hear sooner from you, to augment 
the mirth of the Christinas holidays. Wishing 
you all the pleasures of the approaching season, 
I am, dear Son, with lasting sincerity, yours 
affectionately, Robert Walker." 

He loved old customs and old usages, and in 
some instances stuck to them to his own loss ; 
for, having had a sum of money lodged in the 
hands of a neighbouring tradesman, when long 
course of time had raised the rate of interest, 
and more was offered, he refused to accept it ; 
an act not difficult to one, who, while he was 
drawing seventeen pounds a year from his cu- 
racy, declined, as we have seen, to add the pro- 
fits of another small benefice to his own, lest he 
should be suspected of cupidity. From this vice 
he was utterly free ; he made no charge for 
teaching school ; such as could afford to pay 
gave him what they pleased. When very young, 
having kept a diary of his expenses, however 
trifling, the large amount, at the end of the 
year, surprised him ; and from that time the 
rule of his life was to be economical, not avari- 
cious. At his decease he left behind him no less 
a sum than 2000/. ; and such a sense of his va- 
rious excellences was prevalent in the country, 
that the epithet of wonderful is to this day 
attached to his name. 

There is in the above sketch something so ex- 
traordinary as to require further explanatory 
details. — And to begin with his industry ; eight 
hours in each day, during five days in the week, 
and half of Saturday, except when the labours 
of husbandry were urgent, he was occupied in 
teaching. His seat was within the rails of the 
altar ; the communion table was his desk ; and, 
like Shenstone's schoolmistress, the master em- 
ployed himself at the spinning-wheel, while the 
children were repeating their lessons by his side. 
Every evening, after school hours, if not more 
profitably engaged, he continued the same kind 
of labour, exchanging, for the benefit of exer- 
cise, the small wheel, at which he had sate, for 
the large one on which wool is spun, the spinner 
stepping to and fro. Thus was the wheel con- 
stantly in readiness to prevent the waste of a 
moment's time. Nor was his industry with the 
pen, when occasion called for it, less eager. In- 
trusted with extensive management of public 
and private affairs, he acted, in his rustic neigh- 
bourhood, as scrivener, writing out petitions, 
deeds of conveyance, wills, covenants, etc., with 
pecuniary gain to himself, and to the great 
benefit of his employers. These labours (at all 
times considerable) at one period of the year, 
viz. between Christmas and Candlemas, when 
money transactions are settled in this country, 
were often so intense, that he passed great part 
of the night, and sometimes whole nights, at his 
desk. His garden also was tilled by his own 



hand ; he had a right of pasturage upon the 
mountains for a few sheep anda couple of cows, 
which required his attendance ; with this pas- 
toral occupation he joined the labours of hus- 
bandry upon a small scale, renting two or three 
acres in addition to his own less than one acre 
of glebe ; and the humblest drudgery which 
the cultivation of these fields required was per- 
formed by himself. 

He also assisted his neighbours in hay-making 
and shearing their flocks, and in the perform- 
ance of this latter service he was eminently dex- 
terous. They, in their turn, complimented him 
with the present of a haycock, or a fleece ; less 
as a recompence for this particular service than 
as a general acknowledgment. The Sabbath was 
in a strict sense kept holy ; the Sunday evenings 
being devoted to reading the Scripture and fam- 
ily prayer. The principal festivals appointed 
by the Church were also duly observed ; but 
through every other day in the week, through 
every week in the year, he was incessantly oc- 
cupied in work of hand or mind ; not allowing 
a moment for recreation, except upon a Satur- 
day afternoon, when he indulged himself with 
a Newspaper, or sometimes with a Magazine. 
The frugality and temperance established in 
his house were as admirable as the industry. 
Nothing to which the name of luxury could be 
given was there known ; in the latter part of 
his life, indeed, when tea had been brought into 
almost general use, it was provided for visitors, 
and for such of his own family as returned oc- 
casionally to his roof, and had been accustomed 
to this refreshment elsewhere ; but neither he 
nor his wife ever partook of it. The raiment 
worn by his family was comely and decent, but 
as simple as their diet ; the home-spun mate- 
rials were made up into apparel by their own 
hands. At the time of the decease of this 
thrifty pair, their cottage contained a large 
store of webs of woollen and linen cloth, woven 
from thread of their own spinning. And it is 
remarkable that the pew in the chapel in which 
the family used to sit, remains neatly lined 
with woollen cloth spun by the pastor's own 
hands. It is the only pew in the chapel so dis- 
tinguished ; and I know of no other instance of 
his conformity to the delicate accommodations 
of modern times. The fuel of the house, like 
that of their neighbours, consisted of peat, pro- 
cured from the mosses by their own labour. 
The lights by which, in the winter evenings, 
their work was performed, were of their own 
manufacture, such as still continue to be used 
in these cottages ; the}' are made of the pith 
of rushes dipped in any unctuous substance that 
the house affords. White candles, as tallow can- 
dles are here called, were reserved to honour the 
Christmas festivals, and were perhaps produced 
upon no other occasions. Once a month; dur- 
ing the proper season, a sheep was drawn from 
their small mountain flock, and killed for the 
use of the family ; and a cow, towards the close 
of the year, was salted and dried for winter 
provision ; the hide was tanned to furnish them 
with shoes. — By these various resources, this 



890 



NOTES 



PAGE 598 



venerable clergyman reared a numerous family, 
not only preserving them, as he affectingly says, 
'' from wanting the necessaries of life;" but 
affording them an unstinted education, and the 
means of raising themselves in society. In this 
they were eminently assisted by the effects of 
their father's example, his precepts, and in- 
junctions: he was aware that truth-speaking, 
as a moral virtue, is best secured by inculcating 
attention to accuracy of report even on trivial 
occasions ; and so rigid were the rules of hon- 
esty by which he endeavoured to bring up his 
family, that if one of them had chanced to find 
in the ianes or fields anything of the least use or 
value without being able to ascertain to whom 
it belonged, he always insisted upon the child's 
carrying it back to the place from which it had 
been brought. 

No one, it might be thought, could, as has 
been described, convert his body into a ma- 
chine, as it were, of industry for the humblest 
uses, and keep his thoughts so frequently bent 
upon secular concerns, without grievous injury 
to the more precious parts of his nature. How 
could the powers of intellect thrive, or its graces 
be displayed, in the midst of circumstances ap- 
parently so unfavourable, and where, to the di- 
rect cultivation of the mind, so small a portion 
of time was allotted ? But, in this extraordi- 
nary man, things in their nature adverse were 
reconciled. His conversation was remarkable, 
not only for being chaste and pure, but for the 
degree in which it was fervent and eloquent ; his 
written style was correct, simple, and animated. 
Nor did his affections suffer more than his intel- 
lect ; he was tenderly alive to all the duties of his 
pastoral office : the poor and needy " he never 
sent empty away," — the stranger was fed and 
refreshed in passing that unfrequented vale — 
the sick were visited ; and the feelings of hu- 
manity found further exercise among the dis- 
tresses and embarrassments in the worldly 
estate of his neighbours, with which his talents 
for business made him acquainted ; and the dis- 
interestedness, impartiality, and uprightness 
which he maintained in the management of 
all affairs confided to him were virtues seldom 
separated in his own conscience from religious 
obligation. Nor could such conduct fail to re- 
mind those who witnessed it of a spirit nobler 
than law or custom : they felt convictions which, 
but for such intercourse, could not have been 
afforded, that as in the practice of their pastor 
there was no guile, so in his faith there was 
nothing hollow ; and we are warranted in be- 
lieving that upon these occasions selfishness, 
obstinacy, and discord would often give way 
before the breathings of his good -will and 
saintly integrity. It may be presumed also — 
while his humble congregation were listening to 
the moral precepts which he delivered from the 
pulpit, and to the Christian exhortations that 
they should love their neighbours as them- 
selves, and do as they would be done unto — 
that peculiar efficacy was given to the preacher's 
labours by recollections in the minds of his con- 
gregation that they were called upon to do no 



more than his own actions were daily setting 
before their eyes. 

The afternoon service in the chapel was less 
numerously attended than that of the morning, 
but by a more serious auditory ; the lesson 
from the New Testament, on those occasions, 
was accompanied by Burkitt's Commentaries. 
These lessons he read with impassioned em- 
phasis, frequently drawing tears from his hear- 
ers, and leaving a lasting impression upon their 
mil ids. His devotional feelings and the powers 
of his own mind were further exercised, along 
with those of his family, in perusing the Scrip- 
tures : not only on the Sunday evenings, but on 
every other evening, while the rest of the house- 
hold were at work, some one of the children, 
and in her turn the servant, for the sake of 
practice in reading, or for instruction, read the 
Bible aloud ; and in this manner the whole was 
repeatedly gone through. That no common 
importance was attached to the observance of 
religious ordinances by his family, appears from 
the following memorandum by one of his de- 
scendants, which I am tempted to insert at 
length, as it is characteristic and somewhat 
curious. " There is a small chapel in the 
county palatine of Lancaster, where a certain 
clergyman h&s regularly officiated above sixty 
years, and a few months ago administered the 
sacrament of the Lord's Supper in the same, 
to a decent number of devout communicants. 
After the clergyman had received himself, the 
first company out of the assembly who ap- 
proached the altar, and kneeled down to be 
partakers of the sacred elements, consisted of 
the parson's wife, to whom he had been married 
upwards of sixty years ; one son and his wife ; 
four daughters, each with her husband ; whose 
ages, all added together, amount to above 714 
years. The several and respective distances 
from the place of each of their abodes to the 
chapel where they all communicated, will mea- 
sure more than 1000 English miles. Though the 
narration will appear surprising, it is without 
doubt a fact that the same persons, exactly four 
years before, met at the same place, and all 
joined in performance of the same venerable 
duty." 

He was indeed most zealously attached to 
the doctrine and frame of the Established 
Church. We have seen him congratulating 
himself that he had no dissenters in his cure of 
any denomination. Some allowance must be 
made for the state of opinion when his first re- 
ligious impressions were received, before the 
reader will acquit him of bigotry, when I men- 
tion that at the time of the augmentation of 
the cure, he refused to invest part of the money 
in the purchase of an estate offered to him upon 
advantageous terms, because the proprietor was 
a quaker ; — whether from scrupulous appre- 
hension that a blessing would not attend a con- 
tract framed for the benefit of the church be- 
tween persons not in religious sympathy with 
each other ; or, as a seeker of peace, he was 
afraid of the uncomplying disposition which at 
one time was too frequently conspicuous ia 



PAGE 598 



NOTES 



891 



that sect. Of this an instance had fallen under 
his own notice ; for, while lie taught school at 
Loweswater, certain persons of that denomina- 
tion had refused to pay annual interest due 
under the title of Church-stock ; J a great hard- 
ship upon the incumbent, for the curacy of 
Loweswater was then scarcely less poor than 
that of Seathwaite. To what degree this pre- 
judice of his was blamable need not be deter- 
mined ; — certain it is, that he was not only 
desirous, as he himself says, to live in peace, 
but in love, with all men. He was placable, 
and charitable in his judgments ; and, however 
correct in conduct and rigorous to himself, 
he was ever ready to forgive the trespasses of 
others, and to soften the censure that was cast 
upon their frailties. — It would be unpardon- 
able to omit that, in the maintenance of his 
virtues, he received due support from the part- 
ner of his long life. She was equally strict, in 
attending to her share of their joint cares, nor 
less diligent in her appropriate occupations. A 
person who had been some time their servant 
in the latter part of their lives, concluded the 
panegyric of her mistress by saying to me, " She 
was no less excellent than her husband ; she 
was good to the poor ; she was good to every- 
thing ! " He survived for a short time this vir- 
tuous companion. When she died, he ordered 
that her body should be borne to the grave by 
three of her daughters and one granddaughter ; 
and, when the corpse was lifted from the thresh- 
old, he insisted upon lending his aid, and feel ■ 
ing about, for he was then almost blind, took 
hold of a napkin fixed to the coffin ; and, as a 
bearer of the body, entered the chapel, a few 
steps from the lowly parsonage. 

What a contrast does the life of this ob- 
scurely-seated, and, in point of worldly wealth, 
poorly-repaid Churchman, present to that of a 
Cardinal Wolsey ! 

" 't is a burthen, Cromwell, 't is a burthen 
Too heavy for a man who hopes for heaven ! " 

We have been dwelling upon images of peace 
in the moral world, that, have brought us again 
to the quiet enclosure of consecrated ground in 
which this venerable pair lie interred. The 
sounding- brook, that rolls close by the church- 
yard, without disturbing' feeling or meditation, 
is now unfortunately laid bare ; but not long 
ago it. participated, with the chapel, the shade 
of some stately ash-trees, which will not spring 
again. While the spectator from this spot is 
looking round upon the girdle of stony moun- 
tains that encompasses the vale, — masses of 
rock, out, of which monuments for all men 
that ever existed might have been hewn — it 
would surprise him to be told, as with truth he 
might be, that the plain blue slab dedicated to 
the memory of this aered pair is a production of 
a quarry in North Wales. It was sent as a 
mark of respect by one of their descendants 

1 Mr. Walker's charity being of that kind which 
"seeketh not h*>r own," he would rather forego his 
rights than distrain for dues which the parties liable 
refused, as a point of conscience, to pay. 



from the vale of Festiniog, a region almost as 
beautiful as that in which it now lies ! 

Upon the Seathwaite Brook, at a small dis- 
tance from the parsonage, has been erected a 
mill for spinning yarn ; it is a mean and disa- 
greeable object, though not unimportant to the 
spectator, as calling to mind the momentous 
changes wrought by such inventions in the 
frame of society — changes which have proved 
especially unfavourable to these mountain soli- 
tudes. So much had been effected by those 
new powers, before the subject of the preced- 
ing biographical sketch closed his life, that 
their operation could not escape his notice, and 
doubtless excited touching reflections upon the 
comparatively insignificant results of his own 
manual industry. But Robert Walker was not 
a man of times and circumstances ; had he 
lived at a later period, the principle of duty 
would have produced application as unremit- 
ting ; the same energy of character would have 
been displayed, though in many instances with 
widely different effects. 

With pleasure I annex, as illustrative and 
confirmatory of the above account, extracts 
from a paper in the Christian Ihinembraticer, 
October 1819 : it bears an assumed signature, 
but is known to be the work of the Rev. Robert 
Bamford, vicar of Bishopton, in the comity of 
Durham ; a great-grandson of Mr. Walker, 
whose worth it commemorates, by a record not 
the less valuable for being written in very early 
youth. 

" His house was a nursery of virtue. All 
the inmates were industrious, and cleanly, and 
happy. Sobriety, neatness, quietness, charac- 
terised the whole family. No railings, no idle- 
ness, no indulgence of passion were permitted. 
Every child, however young, had its appointed 
engagements ; every hand was busy. Knitting, 
spinning, reading, writing, mending clothes, 
making shoes, were by the different, children 
constantly performing. The father himself sit- 
ting amongst them and guiding their thoughts, 
was engaged in the same occupations. . . . 

"He sate up late, and rose early; when the 
family were at rest, he retired to a little room 
which he had built on the roof of his house. 
He had slated it, and fitted it up with shelves 
for his books, his stock of cloth, wearing ap- 
parel, and his utensils. There many a cold 
winter's night, without fire, while the roof was 
glazed with ice, did he remain reading or writ- 
ing till the day dawned. He taught the chil- 
dren in the chapel, for there was no school- 
house. Yet in that cold, damp place he never 
had a fire. He used to send the children in 
parties either to his own fire at home or make 
them run up the mountain side. 

"It may be further mentioned, that he was 
a passionate admirer of Nature ; she was his 
mother and he was a dutiful child. While en- 
gaged on the mountains, it was his greatest 
pleasure to view the rising sun ; and in tran- 
quil evenings, as it slided behind the hills, he 
blessed its departure. He was skilled in fossils 



892 



NOTES 



PAGES 59S-600 



and plants ; a constant observer of the stars 
and winds : the atmosphere was his delight. 
He made many experiments on its nature and 
properties. In summer he used to gather a 
multitude of flies and insects, and, by his enter- 
taining description, amuse and instruct his 
children. They shared all his daily employ- 
ments, and derived many sentiments of love 
and benevolence from his observations on the 
works and productions of nature. Whether 
they were following him in the field, or sur- 
rounding him in school, he took every oppor- 
tunity of storing their minds with useful in- 
formation. — Nor was the circle of his influence 
confined to Seathwaite. Many a distant mother 
has told her child of Mr. Walker, and begged 
him to be as good a man. 

" Once, when I was very young, I had the 
pleasure of seeing and hearing that venerable 
old man in his 90th year, and even then, the 
calmness, the force, the perspicuity of his ser- 
mon, sanctified and adorned by the wisdom of 
grey hairs, and the authority of virtue, had such 
an effect upon my mind, that I never see a hoary- 
headed clergyman, without thinking of Mr. 
Walker. . . . He allowed no dissenter or meth- 
odist to interfere in the instruction of the souls 
committed to his care : and so successful were his 
exertions, that he had not one dissenter of any 
denomination whatever in the whole parish. 
— Though he avoided all religious controver- 
sies, yet when age had silvered his head, and 
virtuous piety had secured to his appearance 
reverence and silent honour, no one, however 
determined in his hatred of apostolic descent, 
could have listened to his discourse on eccle- 
siastical history and ancient times, without 
thinking that one of the beloved apostles had 
returned to mortality, and in that vale of peace 
had come to exemplify the beauty of holiness 
in the life and character of Mr. Walker. 

" Until the sickness of his wife, a few months 
previous to her death, his health and spirits 
and faculties were unimpaired. But this mis- 
fortune gave him such a shock that his consti- 
tution gradually decayed. His senses, except 
sight, still preserved their powers. He never 
preached with steadiness after his wife's death. 
His voice faltered : he always looked at the 
seat she had used. He could not pass her 
tomb without tears. He became, when alone, 
sad and melancholy, though still among his 
friends kind and good-humoured. He went to 
bed about twelve o'clock the night before his 
death. As his custom was, he went, tottering 
and leaning upon his daughter's arm, to examine 
the heavens, and meditate a few moments in 
the open air. ' How clear the moon shines to- 
night ! ' He said these words, sighed, and laid 
down. At. six next morning he was found a 
corpse. Many a tear, and many a heavy heart, 
and many a grateful blessing followed him to 
the grave." 

Having mentioned- in this narrative the vale 
of Loweswater as a place where Mr. Walker 



taught school, I will add a few memoranda from 
its parish register, respecting a person appar- 
ently of desires as moderate, with whom he 
must have been intimate during his residence 
there. 

" Let him that would, ascend the tottering seat 
Of courtly grandeur, and become as great 
As are his mountiug wishes; but for me, 
Let sweet repose and rest my portion be. 

Henry Fobest, Curate." 

" Honour, the idol which the most adore, 
Receives no homage from my knee ; 
Content in privacy I value more 
Than all uneasy dignity." 

"Henry Forest came to Loweswater, 1708, being 
25 years of age." 

This curacy was twice augmented by Queen 
Anne's Bounty. The first payment, with great 
difficulty, was paid to Mr. John Curwen of 
London, on the 9th of May, 1724, deposited by 
me, Henry Forest, Curate of Loweswater. Y" 
said 9th of May, y e said Mr. Curwen went to the 
office, and saw my name registered there, &c. 
This, by the Providence of God, came by lot to 
this poor place. 

" Hsec testor H. Forest." 

In another place he records that the syca- 
more-trees were planted in the churchyard in 
1710. 

He died in 1741, having been curate thirty- 
four years. It is not improbable that H. Forest 
was the gentleman who assisted Robert Walker 
in his classical studies at Loweswater. 

To this parish register is prefixed a motto, of 
which the following verses are a part : 

" Invigilate viri, tacito nam tempora gressu 
Diffugiunt, nutloqne sono convertitur annus ; 
Utendum est setate, cito pede pneterit aetas. '* 

W. w. 

Sonnet xix. Seathwaite Chapel is on Tarn 
Beck, the " tributary stream " of this sonnet. 

Sonnet xx. Donnerdale, or Dunnerdale as 
it is now called, is the tract lying between the 
east bank of the Duddon from Ulpha bridge to 
the limits of Broughton. It is bounded on the 
north by fells which separate it from Sea- 
thwaite. There is a hamlet called Hall Dor.rer- 
dale between Seathwaite and Ulpha. It is from 
the bridq-e below this hamlet that Mr. Rix 
thinks Wordsworth saw the plain. 

Sonnet xxi. Lines 1-3. See Fenwick note 
to this series of poems. 

Sonnet xxii. The scene of this tragedy may 
have been one of the pools between Seathwaite 
and " Traveller's Rest " inn. The tradition it- 
self is unknown to the present inhabitants. 

Sonnets xxiv.-xxvii. There are many spots 
from which these sonnets could have been writ- 
ten and the " House " (xxvii.) be in view. The 
castle, the seat of the Lords of Ulpha, is now 
a ruin. 

Sonnet xxix. The subject of this sonnet is 
the hillside burial-place of the Friends, not far 
from the scene of Sonnet xxii. It is called the 
Sepulchre. Inside the inclosing wall can be 



PAGES 600-606 



NOTES 



893 



seen the stone seats used by the Friends, who 
would not worship under any roof but the hea- 
vens. 

Sonnet xxx. Just beyond the burial-place 
of the previous sonnet the poet turned to the 
left to seek the plain, while the river was lost 
in the woods. 

Sonnet xxxi. From the plain of Sonnet xxx. 
can be seen the kirk situated on a rock washed 
by the Duddon. The church has been restored, 
quite in the spirit of the days when the poet 
visited it. 

Sonnet xxxiv. 

Line 14. We feel that we are greater than we 
know. 

" And feel that I am happier than I know." 

Milton. 

The allusion to the Greek Poet will be ob- 
vious to the classical reader. W. W. 

Page 602. A Parsonage in Oxfordshire. 

The " note " alluded to in the Fenwick note 
is that to a Pastoral Character in "Ecclesiasti- 
cal Sonnets." 

Page 602. To Enterprise. 
Line 114. living hill. 

" awhile the living hill 

Heaved with convulsive throes, and all was still." 
Db. Darwin. W. W. 



1821-2 

Page 604. Ecclesiastical Sonnets. 

PART I. 

During the month of December 1S20, I ac- 
companied a much-beloved and honoured Friend 
in a walk through different parts of his estate, 
with a view to fix upon the site of a new Church 
which he intended to erect. It was one of the 
most beautiful mornings of a mild season, — 
our feelings were in harmony with the cherish- 
ing influences of the scene ; and such being our 
purpose, we were naturally led to look back 
upon past events with wonder and gratitude, 
and on the future with hope. Not long after- 
wards, some of the Sonnets which will be found 
towards the close of this series were produced 
as a private memorial of that morning's occupa- 
tion. 

The Catholic Question, which was agitated in 
Parliament about that time, kept my thoughts 
in the same course ; and it struck me that cer- 
tain points in the Ecclesiastical History of our 
Country might advantageously be presented to 
view in verse. Accordingly, I took up the sub- 
ject, and what I now offer to the reader was 
the result. 

When this work was far advanced, I was 
agreeably surprised to find that my friend, Mr. 
Southey, had been engaged with similar views 
in writing a concise History of the Church in 
England. If our Productions, thus uninten- 
tionally coinciding, shall be found to illustrate 



each other, it will prove a high gratification to 
me, which I am sure my friend will participate. 

W. Wordsworth. 
Rydal Mount, January 24, 1822. 

For the convenience of passing from one point 
of the subject to another without shocks of 
abruptness, this work has taken the shape of a 
series of Sonnets : but the Reader, it is to be 
hoped, will find that the pictures are often so 
closely connected as to have jointly the effect 
of passages of a poem in a form of stanza to 
which there is no objection but one that bears 
upon the Poet only — its difficulty. W. W. 

Most of the Ecclesiastical Sonnets were com- 
posed in 1821, but there were some additions 
made at a later date. The date of composition 
of a few is conjectural. The fact that his bro- 
ther Christopher had published an Ecclesiastical 
Biography may have influenced him to write 
these sonnets. One should read in this connec- 
tion Aubrey de Vere's Legends of Saxon Saints. 

The motto, after George Herbert, was added 
in 1827. bee Herbert's Church Porch. 11. 5-(i. 

Sonnet ii. Line 6. Did holy Paul, etc. 
Stillingfleet adduces many arguments in sup- 
port of this opinion, but they are unconvincing. 
The latter part of this Sonnet refers to a favour- 
ite notion of Roman Catholic writers, that 
Joseph of Arimathea and his companions 
brought Christianity into Britain, and built a 
rude church at Glastonbury- alluded to here- 
after, in a passage upon the dissolution of mon- 
asteries. W. W. _ * 

ISonnet hi. Line 1. seamew — white. This 
water-fowl was, among the Druids, an emblem 
of those traditions connected with the Deluge 
that made an important part of their mysteries. 
The Cormorant was a bird of bad omen. W. W. 

Sonnet v. Line 2. Snowdon's wilds. See 
"The Prelude," xiv. 1-62. Brigantian coves. 
The Brigantes were the hill-men whom the Ro- 
mans coidd not conquer. 

Line 8. lona's coast. See sonnets on Iona, 
1833. 

Line 10. lays. Taliesin was the Cymric bard 
who sang the deeds of his chief Urien in his 
struggle against the Angles. 

Sonnet vi. Line 11. St. Alban was the 
first Christian martyr in Britain. 

Line 13. That Hill, whose flowery platform, 
etc. 

This hill at St. Alban's must have been an ob- 
ject of great interest to the imagination of the 
venerable Bede, who thus describes it, with a 
delicate feeling, delightful to meet with in that 
rude age, traces of which are frequent in his 
works : — " Variis herbarum floribus depictus 
im6 usquequaque vestitus, in quo nihil repent e 
arduum, nihil prfeceps, nihil abruptum, quern 
lateribus longe lateque deductum in modum 
aequoris natura complanat, dignum videlicet 
eum pro insita sibi specie venustatis jam olini 
reddens, qui beati martyris cruore dicaretur." 
W. W. 

Sonnet ix. Line 10. forced farewell. Roman 
forces in Britain were called home to protect 



8 94 



NOTES 



PAGES 6o6-6lO 



the imperial city against the barbarians. The 
Britons then became prey to Picts and Angles. 

Sonnet x. Line 1. Aneurin. The Cymric 
bard who chronicled the struggle between Bri- 
tons and Teutons in Strathclyde in his poem 
" The Gododin." 

Line 12. Plinlimmon. The Cymric bards, 
Urien, Taliesin, Lywarch Hew, and Merlin, 
came from Wales. 

Sonnet xi. Line 2. hallelujahs. The Bri- 
tons sought aid of Germanus, and as he led his 
forces against Picts and Saxons lie ordered them 
to shout Hallelujah three times, on hearing 
which the enemy fled. 

Lines 1, 2. 

Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid 

Of hallelujahs. 

Alluding to the victory gained under Ger- 
manus. — See Bede. W. W. 

Lines 9, 10. 

By men yet scarcely conscious of a care 

For other monuments than those of Earth. 

The last six lines of this Sonnet are chiefly 
from the prose of Daniel ; and here I will state 
(though to the Readers whom this Poem will 
chiefly interest it is unnecessary) that my obliga- 
tions to other prose writers are frequent, — ob- 
ligations which, even if I had not a pleasure in 
courting, it would have been presumptuous to 
shun, in treating an historical subject. I must, 
however, particularise Fuller, to whom I am 
indebted in the Sonnet upon Wicliffe and in 
other instances. And upon the acquittal of the 
Seven Bishops I have done little more than 
versify a lively description of that event in 
the MS. Memoirs of the first Lord Lonsdale. 

w. w. 

Sonnet xii. The convent of Bangor was 
attacked by Ethelforth while the monks were 
praying for safety ; then the monastery with all 
its memorials was destroyed. 

" 'Ethelforth reached the convent of Bangor, 
he perceived the Monks, twelve hundred in 
number, offering prayers for the success of their 
countrymen : " If they are praying against us," 
he exclaimed, " they are fighting against us ; " 
and he ordered them to be first attacked : they 
were destroyed ; and, appalled by their fate, 
the courage of Brocmail wavered, and he fled 
from the field in dismay. Thus abandoned by 
their leader, his army soon gave way, and Ethel- 
forth obtained a decisive conquest. Ancient 
Bangor itself soon fell into his hands, and was 
demolished ; the noble monastery was levelled 
to the ground ; its library, which is mentioned 
as a large one, the collection of ages, the repos- 
itory of the most precious monuments of the 
ancient Britons, was consumed ; half-ruined 
walls, gates, and rubbish were all that remained 
of the magnificent edifice.' — See Turner's 
valuable history of the Anglo-Saxons. 

" Taliesin was present at the battle which 
preceded this desolation. 

" The account Bede gives of this remarkable 
event suggests a most striking warning against 
National and Religious prejudices." W. W. 

Sonnet xiii. Alluding to the familiar story 



of Gregory setting free the Angle youths ex- 
posed for sale at Rome. 

Sonnet xv. The person of Paulinus is thus 
described by Bede, from the memory of an 
eye-witness: — " Longa: statural, paululum in 
curvus, nigro capillo, facie macilenta, naso 
adunco, pertenui, venerabilis simul et terribilis 
aspectu." W. W. 

King Edwin was converted by Paulinus. 

Sonnet xvi. Line 1. '* Man's life is like a 
Sparrow," See the original of this speech in 
Bede. — The Conversion of Edwin, as related 
by him, is highly interesting — and the break- 
ing up of this Council accompamed with an 
event so striking and characteristic, that I am 
tempted to give it at length in a translation. 
"Who, exclaimed the King, when the Council 
was ended, shall first desecrate the altars and 
the temples ? I, answered the Chief Priest ; 
for who more fit than myself, through the wis- 
dom which the true God hath given me, to de- 
stroy, for the good example of others, what in 
foolishness I worshipped ? Immediately, cast- 
ing away vain superstition, he besought the 
King to grant him what the laws did not allow 
to a priest, arms and a courser (equum ernis- 
sarium) ; which mounting, and furnished with 
a sword and lance, he proceeded to destroy 
the Idols. The crowd, seeing this, thought 
him mad — he, however, halted not, but, ap- 
proaching, he profaned the temple, casting 
against it the lance which he had held in his 
hand, and, exulting in acknowledgment of the 
worship of the true God, he ordered his com- 
panions to pull down the temple, with all its 
enclosures. The place is shown where those 
idols formerly stood, not far from York, at the 
source of the river Derwent, and is at this day 
called Gormund Gaham, ubi pontifex ille, in- 
spirante Deo vero, polluit ac destruxit eas, guas 
ipse sacraverat aras." The last expression is 
a pleasing proof that the venerable monk of 
Wearmouth was familiar with the poetry of 
Virgil. W. W. 

Sonnet xvii. Line 11. such the inviting voice, 
etc. The early propagators of Christianity 
were accustomed to preach near rivers, for the 
convenience of baptism. W. W. 

Sonnet xix. Having spoken of the zeal, 
disinterestedness, and temperance of the clergy 
of those times, Bede thus proceeds : — " Unde 
et in magna erat veneratione tempore illo re- 
ligionis habitus, ita ut ubicunque clericus ali- 
quis, aut monachus adveniret, gaudenter ab 
omnibus tanquam Dei famulus exciperetur. 
Etiam si in itinere pergens inveniretur, accur- 
rebant, et flexS cervice, vel manu signari, vel 
ore illius se benedicti, gaudebant. Verbis 
quoque hornm exhortatoriis diligenter auditum 
prsebebant." Lib. iii. cap. 2(>. W. W. 

Sonnet xxiii. Bede lived at the monastery 
of Jarrow on the Tyne. See Aubrey de Vere, 
Legends of Saxon Saints, " Bede's Last May." 

Sonnet xxrv. See Charles Kingsley, Roman 
and Teuton, " The Monk as Civilizer." 

Line 2. The people work like congregated 
bees. See, in Turner's History, vol. iii. p. 528, 



PAGES 6lO-62 2 



NOTES 



'<9S 



the account of the erection of Ramsey Monas- 
tery. Penances were removable by the per- 
formance of acts of charity and benevolence. 

w. w. 

Sonnet xxvi. See Alfred the West Saxon 
King, McFayden. 

Line 10. pain narrows not his cares. Through 
the whole of his life, Alfred was subject to 
grievous maladies. W. W. 

Sonnet xxix. Line 1. Woe to the Crown 
that doth the Cowl obey .' The violent mea- 
sures carried on under the influence of Dun- 
stan, for strengthening the Benedictine Order, 
were a leading cause of the second series of 
Danish invasions. — See Turner. W. W. 

Line 3. Hovers. The Danes. 

Sonnet xxx. Alluding to the old ballad 
which Canute composed when being rowed by 
Ely where he heard the monks chanting. 

" Merie sangen the Muneches binen Ely." 

Sonnet xxxi. Linel. woman-hearted. "He 
was of a gentle and pious nature : not clever, 
but meek and good." — M. J. Guest. 

Sonnet xxxiii. Line 14. The decision of 
the Council was believed to be instantly known 
in remote parts of Europe. W. W. 

Sonnet xxxvi. This order came from In- 
nocent III. because King John forbade Lang- 
ton to land in England. 

Sonnet xxxvii. See Aubrey de Vere, Saint 
Thomas of Canterbury, and Tennyson, Thomas 
a Becket. 

PART II. 

Sonnet in. Linel. " Here Man more purely 
lives," etc. " Bonum est nos hie esse, quia homo 
vivit purius, cadit rarins, surgit velocius, incedit 
cautius, quiescit securius, moritnr felicius, pur- 
gaturcitius, prsemiaturcopiosius." — Bernard. 

This sentence," says Dr. Whitaker, "is usu- 
ally inscribed in some conspicuous part of the 
Cistertian houses." W. W. 

Sonnet vi. Line 4. St. George's Chapel, 
Windsor. 

Sonnet xi. Line 9. Valdo. Peter Waldo, 
a rich merchant, who founded the order of 
poor men of Lyons. 

Sonnet xiv. Among those martyrs of whom 
Milton sings in his Sonnet on the Late Mas- 
sacre in Piedmont were followers of Waldo. 

Line 8. Whom Obloquy pursues, etc. The 
list of foul names bestowed upon those poor 
creatures is long and curious ; — and, as is, 
alas ! too natural, most of the opprobrious ap- 
pellations are drawn from circumstances into 
•which they were forced by their persecutors, 
who even consolidated their miseries into one 
reproachful term, calling them Patarenians, or 
Paturins, from pati, to suffer. 

" Dwellers with wolves, she names them, for the pine 
And green oak are their covert ; as the gloom 
Of night oft foils their enemy's design, 
She calls them Riders on the flying broom 
Sorcerers, whose frame and aspect have become 
One and the Bame through practices malign." 

w. w. 



Sonnet xv. This alludes to the influence of 
Archbishop Chichele on Henry V. to make war 
in France, which ended at Agincourt. 

Sonnet xvi. See note to "Song at the Feast 
of Brougham Castle." 

Sonnet xxi. Lines 7, 8. And the green lizard, 
etc. These two lines are adopted from a MS., 
written about the year 1770, which accidentally 
fell into my possession. The close of the pre- 
ceding Sonnet on monastic voluptuousness is 
taken from the same source, as is the verse, 
" Where Venus sits," etc., and the line, "Once 
ye were holy, ye are holy still," in a subsequent 
Sonnet. W. W. 

Line 10. Waltham. On the Lea, in Essex. 

Line 14. Glastonbury, built by Joseph of 
Arimathea as the legend goes. 

Sonnet xxxi. Linel. Quoted from Words- 
worth's " Selections from Chaucer Modernized," 
stanza ix. of " The Prioress's Tale." 

Line 9. Edward became king at the age of 
ten. He founded the famous Charity School, 
Christ's Hospital in London, and many other 
schools in England. 

Sonnet xxxii. Influenced by Cranmer Ed- 
ward signed the warrant for her execution. 

Sonnet xxxiii. Edward reigned only six 
years, and at his death the Roman Catholic wop- 
ship was restored. 

Sonnet xxxiv. Latimer and Ridley were 
burned together at Oxford in front of Balliol 
College — where now stands the Martyr's Me- 
morial. 

Line 4. One {like those prophets), etc. " M. 
Latimer suffered his keeper very quietly to 
pull off his hose, and his other array, which 
to looke unto was very simple : and being 
stripped into his shrowd, he seemed as comely 
a person to them that were present, as one 
should lightly see : and whereas in his clothes 
hee appeared a withered and crooked sillie 
(weak) olde man, he now stood bolt upright, as 
comely a father as one might lightly behold. 
. . . Then they brought a faggotte, kindled 
with fire, and laid the same downe at doctor 
Ridley's feete. To whomeM. Latimer spake in 
this manner, ' Bee of good comfort, master 
Ridley, and play the man : wee shall this day 
light such a candle by God's grace in England, 
as I trust shall never be put out.' "— - JFox's 
Acts, etc. 

Similar alterations in the outward figure and 
deportment of persons brought to like trial were 
not uncommon. See note to the above passage 
in Dr. Wordsworth's Ecclesiastical Biograj liy, 
for an example in an humble Welsh fisher- 
man. W. W. 

Sonnet xxxv. Cranmer's statue is included 
in the Memorial at Oxford. 

Sonnet xxxvii. Under Mary hundreds of 
the clergy sought refuge on the Continent. 
They returned on the ascension of Elizabeth. 

Line 9. speculative notions. "Alluding to 
the discussion aroused by Knox's suggestion 
of modification of the Prayer Book, for which 
he left Frankfort and went to Geneva." — 
Knight. 



896 



NOTES 



PAGES 622-628 



Sonnet xxxviii. Line 7. alien storms. For- 
eign intrigues against the Queen and those of 
Mary Queen of Scots. 

Line 12. foul constraint. This may refer to 
the execution of Mary Queen of Scots. 

Sonnet xxxix. Line 5. The gift exalting, 
etc. "On foot they went, and took Salisbury 
in their way, purposely to see the good Bishop, 
who made Mr. Hooker sit at his own table; 
which Mr. Hooker boasted of with much joy 
and gratitude when he saw his mother and 
friends ; and at the Bishop's parting with him, 
the Bishop gave him good counsel and his bene- 
diction, but forgot to give him money ; which 
when the Bishop had considered, he sent a ser- 
vant in all haste to call Richard back to him, 
and at Richard's return, the Bishop said to him, 
' Richard, I sent for you back to lend you a 
horse which hath carried me many a mile, and 
I thank God with much ease,' and presently 
delivered into his hand a walking-staff, with 
which he professed he had travelled through 
many parts of German}'; and he said, ' Richard, 
I do not give, but lend you my horse ; be sure 
you be honest, and bring my horse back to me, 
at your return this way to Oxford. And I do 
now give you ten groats to bear your charges to 
Exeter ; and here is ten groats more, which I 
charge you to deliver to your mother, and tell 
her I send her a Bishop's benediction with it, 
and beg the continuance of her prayers for me. 
And if you bring my horse back to me, I will 
give you ten groats more to carry you on foot 
to the college ; and so God bless you, good 
Richard.' " — See Walton's Life of Richard 
Hooker. W. W. 

Sonnet xli. Line 2. sects. Nonconform- 
ists. 

Line 10. craftily incites, etc. A common 
device in religious and political conflicts. — See 
Strype, in support of this instance. W. W. ■ 

Line 13. new-born Church. The Church Re- 
formed of the previous sonnet, which Words- 
worth originally wrote New-born Church. 

Sonnet xliii. Linel. Virgin Mountain. The 
Jung-frau. 

Sonnet xlv. In this age a word cannot be 
said in praise of Laud, or even in compassion 
for his fate, without incurring a charge of 
bigotry; but fearless of such imputation, I con- 
cur with Hume, " that it is sufficient for his vin- 
dication to observe that his errors were the most 
excusable of all those which prevailed during 
that zealous period." A key to the right under- 
standing of those parts of his conduct that 
brought the most odium upon him in his own 
time, may be found in the following passage of 
his speech before the bar of the House of Peers : 
— " Ever since I came in place, I have laboured 
nothing more than that the external publick 
worship of God, so much slighted in divers parts 
of this kingdom, might be preserved, and that 
with as much decency and uniformity as might 
be. For I evidently saw that the public neglect 
of God's service in the outward face of it, and 
the nasty lying of many places dedicated to 
that service, had almost cast a damp upon the 



true and inward worship of God, which while we 
live in the body, needs external helps, and all little 
enough to keep it in any vigour.'" W. W. 

PART in. 

Sonnet in. A vivid picture of the Restora- 
tion. 

Line 12. " Duke of York received into the 
Church of Rome." — Knight. 

Sonnet iv. Lines G, 7. 

"Now blind, disheartened, shamed, dishonoured, 
quelled, 
To what can I be useful ? Wherein serve 
My natiou, aud the work from Heaven inspired ? " 

Milton. 

Sonnet vi. Results of the Act of Uniform- 
ity. 

Sonnet vii. Lines 1-3. See Milton, On the 
Late Massacre in Piedmont." 

Sonnet vhi. The indignation of the people 
forced the authorities to set free the Bishops 
who refused to be party to James II. 's Declara- 
tion of Indulgences. 

Sonnet ix. Line 13. King James II. 

Sonnet xi. Alluding to Sacheverell's preach- 
ing in regard to the Act of Toleration which 
made him a popular hero. 

Sonnet xiii. American episcopacy, in union 
with the church in England, strictly belongs to 
the genera] subject ; and I here make my ac- 
knowledgments to my American friends, Bishop 
Doane, and Mr. Henry Reed of Philadelphia, 
for having suggested to me the propriety of 
adverting to it, and pointed out the virtues and 
intellectual qualities of Bishop White, which 
so eminently fitted him for the great work he 
undertook. Bishop White was consecrated at 
Lambeth, Feb. 4, 1787, by Archbishop Moore ; 
and before his long life was closed, twenty-six 
bishops had been consecrated in America by 
himself. For his character and opinions, see 
his own numerous works, and a Sermon in 
commemoration of him, by George Washington 
Doane, Bishop of New Jersey." W. W. 

Sonnet xv. The earliest Episcopal Bishops 
in America were Dr. Seabury of Connecticut, 
and Dr. White of Pennsylvania. 

Sonnet xviii. Line 1. .4 genial hearth, 
etc. Among the benefits arising, as Mr. Cole- 
ridge has well observed, from a Church estab- 
lishment of endowments corresponding with 
the wealth of the country to which it belongs, 
may be reckoned as eminently important the 
examples of civility and refinement which the 
clergy stationed at intervals afford to the whole 
people. The established clergy in many parts 
of England have long been, as they continue to 
be, the principal bulwark against barbarism, 
and the link which unites the sequestered peas- 
antry with the intellectual advancement of the 
age. Nor is it below the dignity of the subject 
to observe that their taste, as acting upon rural 
residences and scenery, often furnishes models 
which country gentlemen, who are more at 
liberty to follow the caprices of fashion, might 
profit by. The precincts of an old residence 



PAGES 628-646 



NOTES 



897 



must be treated by ecclesiastics with respect, 
both from prudence and necessity. I remem- 
ber being much pleased, some years ago, at 
Rose Castle, the rural seat of the See of Car- 
lisle, with a style of garden and architecture 
which, if the place had belonged to a wealthy 
layman, would no doubt have been swept away. 
A parsonage house generally stands not far 
from the church ; this proximity imposes fa- 
vourable restraints, and sometimes suggests an 
affecting union of the accommodations and 
elegancies of life with the outward signs of 
piety and morality. With pleasure I recall to 
mind a happy instance of this in the residence 
of an old and much-valued Friend in Oxford- 
shire. The house and church stand parallel 
to each other, at a small distance ; a circular 
lawn, or rather grass-plot, spreads between 
them ; shrubs and trees curve from each side 
of the dwelling, veiling, but not hiding, the 
church. From the front of this dwelling no part 
of the burial-ground is seen ; but as you wind 
by the side of the shrubs towards the steeple- 
end of the church, the eye catches a single, 
small, low, monumental headstone, moss-grown, 
sinking into and gently inclining towards the 
earth. Advance, and the churchyard, popu- 
lous and gay with glittering tombstones, opens 
upon the view. This humble and beautiful par- 
sonage called forth a tribute, for which see the 
sonnet entitled "A Parsonage in Oxfordshire," 
p. 602. W. W. 

Sonnet xxxii. This is still continued in 
many churches in Westmoreland. It takes 
place in the month of July, when the floor of 
the stalls is strewn with fresh rushes ; and 
hence it is called the " Rush-bearing." W. W. 

It is now observed at Grasmere as a Chil- 
dren's Festival. See Canon Rawnsley, Life and 
Nature at the English Lakes, " Rushbearing." 

Sonnet xxxv. Line 10. Teaching us to for- 
get them or forgive. This is borrowed from an 
affecting passage in Mr. George Dyer's history 
of Cambridge. W. W. 

Sonnet xxxvii. Lines 2-5. had we, like 

them, endured, etc. See Burnet, who is un- 
usually animated on this subject ; the east 
wind, so anxiously expected and prayed for, 
was called the " Protestant wind." W. W. 

Sonnet xxxrx. This and the following re- 
fer to the church to be erected by Sir George 
Beaumont at Coleorton. 

Sonnet xl. Line 9. Yet will we not con- 
ceal, etc. The Lutherans have retained the 
Cross within their churches : it is to be re- 
gretted that we have not done the same. 
W. W. 

Sonnets XLin.-XLV. Unless one has passed 
some time in the presence of England's noble 
castles and inspiring cathedrals, one is apt to 
wonder at the place they occupy in the litera- 
ture and the life of her people. Wordsworth, 
in reverencing King's College Chapel, — the 
noblest and most inspiring structure ever erected 
for collegiate worship, — has yielded to the spell 
of this human past. The history of this mag- 
nificent chapel, the last of the thoroughly medi- 



aeval structures erected at Cambridge, is 
exceedingly interesting. 

Sonnet xlvi. Line 5. Or like the Alpine 
Mount, etc. Some say that Monte Rosa takes 
its name from a belt of rock at its summit — a 
very unpoetical and scarcely a probable sup- 
position. W. W. 

This series of Sonnets, while containing many 
poems of the first quality, is of less distinction 
than any other owing partly to the fact, as 
Wordsworth himself pointed out, "that there 
is unavoidably in all History, — except as it is 
a mere suggestion, — something that enslaves 
the fancy." 

1823 

Page 635. Memory. 

For the origin of this poem see Fenwick note 
to lines " Written in a Blank Leaf of Macpher- 
son's Ossian," p 715. 

Page 636. To the Lady Fleming. 

Line 12. Sir Michael Fleming came over with 
William of Normandy, and was given estates in 
Cumberland. 

Line 15. Bekangs Ghyll — or dell of Night- 
shade — in which stands St. Mary's Abbey in 
Low Furness. W. W. 

Page 637. On the Same Occasion. 
Lines 4, 5. Grasmere Church, dedicated to 
St. Oswald. 

1824 

Page 639. To 

"Addressed probably to Wordsworth's 
daughter Dora." — Dowden. 

Page 640. To the Lady E. B. and the 
Hon. Miss P. 

" Lady Eleanor Butler and the Hon. Miss 
Ponsonby." — Knight. 

Page 640. Composed among the Ruins 
of a Castle. 

"Wordsworth visited Carnarvon Castle in 
September, 1824." — Dowden. 

Page 642. Epitaph in the Chapel- Yard 
of Langdale, Westmoreland. 

This may be seen in the churchyard at 
Chapel (High) Stile, Great Langdale. 

1826 

Page 646. "The Massy Ways, Carried 
across these Heights." 

Evidences of Roman occupation are to he 
found at Ambleside, Grasmere, and other places 
in the Lakes. The " Far-terrace " of Rydal is 
as sacred as the garden at Dove Cottage. 

Page 646. The Pillar of Trajan. 

Line 46. more high, the Dacianforce, etc. 
Here and infra, see Forsyth. W. W. 

The column was set up by the Senate and 
people in commemoration of the conquest of 



8 9 S 



NOTES 



PAGES 647-658 



Dacia by Trajan. It was 132 feet high and sur- 
mounted by a colossal statue of the Emperor ; 
it stood in the centre of the Forum Trajanum. 
The sculptures which covered it picture the 
Daeian wars. See Meri vale's Romans under the 
Emperors. 

Lines 55-60. See " Character of the Happy 
Warrior." 

Page 647. Farewell Lines. 

Lamb wrote Wordsworth in 1822 : " I grow 
ominously tired of official confinement. Thirty 
years have I served the Philistines, and my 
neck is not subdued to the yoke." In March, 
1825, he received his pension and the next 
year he settled at Enfield, where he wrote to 
Wordsworth : " How I look down on the slaves 
and drudges of the world ! Its inhabitants are 
a vast cotton-web of spin - spin - spinners ! O 
the carking cares ! O the money-grabbers ! 
Sempiternal muck-worms." 

1827 

Page 648. On Seeing a Needlecase in 
the Form of a Harp. 
To Edith May Southey. See " The Triad." 

Page 648. To 

Possibly addressed to his sister Dorothy. 
Dowden thinks "To " means "To Mary." 

[The Fenwick note, here as on page 346, re- 
fers to Wordsworth's sonnet-writing in general. 
This sonnet was the Dedication for the collec- 
tion of Miscellaneous Sonnets beginning with 
" Nuns fret not."] 

Line 14. " Something less than joy, but more than dull 
content." Countess op Winchilsea. W. W. 

Page 649. To S. H. 

Sara Hutchinson, Mrs. Wordsworth's sister. 

Page 650. "Scorn not the Sonnet." 
It is not often that criticism is presented to 
us in the form of the highest poetry and con- 
densed into fourteen lines. This sonnet alone 
is sufficient to vindicate Wordsworth's claim to 
mastery in this form of poetry ; for in it we have 
history enriched with the finest touches of the 
imagination, and transmitted in diction pure 
and strong, while the music varies from the 
most powerful animation to the softest cadences 
of metrical harmony. 

Page 651. Recollection of the Por- 
trait of King Henry Eighth, Trinity 
Lodge, Cambridge. 

The statue stands over King's Gateway to 
the Great Court of Trinity College. 

Page 651. "While Anna's Peers and 
Early Playmates Tread." 
See " Liberty," line 2. 

Page 652. To Rotha Q . 

Line 9. See Matthew Arnold, " Memorial 
Verses." 



"Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, 
O Rotha, with thy living wave ! 
Sing liim thy best ! for lew or none 
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone." 

Page 653. In the Woods of Rydal. 

This Sonnet, as Poetry, explains itself, yet 
the scene of the incident having been a wild 
wood, it may be doubted, as a point of natural 
history, whether the bird was aware that his 
attentions were bestowed upon a human, or 
even a living creature. But a Redbreast will 
perch upon the foot of a gardener at work, and 
alight on the handle of the spade when his hand 
is half upon it — this I have seen. And under 
my own roof I have witnessed affecting in- 
stances of the creature's friendly visits to the 
chambers of sick persons, as described in the 
verses to the Redbreast, page 768. One of these 
welcome intruders used frequently to roost upon 
a nail in the wall, from which a picture had 
hung, and was ready, as morning came, to pipe 
his song in the hearing of the Invalid, who had 
been long confined to her room. These attach- 
ments to a particular person, when marked and 
continued, used to be reckoned ominous ; but 
the superstition is passing away. W. W. 

Line 1. Redbreast. The MS. title of the poem 
was " To a Redbreast." Jemima, the daugh- 
ter of Edward QuiUinan. See "Lines on a 
Portrait." 

Page 653. Conclusion. To 

This may be addressed either to his sister 
Dorothy or to his daughter Dora. 

Line 3. public life. See Sonnets on Indepen- 
dence and Liberty, edited by Stopford Brooke. 

1828 

Page 654. The Triad. 

Line 36. Lucida ! Edith Southey. 

Line 90. youngest, etc. Dora Wordsworth. 
"There is truth in the sketch of Dora," says 
Sara Coleridge, " poetic truth, though such as 
none but a poet-father would have seen." 

Line 174. eldest born. Sara Coleridge. 

Page 658. The Wishing-Gate Destroyed. 

" In the Vale of Grasmere, by the side of the 

old high-way leading to Ambleside, is a gate 

which, time out of mind, has been called the 

Wishing-gate." 

Having been told, upon what I thought 
good authority, that this gate had been de- 
stroyed, and the opening, where it hung, walled 
up, I gave vent immediately to my feelings in 
these stanzas. But going to the place some 
time after, I found, with much delight, my old 
favourite unmolested. W. W. 

A gate still stands in the old place, and from 
the inscriptions cut upon it one would judge 
that " Hope " still rules there. 

*' Beside the wishing gate which so they name, 
Mid northern hills to me this fancy came, 
A wish I formed, my wish I thus expressed : 
Would I could wish my wishes all to rest 
And know to wish the ivish that were the best.'''' 

Arthur Hugh Clocoh. 



PAGES 660-6S7 



NOTES 



899 



Page 660. On the Power of Sound. 

The student of Wordsworth is everywhere 
impressed with his exquisite sensitiveness to 
sights and sounds. The eye and the ear are 
the royal avenues through which the world of 
matter reaches the world of mind. 

1829 

The most important event of this year was 
Wordsworth's visit to .Sir William Hamilton in 
Ireland. Miss Eliza M. Hamilton (Sir William's 
sister), who assisted in entertaining Words- 
Worth, wrote of him: "I think it would be 
quite impossible for any one who had once 
been in Wordsworth's company ever again 
to think anything he has written silly." 

Page 664. Liberty. 

Line 2. Anna. See " While Anna's peers," 
etc., p. 651. 

Line 8. living Well. In "Dora's Field," 
Rydal. 

Lines 103, 104. Sabine farm . . . Blandtisia , s 
spring. See Horace's Odes, " Beatus Hie," 
and " O Fons Bandusia?." 

Line 140. Shall with a thankful tear, etc. 
There is now, alas ! no possibility of the an- 
ticipation, with which the above Epistle con- 
cludes, being realised : nor were the verses ever 
seen by the Individual for whom they were in- 
tended. She accompanied her husband, the 
Rev. Wm. Fletcher, to India, and died of 
cholera, at the age of thirty-two or thirty-three 
years, on her way from Shalapore to Bombay, 
deeply lamented by all who knew her. 

Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety stead- 
fast ; and her great talents would have enabled 
her to be eminently useful in the difficult path 
of life to which she had been called. The opin- 
ion she entertained of her own performances, 
given to the world under her maiden name, 
Jewsbury, was modest and humble, and, in- 
deed, far below their merits ; as is often the 
case with those who are making trial of their 
powers, with a hope to discover what they are 
best fitted for. In one quality, viz. quickness 
in the motions of her mind, she had, within the 
range of the Author's acquaintance, no equal. 
W. W. 

Page 666. Humanity. 

Line 32. Descending to the worm in charity. 
I am indebted, here, to a passage in one of 
Mr. Digby's valuable works. W. W. 

Page 669. A Gravestone upon the Floor 
in the Cloisters of Worcester Cathe- 
dral. 

This stone was still to be seen in the cloisters 
in 1899. 

1830 

Page 669. The Armenian Lady's Love. 

See, in Percy's Reliques. that fine old ballad, 
"The Spanish Lady's Love;" from which 
Poem the form of stanza, as suitable to dia- 
logue, is adopted, W. W, 



Page 672. The Russian Fugitive. 

Peter Henry Bruce, having given in his en- 
tertaining Memoirs the substance of this Tale, 
affirms that, besides the concurring reports of 
others, he had the story from the lady's own 
mouth. 

The Lady Catherine, mentioned towards the 
close, is the famous Catherine, then bearing 
that name as the acknowledged Wife of Peter 
the Great. W. W. 

Page 682. "In these Fair Vales hath 
many a Tree." 

Inscription intended for the stone in the 
grounds at Rydal Mount. The inscription still 
remains upon the stone. 

Page 683. Elegiac Musings. 

Lady Beaumont died in 1829. Wordsworth 
visited Coleridge in November, 1830. On leav- 
ing Coleridge, he went to Cambridge, and on his 
way thither composed this poem. From Cam- 
bridge he wrote Sir William Rowan Hamilton, 
saying : " Thirty-seven miles did I ride in one 
day through the worst of storms ; and what was 
my recourse? Writing verses to the memory 
of my departed friend, Sir George Beaumont." 

1831 

Page 684. The Primrose of the Rock. 

" We walked in the evening to Rydal. Cole- 
ridge and I lingered behind. We all stood to 
look at the Glow-worm Rock — a primrose that 
grew there, and just looked out on the road 
from its own sheltered bower." — Dorothy 
Wordsworth, 1802. < 

The rock still remains. 

Page 685. Yarrow Revisited. 

There seems to be a deep significance in the 
fact that this time the two poets did not linger 
on the braes and bens, but about the moulder- 
ing ruin of Newark ; we can see in it the effect 
of the thought that this was probably the last 
meeting of the two. The fear that Scott would 
not be able to revive his strength, even upon 
"Warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes," oppresses 
Wordsworth and colors the whole poem. These 
forebodings proved too true. This was not only 
their last meeting, but it was Scott's last visit 
to the Vale of Yarrow and the scenes he loved 
so dearly. 

"On the 22d," says Mr. Lockhart, "these 
two great poets, who had through life loved 
each other and appreciated each other's genius 
more than infirm spirits ever did either of 
them, spent the morning together in a visit to 
Newark. Hence the last of the three poems 
by which Wordsworth has connected his name 
to all time with the most romantic of Scottish 
streams." 

Page 687. On the Departure of Sir 
Walter Scott from Abbotsford, for 
Naples. 

There is no finer tribute of one great poet to 
another than is found in this poem. 



900 



NOTES 



PAGES 689-692 



Page 689. The Trosachs. 
This poem has often been cited as the triumph 
of the pure style. 

Page G92. Highland Hut. 

This sonnet describes the exterior of a High- 
land hut, as often seen under a morning or 
evening sunshine. To the authoress of the 
"Address to the Wind," and other poems, in 
this volume, who was my fellow-traveller in 
this tour, I am indebted for the following 
extract from her journal, which accurately 
describes, under particular circumstances, the 
beautiful appearance of the interior of one of 
these rude habitations. 

" On our return from the Trosachs the even- 
ing began to darken, and it rained so heavily 
that we were completely wet before we had 
come two miles, and it was dark when we 
landed with our boatman, at his hut upon the 
banks of Loch Katrine. I was faint from cold : 
the good woman had provided, according to her 
promise, a better fire than we had found in the 
morning; and, indeed, when I had sat down in 
the chimney-corner of her smoky biggin, I 
thought I had never felt more comfortable in 
my life : a pan of coffee was boiling for us, and 
having put our clothes in the way of drying, we 
all sat down thankful for a shelter. We could 
not prevail upon our boatman, the master of 
the house, to draw near the fire, though he was 
cold and wet, or to suffer his wife to get him 
dry clothes till she had served us, which she 
did most willingly, though not very expedi- 
tiously. 

"A Cumberland man of the same rank 
•would not have had such a notion of what was 
fit and right in his own house, or, if he had, 
one would have accused him of servility ; but in 
the Highlander it only seemed like politeness 
(however erroneous and painful to us), natu- 
rally growing out of the dependence of the 
inferiors of the clan upon their laird ; he did 
not, however, refuse to let his wife bring out 
the whisky bottle for his refreshment, at our 
request. 'She keeps a dram,' as the phrase 
is : indeed, I believe there is scarcely a lonely 
house by the wayside, in Scotland, where trav- 
ellers may not be accommodated with a dram. 
We asked for sugar, butter, barley-bread, and 
milk: and, with a smile and a stare more of 
kindness than wonder, she replied, ' Ye '11 get 
that,' bringing each article separately. We 
caroused our cups of coffee, laughing like chil- 
dren at the strange atmosphere in which we 
were: the smoke came in gusts; and spread 
along the walls ; and above our heads in the 
chimney (where the hens were roosting) it ap- 
peared like clouds in the sky. We laughed 
and laughed again, in spite of the smarting of 
our eyes, yet had a quieter pleasure in observ- 
ing the beauty of the beams and rafters gleam- 
ing between the clouds of smoke: they had 
been crusted over and varnished by many win- 
ters, till, where the firelight fell upon them, 
they had become as glossy as black rocks, on a 
sunny day, cased in ice. When we had eaten 



our supper we sat about half an hour, and I 
think I never felt so deeply the blessing of a 
hospitable welcome and a warm fire. The man 
of the house repeated from time to time that 
we should often tell of this night when we got 
to our homes, and interposed praises of his own 
lake, which he had more than once, when we 
were returning in the boat, ventured to say 
was ' bonnier than Loch Lomond.' Our com- 
panion from the Trosachs, who, it appeared, 
was an Edinburgh drawing-master going, dur- 
ing the vacation, on a pedestrian tour to John 
O'Groat's House, was to sleep in the barn with 
my fellow-travellers, where the man said he 
had plenty of drv hay. I do not believe that 
the hay of the Highlands is ever very dry, but 
this year it had a better chance than usual : wet 
or dry, however, the next morning they said 
they had slept comfortably. When I went to 
bed, the mistress, desiring me to ''go ben,'' 
attended me with a candle, and assured me 
that the bed was dry, though not ' sic as I had 
been used to.' It was of chaff ; there were two 
others in the room, a cupboard and two chests, 
upon one of which stood milk in wooden vessels 
covered over. The walls of the house were of 
stone unplastered ; it consisted of three apart- 
ments, the cow-house at one end, the kitchen 
or house in the middle, and the spence at the 
other end ; the rooms were divided, not up to 
the rigging, but only to the beginning of the 
roof, so that there was a free passage for light 
and smoke from one end of the house to the 
other. I went to bed some time before the rest of 
the family ; the door was shut between us, and 
they had a bright fire, which I could not see, 
but the light it sent up amongst the varnished 
rafters and beams, which crossed each other 
in almost as intricate and fantastic a manner 
as I have seen the under-boughs of a large 
beech-tree withered by the depth of shade 
above, produced the most beautiful effect that 
can be conceived. It was like what I should 
suppose an underground cave or temple to be 
with a dripping or moist roof, and the moon- 
light entering in upon it by some means or 
other ; and yet the colours were more like 
those of melted gems. I lay looking up till 
the light of the fire faded away, and the man 
and his wife and child had crept into their bed 
at the other end of the room ; I did not, sleep 
much, but passed a comfortable night ; for my 
bed, though hard, was warm and clean : the 
unusualness of my situation prevented me from 
sleeping. I could hear the waves beat against 
the shore of the lake ; a little rill close to the 
door made a much louder noise, and, when I 
sat up in my bed, I could see the lake through 
an open window-place at the bed's head. Add 
to this, it rained all night. I was less occupied 
by remembrance of the Trosachs, beautiful as 
they were, than the vision of the Highland 
hut, which I could not get out of my head ; I 
thought of the Faery-land of Spenser, and what 
I had read in romance at other times ; and 
then what a feast it would be for a London 
Pantomime-maker could he but transplant it to 



PAGES 692-694 



NOTES 



901 



Drury-lane, with all its beautiful colours 1 " — 
MS. W. W. 

Page *!92. Bothwell Castle. 

Line 4. Once on those steeps 1 roamed. The 
following is from the same MS., and gives an 
account of the visit to Bothwell Castle here al- 
luded to : — 

" It was exceedingly delightful to enter thus 
unexpectedly upon such a beautiful region. 
The castle stands nobly, overlooking the Clyde. 
When we came up to it. I was hurt to see that 
flower-borders had taken place of the nat- 
ural overgrowings of the ruin, the scattered 
stones, and wild plants. It is a large and grand 
pile of red freestone, harmonising perfectly with 
the rocks of the river, from which, no doubt, it 
has been hewn. When I was a little accustomed 
to the unnaturalness of a modern garden, I could 
not help admiring the excessive beauty and lux- 
uriance of some of the plants, particularly the 
purple-flowered clematis, and a broad-leafed 
creeping plant without flowers, which scrambled 
up the castle wall, along Avith the ivy, and 
spread its vine-like branches so lavishly that it 
seemed to be in its natural situation, and one 
could not help thinking that, though not self- 
planted among the ruins of this country, it must 
somewhere have its native abode in such places. 
If Bothwell Castle had not been close to the 
Douglas mansion, we should have been dis- 
gusted with the possessor's miserable conception 
of adorning such a venerable ruin ; but it is so 
very near to the house, that of necessity the 
pleasure-grounds must have extended beyond 
it, and perhaps the neatness of a shaven lawn, 
and the complete desolation natural to a ruin, 
might have made an unpleasing contrast ; and, 
besides being within the precincts of the plea- 
sure-grounds, and so very near to the dwelling 
of a noble family, it has forfeited, in some de- 
gree, its independent majesty, and becomes a 
tributary to the mansion : its solitude being in- 
terrupted, it has no longer the command over 
the mind in sending it back into past times, 
or excluding the ordinary feelings which we 
bear about us in daily life. We had then 
only to regret that the castle and the house were 
so near to each other ; and it was impossible 
not to regret it ; for the rnin presides in state 
over the river, far from city or town, as if it 
might have a peculiar privilege to preserve its 
memorials of past ages, and maintain its own 
character for centuries to come. We sat upon a 
bench under the high trees, and had beautiful 
views of the different reaches of the river, 
above and below. On the opposite bank, which 
is finely wooded with elms and other treea, are 
the remains of a priory built upon a rock ; and 
rock and ruin are so blended, that it is impos- 
sible to separate the one from the other. 
Nothing can be more beautiful than the little 
remnant of this holy place ; elm-trees (for we 
were near enough to distinguish them by their 
branches) grow out of the walls, and overshadow 
a small, but very elesrant window. It cari 
scarcely he conceived what a grace the castle 



and priory impart to each other ; and the river 
Clyde flows on, smooth and unruffled, below, 
seeming to my thoughts more in harmony 
with the sober and stately images of former 
times, than if it had roared over a rocky chan- 
nel, forcing its sound upon the ear. It blended 
gently with the warbling of the smaller birds, 
and the chattering of the larger ones that had 
made their nests in the ruins. In this fortress 
the chief of the English nobility were confined 
after the battle of Bannockburn. If a man is 
to be a prisoner, he scarcely could have a more 
pleasant place to solace his captivity ; but I 
thought that, for close confinement, I should 
prefer the banks of a lake, or the seaside. The 
greatest charm of a brook or river is in the lib- 
erty to pursue it through its windings ; you can 
then take it in whatever mood you like ; silent 
or noisy, sportive or quiet. The beauties of a 
brook or river must be sought, and the pleasure 
is in going in search of them ; those of a lake or 
of the sea come to you of themselves. These 
rude warriors cared little, perhaps, about 
either ; and yet, if one may judge from the writ- 
ings of Chaucer and from the old romances, 
more interesting passions were connected with 
natural objects in the days of chivalry than no w ; 
though going in search of scenery, as it is called, 
had not then been thought of. I had previously 
heard nothing of Bothwell Castle, at least 
nothing that I remembered ; therefore, perhaps, 
my pleasure was greater, compared with what 
I received elsewhere, than others miglit feel." — 
MS. Journal. 

Page 694. Hart's-horn Tree. 

" In the time of the first Robert de Clifford, 
in the year 1333 or 1334, Edward Baliol king of 
Scotland came into Westmoreland, and stayed 
some time with the said Kobert at his castles 
of Appleby, Brougham, and Pendragon. And 
during that time they ran a stag by a single 
greyhound out of WhinfellPark to Redkirk, in 
Scotland, and back again to this place ; where, 
being both spent, the stag leaped over the pales, 
but died on the other side ; and the greyhound, 
attempting to leap, fell, and died on the contrary 
side. In memory of this fact the stag's horns 
were nailed upon a tree just by, and (the dog 
being named Hercules) this rhythm was made 
upon them : — 

1 Hercules killed Hart a greese, 
And Hart a gi-eese killed Hercules.' 

The tree to this day bears the name of Hart's- 
horn Tree. The horns in process of time were 
almost grown over by the growth of the tree, 
and another pair was put. up in their place." — 
Nicholson and Burns's History of Westmore- 
land and Cumberland. 

The tree has now disappeared, but I well re- 
member its imposing appearance as it stood, 
in a decayed state, by the side of the highroad 
leading from Penrith to Appleby. This whole 
neighbourhood abounds in interesting tradi- 
tions and vestiges of antiquity, viz. Julian's 
Bower ; Brougham and Penrith Castles ; Pen- 
rith Beacon, and the curious remains in Penrith 



902 



NOTES 



PAGES 694-709 



Churchyard ; Arthur's Round Tahle, and, close 
by, Maybrough ; the excavation, called the 
Giant's Cave, on the banks of the Emont • Long 
Meg and her Daughters, near Eden, etc. W. W. 

Page 694. Countess's Pillar. 
This still stands. 



(595. Roman Antiquities. 
Hodgson's History of Northumberland says 
that one of Agricola's two legions came to Am- 
bleside and there divided ; one division going 
by Grasmere and the Raise to Carlisle, while 
the other went over Kirkstone to Penrith. 

1832 

Page 696. Devotional Incitements. 

This poem gives conclusive evidence that in 
old age Wordsworth still preserved his young 
love for Nature, and his magical interpretive 
power. The keenness of insight, the lyric rap- 
ture, the soothing effect of this work written at 
the age of sixty-two, indicate that the prayer 
lie uttered for another had been answered for 
him, and an old age serene and bright had been 
granted. 

Page 698. To B. R. Haydon, on Seeing 
his Picture of Napoleon Buonaparte 
on the Island of St. Helena. 

The picture is described in vol. ii. p. 301 of 
the Life of Benjamin Robert Haydon. 

Page 700. " If thou indeed derive thy 
Light," etc. 

This poem should preface every edition of 
the poet's works as it did that of 1845, at his 
request. See " Letter to Lady Beaumont." 

Page 700. To the Author's Portrait. 

The portrait here alluded to was painted by 
H. W. Pickersgill, R. A., at the request of the 
Master and Fellows of St. John's College, Cam- 
bridge. The picture hangs in the dining hall 
at St. John's. It was completed in 18313. 

1833 

Page 700. A Wren's Nest. 
AU the conditions revealed in this poem are 
still to be found at Rydal. 

Page 707. To the River Greta. 

Line 5. But if thou (like Cocytus, etc. Many 
years ago, when I was at Greta Bridge, in 
Yorkshire, the hostess of the inn, proud of her 
skill in etymology, said, that " the name of the 
river was taken from the bridge, the form of 
which, as every one must notice, exactly re- 
sembled a great A." Dr. Whitaker has de- 
rived it from the word of common occurrence 
in the north of England, " to greet ; " signifying 
to lament aloud, mostly with weeping : a con- 
jecture rendered more probable from the stony 
and rocky channel of both the Cumberland and 
Yorkshire rivers. The Cumberland Greta, 



though it does not, among the country people, 
take up that name till within three miles of its 
disappearance in the river Derwent, may be 
considered as having its source in the mountain 
cove of Wythburn, and thence flowing through 
Thirlmere. The beautiful features of that lake 
are known only to those who, travelling be- 
tween Grasmere and Keswick, have quitted the 
main road in the vale of Wythburn, and, cross- 
ing over to the opposite side of the lake, have 
proceeded with it on the right hand. 

The channel of the Greta, immediately above 
Keswick, has, for the purposes of building, been 
in a great measure cleared of the immense 
stones which, by their concussion in high floods, 
produced the loud and awful noises described 
in the sonnet. 

" The scenery upon this river," says Mr. 
Southey in his Colloquies, " where it passes 
under the woody side of Latrigg, is of the finest 
and most rememberable kind : — 

' — ambiguo lapsu refiuitque fluitque, 
Oocuneusque sibi venturas aspicit undas.' " 

w. w. 

Page 707. In Sight of the Town of Cock- 

ERMOUTH. 

Line 1. The poet's father was buried in the 
churchyard of St. Michael's at Cockermouth. 

Line 2. Catherine and Thomas, the poet's 
children, are buried in the Poet's Corner, Gras- 
mere Churchyard. 

Page 707. Address from the Spirit of 
Cockermouth Castle. 

Cockermouth Castle stands on an eminence 
not far from the manor- house in which Words- 
worth was born. It is easy to imagine the influ- 
ence of such a ruin upon his susceptible nature 
in childhood. See " The Prelude," i. 269-300. 

Page 708. Nun's Well, Brigham. 

Line 11. By hooded Votaresses, etc. At- 
tached to the church of Brigham was formerly a 
chantry, which held a moiety of the manor ; and 
in the decayed parsonage some vestiges of mo- 
nastic architecture are still to be seen. W. W. 

Page 708. Mary Queen of Scots Landing 
at the Mouth of the Derwent. 

" The fears and impatience of Mary were so 
great," says Robertson, "that she got into a 
fisher-boat, and with about twenty attendants 
landed at Workington, in Cumberland ; and 
thence she was conducted with many marks of 
respect to Carlisle." The apartment in which 
the Queen had slept at Workington Hall (where 
she was received by Sir Henry Curwen as be- 
came her rank and misfortunes) was long pre- 
served, out of respect to her memory, as she had 
left it ; and one cannot but regret that some 
necessary alterations in the mansion could not 
be effected without its destruction. W. W. 

Page 709. Stanzas Suggested in a Steam- 
boat off Saint Bees' Heads. 
St- Bees' Heads, anciently called the Cliff of 



PAGES 709-713 



NOTES 



9°3 



Baruth, are a conspicuous sea-mark for all ves- 
sels Bailing- in the N.E. parts of the Irish Sea. 
In a bay, one side of which is formed by the 
southern headland, stands the village of St. 
Bees ; a place distinguished, from very early 
times, for its religious and scholastic founda- 
tions. 

"St. Bees," say Nicholson and Burns, "had 
its name from Bega, an holy woman from Ire- 
land, who is said to have founded here, about 
the year of our Lord 650, a small monastery, 
where afterwards a church was built in mem- 
ory of her. 

" The aforesaid religious house, being de- 
stroyed by the Danes, was restored by William 
de Meschiens, son of Ranulph, and brother of 
Kanulph de Meschiens, first Earl of Cumber- 
land after the Conquest ; and made a cell of a 
prior and six Benedictine monks to the Abbey 
of St. Mary at York." 

Several traditions of miracles, connected with 
the foundation of the first of these religious 
houses, survive among the people of the neigh- 
bourhood ; one of which is alluded to in these 
Stanzas ; and another, of a somewhat bolder 
and more peculiar character, has furnished the 
subject of a spirited poem by the Rev. R. Park- 
inson, M. A., late Divinity Lecturer of St. Bees' 
College, and now Fellow of the Collegiate 
Church of Manchester. 

After the dissolution of the monasteries, 
Archbishop Grindal founded a free school at St. 
Bees, from which the counties of Cumberland 
and Westmoreland have derived great benefit ; 
and recently, under the patronage of the Earl 
of Lonsdale, a college has been established 
there for the education of ministers for the Eng- 
lish Church. The old Conventual Church has 
been repaired under the superintendence of the 
Rev. Dr. Ainger, the Head of the College, and 
is well worthy of being visited by any strangers 
■who might be led to the neighbourhood of this 
celebrated spot. 

The form of stanza in this Poem, and some- 
thing in the style of versification, are adopted 
from the " St. Monica," a poem of much beauty 
upon a monastic subject, by Charlotte Smith : 
a lady to whom English verse is under greater 
obligations than are likely to be either acknow- 
ledged or remembered. She wrote little, and 
that little unambitiously, but with true feeling 
for rural nature, at a time when nature was not 
much regarded by English Poets ; for in point 
of time her earlier writings preceded, I believe, 
those of Cowper and Burns. W. W. 

Line 73. Are not, in sooth, their Requiem's 
sacred ties. I am aware that I am here tread- 
ing upon tender ground ; but to the intelli- 
gent reader I feel that no apology is due. The 
prayers of survivors, during passionate grief for 
the recent loss of relatives and friends, as the 
object of those prayers could no longer be the 
suffering body of the dying, would naturally be 
ejaculated for the souls of the departed ; the 
barriers between the two worlds dissolving be- 
fore the power of love and faith. The ministers 
of religion, from their habitual attendance upon 



sick-beds, would be daily witnesses of these be- 
nign results ; and hence would be strongly 
tempted to aim at giving to them permanence, 
by embodying them in rites and ceremonies, 
recurring at stated periods. All this, as it was 
in course of nature, so was it blameless, and 
even praiseworthy ; some of its effects, in that 
rude state of society, could not but be salutary. 
No reflecting person, however, can view without 
sorrow the abuses which rose out of thus for- 
malising sublime instincts, and disinterested 
movements of passion, and perverting them into 
means of gratifying the ambition and rapacity 
of the priesthood. But, while we deplore and 
are indignant at these abuses, it would be a 
great mistake if we imputed the origin of the 
offices to prospective selfishness on the part of 
the monks and clergy : they were at first sincere 
in their sympathy, and in their degree dupes 
rather of their own creed, than artful and de- 
signing men. Charity is, upon the whole, the 
safest guide that we can take in judging our 
fellow-men, whether of past ages or of the pre- 
sent time W W 

Line 162. teaching of St. Bees. See "The 
Excursion," seventh part, and " Ecclesiasti- 
cal Sonnets," second part, near the beginning. 
W. W. 

Page 712. On Entering Douglas Bay, Isle 
of Man. 

Line 1. Cohorn. A Dutch military engineer. 

Line 8. The Tower of Refuge, an ornament 
to Douglas Bay, was erected chiefly through the 
humanity and zeal of Sir William Hillary ; and 
he also was the founder of the lifeboat estab- 
lishment at that place ; by which, under his 
superintendence, and often by his exertions at 
the imminent hazard of his own life, many sea- 
men and passengers have been saved. W. W. 

Line 14. Hillary. Under date of July .", 
1828, on the Isle of Man Dorothy writes : "Sir 
Wm. Hilary saved a boy's life to-day in the har- 
bour. He raised a regiment for Government, 
and chose his own reward — a Baronetcy." 

Page 712. Isle of Man. 
Of course the Fenwick note "William" 
should be John. 

Page 713. Isle of Man. 

Line 8. veteran Marine. Henry Hutchin- 
son, the poet's brother-in-law. See Fenwick 
note to the following sonnet. 

Page 713. By a Retired Mariner. 

This unpretending sonnet is by a gentleman 
nearly connected with me, and I hope, as it falls 
so easily into its place, that both the writer 
and the reader will excuse its appearance here. 

w. w. 

Page 713. At Bala-Sala, Isle of Man. 
Line 3. Rushen Abbey. W. W. 

Page 713. Tynwald Hill. 

Line 9. Off with yon cloud, old Snafelll 



9°4 



NOTES 



PAGES 714-722 



The summit of this mountain is well chosen by 
Cowley as the scene of the " Vision," in which 
the spectral angel discourses with him concern- 
ing' the government of Oliver Cromwell. "I 
found myself," says he, "on the top of that 
famous hill in the Island Mona, which has the 
prospect of three great, and not long since most 
happy, kingdoms. As soon as ever I looked 
upon them, they called forth the sad represen- 
tation of all the sins and all the miseries that 
had overwhelmed them these twenty years." It 
is not to be denied that the changes now in pro- 
gress, and the passions, and the way in which 
they work, strikingly resemble those which led 
to the disasters the philosophic writer so feel- 
ingly bewails. God grant that the resemblance 
may not become still more striking as months 
and years advance ! W. W. 

Page 715. On Revisiting Dunolly Castle. 

This ingenious piece of workmanship, as I 
afterwards learned, had been executed for their 
own amusement by some labourers employed 
about the place. W. W. 

Page 716. Cave of Staffa. 

The reader may be tempted to exclaim, 
" How came this and the two following sonnets 
to be written, after the dissatisfaction expressed 
in the preceding one ? " In fact, at the risk of 
incurring the reasonable displeasure of the 
master of the steamboat, I returned to the 
cave, and explored it under circumstances more 
favourable to those imaginative impressions 
which it is so wonderfully fitted to make upon 
the mind. W. W. 

Page 717. Flowers on the Top of the 
Pillars at the Entrance of the Cave. 

Line 1. Hope smiled when your nativity was 
cast, etc. Upon the head of the columns which 
form the front of the cave rests a body of de- 
composed basaltic matter, which was richly 
decorated with that large bright flower, the ox- 
eyed daisy. I had noticed the same flower grow- 
ing with profusion among the bold rocks on the 
western coast of the Isle of Man ; making a 
brilliant contrast with their black and gloomy 
surfaces. W. W. 

Page 717. Iona. 

The four last lines of this sonnet are adopted 
from a well-known sonnet of Russel, as convey- 
ing my feeling better than any words of my own 
could do. W. W. 

Page 719. The River Eden. Cumberland. 

Line 5. Yet fetched from Paradise. It is 
to be feared that there is more of the poet than 
the sound etymologist in this derivation of the 
name Eden. On the western coast of Cumber- 
land is a rivulet which enters the sea at Mores- 
by, known also in the neighbourhood by the 
name of Eden. May not the latter syllable 
come from the word Dean, a valley ? Lang- 
dale, near Ambleside, is by the inhabitants 
called Langden. The former syllable occurs in 



the name Emont, a principal feeder of the Eden; 
and the stream which flows, when the tide is 
out, over Cartmel bands, is called the Ea — eau, 
French — aqua, Latin. W. W. 

Page 720. Nunnery. 

Line 2. the Pennine Alps. The chain of 
Crossfell. W. W. 

Line 14. Canal, etc. At Corby, a few miles 
below Nunnery, the Eden is crossed by a 
magnificent viaduct ; and another of these 
works is thrown over a deep glen or ravine at 
a very short distance from the main stream. 

w. w 

Page 721. Steamboats, Viaducts, and 
Railways. 

See " The Lake District Defence Society," 
by Canon Rawnsley, in Transactions of the 
Wordsworth Society. 

Page 721. The Monument Commonly 
Called Long Meg and her Daughters, 
near the River Eden. 

Line 1. A weight of awe, not easy to be borne. 
The daughters of Long Meg, placed in a perfect 
circle eighty yards in diameter, are seventy-two 
in number above ground ; a little way out of 
the circle stands Long Meg herself, a single 
stone, eighteen feet high. When I first saw 
this monument, as I came on it by surprise, I 
might overrate its importance as an object ; but, 
though it will not bear a comparison with Stone- 
henge, I must say, I have not seen any other 
relique of those dark ages which can pretend to 
rival it in singularity and dignity of appear- 
ance. W. W. 

Page 721. Lowther. 

Lowther Castle is about five miles from 
Pooley bridge, Ullswater. Lord Lonsdale was 
a patron of the poets, and the Castle was a fre- 
quent meeting-place of Wordsworth and his 
friends. 

Page 721. To the Earl of Lonsdale. 

This sonnet was written immediately after 
certain trials took place at the Cumberland 
Assizes, when the Earl of Lonsdale, in conse- 
quence of repeated and long-continued attacks 
upon his character through the local press, had 
thought it right to prosecute the conductors 
and proprietors of three several journals. A 
verdict of libel was given in one case ; and, in 
the others, the prosecutions were withdrawn, 
upon the individuals retracting and disavowing 
the charges, expressing regret that they had 
been made, and promising to abstain from the 
like in future. W. W. 

Page 722. The Somnambulist. 

Linel. LyulpK's Toxver. A pleasure-house 
built by the late Duke of Norfolk upon the 
banks of Ullswater. W. W. These ruins 
are reached from Grasmere by the Grisdale 
path over Helvellyn. See "Airey-Force Val- 
ley." 



PAGES 725-745 



NOTES 



9°5 



Line 3. force. A word used in the Lake 
District for Waterfall. W. W. 

1834 

Page 725. " Not in the Lucid Intervals 
of Life." 

It is interesting to note that when the Edin- 
burgh Review was attacking Byron, Words- 
worth wrote: "The young man will do some- 
thing if he goes on as he has begun. But these 
reviews, just because he is a lord, set upon 
him." Although Byron in "English Bards 
and Scotch Keviewers " alluded to Wordsworth 
as — 

" That mild apostate from poetic rule," 

yet later in life after meeting Wordsworth at 
a dinner on being asked how he was impressed, 
he replied : " Why, to tell the truth, I had but 
one feeling from the beginning of the visit to 
the end, and that was reverence.'''' 

Page 727. The Redbreast. 

Line 45. Matthew, Mark, etc. These words 
are a part of a child's prayer, still in general 
use throughout the northern counties. W. W. 

Page 728. Lines Suggested by a Por- 
trait from the Pencil of F. Stone. 

The "J. Q." of the Fenwick note was 
Miss Jemima Quillinan, the daughter of Mr. 
Edward Quillinan. See " In the Woodj of 
Rydal." 

1835 

Page 734. Written after the Death 
of Charles Lamb. 

Lines 1, 2. Lamb died on the 27th of De- 
cember, 1834, and was buried in a lot selected 
by himself in Edmonton Churchyard. See note 
to " Farewell Lines." 

Line 23. From the most gentle creature 
nursed in fields. This way of indicating the 
name of my lamented friend has been found 
fault with ; perhaps rightly so ; but I may say 
in justification of the double sense of the word, 
that similar allusions are not uncommon in 
epitaphs. One of the best in our language in 
verse I ever read, was upon a person who bore 
the name of Palmer ; and the course of the 
thought, throughout, turned upon the Life of 
the Departed, considered as a pilgrimage. Nor 
can I think that the objection in the present 
case will have much force with any one who 
remembers Charles Lamb's beautiful sonnet 
addressed to his own name, and ending — 
" No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name ! " 

W. W. 

Line 50. Thou wert a scorner, etc. Lamb was 
a "scorner of the fields " until he visited the 
Lakes. To the first invitation hither he replied : 
" Sweets, sweets, markets, theatres, churches, 
Covent Gardens, shops sparkling with pretty 
faces of industrious milliners. . . . O city, for 
this may Keswick and her giant brood go hang." 

When the Lakes had wrought their spell 
upon him, he wrote : " We thought we had got 



into fairyland. . . Skiddaw, oh, its fine black 
head, and the bleak air atop of it. . . . It was 
a day that will stand out like a mountain, I 
am sure, in my life. I was very little. I had 
been dreaming I was great." 

Line 8( i. Her love, etc. See Landor, ' ' To the 
Sister of Elia." 

Page 736. Extempore Effusion upon the 
Death of James Hogg. 

Lines 1-4. See "Yarrow Visited," note. 

Line 23. Hoio fast, etc. Walter Scott died 
Sept. 21, 1832: S. T. Coleridge died July 25, 
1834 ; Charles Lamb died Dec. 27, 1834 ■ Georgo 
Crabbe died Feb. 3, 1834; Felicia Hemans 
died May 16, 1835. 

1836 

Page 741. November 1836. 

Sara Hutchinson, Mrs. Wordsworth's sister, 
who had been so much both to Wordsworth and 
Coleridge, died at Rydal in June, 1836, and was 
buried in Grasmere Churchyard. Such places 
as " Sara and Mary Crags," near John's Grove, 
"Rock of Names," and Sara's Seat by Thirl- 
mere, perpetuated her name in the Lakes. 

Page 741. "Six Months to Six Years 
Added he Remained." 

Alluding to the poet's son Thomas, who died 
December, 1812. 

1837 

Page 741. To Henry Crabb Robinson. 

It is impossible to fix accurately the date of 
every sonnet in this series. Prof. Dowden says 
they comprise the time between 1837 and 1842. 

Henry Crabb Robinson's Diary, 1837, will be 
found an interesting commentary of this tour. 
In writing to W T ordsworth of this tour in pro- 
spective Robinson said: "I am pleased when 
I am called on to spend at the suggestion of 
others." 

Page 742. Musings near Aquapendente. 

Line 57. " The Wizard of the North.'" Under 
date of June 12 Robinson writes : " As long as 
the light lasted I read Lockhart's Life of Scott 
which Ticknor had lent me." 

Line 76. He said, "When I am there,''' 1 etc. 
These words were quoted to me from " Yar- 
row Unvisited " by Sir Walter Scott when I 
visited him at Abbotsford, a day or two be- 
fore his departure for Italy ; and the affecting 
condition in which he was when he looked upon 
Rome from the Janicular Mount, was reported 
to me by a lady who had the honour of conduct- 
ing him thither. W. W. 

Line 98. _ The whole world's Darling. While 
writing this of Scott, Wordsworth was much 
pleased that an edition of his own works Was 
being prepared in America by Prof. Henry Reed , 
of Philadelphia. See "On the Departure - of 
Sir Walter Scott from Abbotsford." 

Line 159. Mount Calvary. Alluding to the 
fact that earth had been brought here from 
Mount Calvary to form a burial-ground. 



ao6 



NOTES 



PAGES 746-753 



Lines 233-236. Savoiia . . . Chiabrera. 
" Wordsworth took a great fancy to the place 
and thought it a tit residence for such a poet." 
— H. C. Robinson. 

Line 241. his sepulchral verse. If any Eng- 
lish reader should be desirous of knowing how 
far I am justified in thus describing the epi- 
taphs of Chiabrera, he will find translated speci- 
mens of them on pages 388-391. W. W. 

Line 204. Bay. Bay of Naples. 

Line 306. vault. Alluding to the legend that 
St. Peter was imprisoned here, and caused a 
spring to flow in order that he, might baptize 
his keeper. 

Line 372. to-morrow greet. " We entered 
Rome in good spirits." — H. C. Robinson. 

It would be ungenerous not to advert to the 
religious movement thar, since the composition 
of these verses in 1837, has made itself felt, 
more or less strongly, throughout the English 
Church ; — a movement that takes, for its first 
principle, a devout deference to the voice of 
Christian antiquity. It is not my office to pass 
judgment on questions of theological detail ; 
but my own repugnance to the spirit and sys- 
tem of Romanism has been so repeatedly and, 
I trust, feelingly expressed, that I shall not be 
suspected of a leaning that way, if I do not join 
in the grave charge, thrown out, perhaps in the 
heat of controversy, against the learned and 
pious men to whose labours I allude. I speak 
apart from controversy ; but, with strong faith 
in the moral temper which would elevate the 
present by doing reverence to the past, I would 
draw cheerful auguries for the English Church 
from this movement, as likely to restore among 
us a tone of piety more earnest and real fehan 
that produced by the mere formalities of the . 
understanding, refusing, in a degree which I 
cannot but lament, that its own temper and 
judgment shall be controlled by those of anti- 
quity. W. W. 

It is well to remember in connection with the 
spirit of this note that Wordsworth at this 
time was intimate with the young poet and 
preacher F. W. Faber, who had come to Amble- 
side as curate, and tutor to the sons of Mrs. 
Benson Harrison, one of the Rydal Dorothys. 
(See H. D. Rawnsley, " The Last of the Rydal 
Dorothys " in a Rambler's Note Book.) The 
influence of Wordsworth upon Faber was very 
marked, as is to be seen in his poems written at 
the Lakes. An interesting memorial of this 
friendship is to be seen in the Bible of Words- 
worth's old age, presented to him in 1842 by 
Faber. It is now in possession of Hon. George 
F. Hoar, Worcester, Mass., who has kindly sent 
me the following inscription which it bears : — 

William Wordsworth 
From Frederick Wm. Faber 

In affectionate acknowledgment of his kindnesses, 
and of the pleasure and advantage of his friendship. 

Ambleside. New Year's Eve, 1842 a. d. 
Be steadfast in the Covenant, and be conversant 
therein, and wax old in thy work. 

Ecclesiaslicus, xi. 20. 



Page 748. The Pine of Monte Mario. 

Line 1. Pine. "Aprillti. It was Mr. Theed 
who informed us of the pine tree." — H. C. 
Robinson. 

Line 7. Within a couple of hours of my 
arrival at Rome, I saw from Monte Pincio the 
Pine tree as described in the Sonnet ; and, while 
expressing admiration at the beauty of its ap- 
pearance, I was told by an acquaintance of my 
fellow-traveller, who happened to join us at tiie 
moment, that a price had been paid for it by 
the late Sir G. Beaumont, upon condition that 
the proprietor should not act upon his known 
iuteution of cutting it down. W. W. 

Page 748. At Rome — Regrets, etc. 
Alluding to the fact that Niebuhr had cast 
doubt upon the legendary history of Rome. 



Page 749. 
Line 14. 



Plea for the Historian. 



Quem virum lyra 

sumes celebrare Clio ? W. W. 

Page 750. From the Alban Hills. 
Line 10. twice exalted. In her Augustan 
period, and again at the Italian Renaissance. 

Page 751. Near the Lake of Thrasymene. 
This and the following sonnet allude to the 
defeat of Flaminius by Hannibal. 
Line 7. Mill. Sanguinetto. W. W. 

Page 751. The Cuckoo at Laverna. 

Line 29. far-famed Pile. Monastery of St. 
Francis. 

On entering we were coiirteously received by 
the poor and humble monks. W. W. 

Page 753. At the Convent of Camaldoli. 

This famous sanctuary was the original es- 
tablishment of Saint Romualdo (or Rumwald, 
as our ancestors Saxonised the name), in the 
11th century, the ground (campo) being given 
by Count Maldo. The Camaldolensi, however, 
have spread wide as a branch of Benedictines, 
and may therefore be classed among the gen- 
tlemen of the monastic orders. The society 
comprehends two orders, monks and hermits ; 
symbolised by their arms, two doves drinking 
out of the same cup. The monastery in which 
the monks here reside is beautifully situated, 
but a large unattractive edifice, not unlike a 
factory. The hermitage is placed in a loftier 
and wider region of the forest. It comprehends 
between twenty and thirty distinct residences, 
each including for its single hermit an inclosed 
piece of ground and three very small apart- 
ments. There are days of indulgence when 
the hermit may quit his cell, and when old age 
arrives he descends from the mountain and 
takes his abode among the monks. 

My companion had in the year 1831 fallen in 
with the monk, the subject of these two son- 
nets, who showed him his abode among the 
hermits. It is from him that I received the 
following particulars. He was then about forty 



PAGES 753-7^5 



NOTES 



907 



years of age, but his appearance was that of an 
older man. He had been a painter by profes- 
sion, but on taking- orders changed his name 
from Santi to Rafl'aello, perhaps with an uncon- 
scious reference as well to the great Sanzio d' 
Urbino as to the archangel. He assured my 
friend that he had been thirteen years in the 
hermitage and had never known melancholy or 
ennui. In the little recess for study and prayer, 
there was a small collection of books. " I read 
only," said he, " books of asceticism and mysti- 
cal theology." On being asked the names of 
the most famous mystics, he enumerated Scara- 
melli, Sa?i Giovanni delta Croce, St. Dionysius 
the Areopagile (supposing the work which bears 
his name to be really his), and with peculiar 
emphasis Ricardo di San Vittori. The works 
of Saint Theresa are also in high repute among 
ascetics. These names may interest some of 
my readers. 

We heard that Raffaello was then living in 
the convent ; my friend sought in vain to renew 
his acquaintance with him. It was probably a 
day of seclusion. The reader will perceive that 
these sonnets were supposed to be written when 
he was a young man. W. W. 

Page 753. At thb Eremite or Upper 
Convent of Camaldoli. 

Line 1. What aim had they, the Pair of 
Monks. In justice to the Benedictines of Ca- 
maldoli, by whom strangers are so hospitably 
entertained, I feel obliged to notice that I saw 
among them no other figure at all resembling, in 
size and complexion, the two monks described 
in this Sonnet. What was their office, or the mo- 
tive which brought them to this place of morti- 
fication, which they could not have approached 
without being carried in this or some other way, > 
a feeling of delicacy prevented me from in- 
quiring. An account has before been given of 
the hermitage they were about to enter. It 
was visited by us towards the end of the month 
of May ; yet snow was lying thick under the 
pine-trees, within a few yards of the gate. 

w. w. 

Page 753. At Vallombrosa. 

Milton visited Italy in 1G38. 

" The name of Milton is pleasingly connected 
with Vallombrosa in many ways. The pride 
with which the monk, without any previous 
question from me, pointed out his residence, I 
shall not readily forget. It may be proper here 
to defend the poet from a charge which has 
been brought against him, in respect to the pas- 
sage in 'Paradise Lost,' where this place is 
mentioned. It is said, that he has erred in 
speaking of the trees there being deciduous, 
whereas they are, in fact, pines. The fault- 
finders are themselves mistaken ; the natural 
woods of the region of Vallombrosa are decidu- 
ous, and spread to a great extent ; those near 
the convent are, indeed, mostly pines ; but they 
are avenues of trees planted within a few steps 
of each other, and thus composing large tracts 
of wood ; plots of which are periodically cut 



down. The appearance of those narrow avenues, 
upon steep slopes open to the sky, on account of 
the height which the trees attain by being 
forced to grow upwards, is often very impres- 
sive. My guide, a boy of about fourteen years 
old, pointed this out to me in several places." 
W. W. 

1838 

Page 761. " Blest Statesman He." 
Line 14. 

" All change is perilous, and all chance unsound." 

W. W. 

1839 

This year Wordsworth received the degree of 
D. C. L. at Oxford. 

Page 761. Sonnets upon the Punishment 
of Death. 

These were occasioned by the general dis- 
cussion in England in 1836-7 in regard to abol- 
ishing the death penalty in all cases excepting 
murder and treason. Wordsworth's ideals, while 
conservative, in many respects were in advance 
of his time. 

In 1841 Wordsworth wrote to Sir Henry Tay- 
lor as follows : " You and Mr. Lockhart have 
been very kind in taking so much trouble about 
the sonnets. I have altered them as well as I 
could to meet your wishes, and trust that you 
will find them improved, as I am sure they are 
where I have adopted your own words." 

1840 

Page 764. Sonnets on a Portrait of I. F. 

This year is memorable from the fact that 
Miss Fenwick came to Rydal to live. To her 
interest in Wordsworth as poet and man we are 
indebted for the autobiographical notes prefixed 
to the poems of this volume. They were dic- 
tated to her by the poet and are known as the 
" Fenwick Notes." She once said to Sir Henry 
Taylor: " I would be content to be a servant in 
the house to hear his wisdom." It was natural 
that the first two sonnets of this year should be 
a tribute to Miss Fenwick. The lower terrace 
at Rydal was cut by the poet for her. 

Page 765. Poor Robin. 

The Poor Robin is the small wild geranium 
known by that name. W. W. 

The hope expressed in the Fenwick note and 
the poem itself has been reverenced by those who 
have had the care of Rydal since Wordsworth 
left it ; it has lost none of its beauty or charm. 

Page 765. On a Portrait of the Duke 
of Wellington upon the Field of Water- 
loo, by Haydon. 

Sept. 4, 1840, Haydon writes in his Journal, 
" I heard from dear Wordsworth with a glorious 
sonnet 'On the Duke and Copenhagen.' " 

This picture used to hang on the staircase near 
the cuckoo clock at Rydal. See " On the Field 
of Waterloo." 



NOTES 



PAGES 766-771 



1841 



Page 766. To A Painter. 

Miss Margaret Gillies painted five portraits 
of Wordsworth on ivory. One of these was so 
pleasing to the family that it was reproduced 
with Mrs. Wordsworth at the poet's side. It 
is to her portrait that the two sonnets of this 
year refer. 

Line 10. that inward eye. See " The Daffo- 
dils," note, and the other poems on Mrs. Words- 
worth : " She was a Phantom of delight," " O 
dearer far than life and light are dear," "Let 
other hards of angels sing," "Such age how 
heautiful ! O Lady bright," " What heavenly 
smiles ! O Lady mine," " In trellised shed with 
clustering roses guy." 

"In a letter of Wordsworth to his daughter 
(printed in the Cornhill Magazine, March, 
!*(•,->) he writes of this and the following poem: 
' Dearest Dora, Your mother tells me she 
shrinks from copies being spread of these son- 
nets ; she does not wish one, at any rate, to be 
given to Miss Gillies, for that, without blame 
to Miss G., would be like advertising them. I 
assure you her modesty and humble-mindedness 
were so much shocked, that I doubt if she had 
more pleasure than pain from these composi- 
tions though I never poured out anything more 
from the heart.' " — Dowden. 

It is interesting to note that (in June, 1841) 
when Wordsworth was receiving honor at home 
and abroad for the great fight he had fought, 
Carlyle wrote a letter to Browning (just pub- 
lished), regarding " Sordello " and " Pippa 
Passes," in which he lays down the following 
distinctive doctrine for which Wordsworth had 
contended both in verse and prose. " Unless 
poetic faculty means a higher power of common 
understanding, I know not what it means. 
One must first take a true intellectual represen- 
tation of a tiling before any poetic interest that 
is true will supervene." 

1842 

This year Wordsworth was granted £300 for 
the Civil List for distinguished service in the 
cause of literature. 

Page 766. "When Severn's Sweeping 
Flood," etc. 

" The occasion of this sonnet was a bazaar 
held in Cardiff Castle to aid in building a new 
church on the site of one destroyed by floods 
two hundred years before." — Knight. 

Page 769. Miscellaneous Sonnets. 

Sonnet i. A Poet ! — He hath put his heart 
to school. In the first four verses of this son- 
net Wordsworth reveals something of the 
method of the poets of the Restoration, who, as 
Keats says, taught that to write poetry was 

" to smooth, inlay, and clip and fit. 

easy was the task, 
A hundred handicraftsmen wore the mask 
Of Poesy." 



It was against such a perversion of art that 
Wordsworth did battle even to the last ; he in- 
sisted that art was the product of the whole 
nature, intellect, sensibility, and will, aglow 
with a lofty spiritual imagination. 

Sonnet vh. Men of the Western World, etc. 
These lines were written several years ago, 
when reports prevailed of cruelties committed 
in many parts of America, by men making a 
law of their own passions. A far more formid- 
able, as being a more deliberate mischief, has 
appeared among those States, which have lately 
broken faith with the public creditor in a man- 
ner so infamous. I cannot, however, but look 
at both evils under a similar relation to inher- 
ent good, and hope that the time is not distant 
when our brethren of the West will wipe off 
this stain from their name and nation. 

Additional Note 

I am happy to add that this anticipation is 
already partly realised ; and that the reproach 
addressed to the Pennsylvanians in the sonnet 
on page 784 is no longer applicable to them. I 
trust that those other States to which it may 
yet apply will soon follow the example now set 
them by Philadelphia, and redeem their credit 
with the world. — 1850. W. W. 

Page 771. The Poet's Dream. 

Line 28. Chapel Oak of Allonville. Among 
ancient Trees there are few, I believe, at least 
in France, so worthy of attention as an Oak 
which may be seen in the " Pays de Caux," 
about a league from Yvetot, close to the church, 
and in the burial-ground of Allonville. 

The height of this Tree does not answer to 
its girth ; the trunk, from the roots to the sum- 
mit, forms a complete cone ; and the inside of 
this cone is hollow throughout the whole of its 
height. 

Such is the Oak of Allonville in its state of 
nature. The hand of Man, however, has en- 
deavoured to impress upon it a character still 
more interesting, by adding a religious feeling 
to the respect which its age naturally inspires. 

The lower part of its hollow trunk has been 
transformed into a Chapel of six or seven feet 
in diameter, carefully wainscoted and paved, 
and an open iron gate guards the humble Sanc- 
tuary. 

Leading to it there is a staircase, which 
twists round the body of the Tree. At certain 
seasons of the year, divine service is performed 
in this Chapel. 

The summit has been broken off many 
years, but there is a surface at the top of the 
trunk, of the diameter of a very large tree, 
and from it rises a pointed roof, covered with 
slates, in the form of a steeple, which is sur- 
mounted with an iron Cross, that rises in a pic- 
turesque manner from the middle of the leaves, 
like an ancient hermitage above the surround- 
ing Wood. 

Over the entrance to the Chapel an Inscrip- 
tion appears, which informs us it was erected 
by the Abbe - du Detroit, Curate of Allonville 



TAGES 774-784 



NOTES 



909 



in the year 1696 ; and over a door is another, 
dedicating it " To our Lady of Peace." 
Vide No. 14, Saturday Magazine. W. W. 

Page 774. Airey-Force Valley. 

Near Lyulph's Tower, Ullswater. See " The 
Somnambulist," note, and "I wandered lonely 
as a cloud." The Natural Trust for preserving 
places of historic interest in England has re- 
cently (1904) called for subscriptions that this 
section of over 700 acres with one mile of 
frontage to the Lake, rights of fishing, and boat- 
ing, the deer forest, the woods and the waterfall 
may be obtained as a natural possession." 

Page 776. Wansfell. 

Wansfell, the Fell of Woden, lies to the 
southwest of Rydal above Ambleside. 

1843 
This year Wordsworth was appointed Poet 
Laureate. 

Page 776. Grace Darling. 

Grace Darling with her father, the lighthouse- 
keeper at Longstone on the Northumbrian 
coast, rescued nine survivors from the wreck of 
the steamship Forfarshire, Sept. 7, 1838. 

Line 27. Cnthbert's cell. Cuthbert came from 
Melrose to Lindisfarne. 

Page 778. " While Beams of Orient 
Light shoot Wide and High." 
Line 2. rural Town. Ambleside. 

Page 778. To the Rev. Christopher 
Wordsworth, D. D. 
The poet's nephew. 

Page 778. Inscription for a Monument. 

This monument was erected in the Church of 
St. Kentigern, Crosthwaite, Keswick, in mem- 
ory of Robert Southey. It stands on the east 
end of the altar tomb. 

Lines 16, 17. Ihtthe, etc. These lines were 
changed by Wordsworth after they were cut on 
the monument. One can recognize this by run- 
ning the fingers over them. 

1S44 

Page 778. On the Projected Kendal 
and Windermere Railway. 

The degree and kind of attachment which 
many of the yeomanry feel to their small inher- 
itances can scarcely be over-rated. Near the 
house of one of them stands a magnificent tree, 
which a neighbour of the man advised him to 
fell for profit's sake. " Fell it ! " exclaimed the 
yeoman, "I had rather fall on my knees and 
worship it." It happens, I believe, that the 
intended railway would pass through this little 
property, and I hope that an apology for the 
answer will not be thought necessary by one who 
enters into the strength of the feeling. AV. W. 

Wordsworth sent this sonnet to Gladstone 



with a letter calling his attention to the " dese- 
crating project." 

That Wordsworth's spirit is still potent to 
save the Lakes for " Nature and Mankind," is 
evidenced by the work of the Lake District 
Defence Society, which has prevented the pro- 
moters from invading Borrowdale, Buttermere, 
and Braithwaite. In this good work it has had 
substantial aid from England, from across the 
Border, and from America. Many dalesmen 
may be found on the Lakes as loyal to its 
beauties as was that one referred to by the poet 
himself. So long as this feeling prevails Mr. 
Ruskin's prophecy that there would in time be 
built "A railway for Cook's excursion trains 
up Scaw Fell, another up Helvellyn, and a 
third up Skiddaw with a circular tour to connect 
all three branches," will not become true. 

Line 9. Orrest-head. The height north of 
Windermere, back of Elleray, the home of 
Christopher North, from which there is a mag- 
nificent view of Windermere and its surround- 



Page779. At Furness Abbey. 

The tourist visiting the Lakes from the 
south should enter by Furness, where he will 
find the sentiment of the sonnet still splendidly 
realized. Furness is now the property of the 
Duke of Devonshire. 

1845 

Early in this year Wordsworth was summoned 
to attend a State Ball in London. He com- 
plied, and " wore Rogers' clothing, buckles, 
and stockings, and Davy's sword," says Hay- 
don. 

Page 779. "Forth from a Jutting 
Ridge," etc. 

This rock may be easily found by turning to 
the left at the highest point of the middle road, 
"Bit-by-Bit Reform," on White Moss Com- 
mon, as one goes from Rydal ; or on the right 
of the coach road, "Radical Reform," not far 
from the " fir grove." They are now surrounded 
with thick shrubbery, but are "heath-clad" 
still. 

Page 780. The Westmoreland Girl. 

The scene of this poem is on the western side 
of Grasmere Lake, at the right of the road 
leading to Red Bank, where the brook descends 
from Silver How. The cottage known as Wyke 
Cottage still stands. 

Page 784. " So Fair, so Sweet." 
The circumstance which gave rise to this 
poem was a walk in July, 1844, from Winder- 
mere, by Rydal and Grasmere, to Loughrigg 
Tarn, made by Wordsworth in company with 
J. C. Hare, Sir William Hamilton, Prof. But- 
ler, and others. One of the party writes of it as 
follows : — 

" When we reached the side of Loughrigg Tarn 
the loveliness of the scene arrested our steps 



gio 



NOTES 



PAGES 786-788 



and fixed our gaze. When the Poet's e}*es were 
satisfied with their feast on the beauties famil- 
iar to them, they sought relief in search, to 
them a happy vital habit, for new beauty in 
the flower-enamelled turf at his feet. There 
his attention was arrested by a fair smooth 
stone, of the size of an ostrich's egg, seeming to 
imbed at its centre, and at the same time to dis- 
play a dark star-shaped fossil of most distinct 
outline. Upon closer inspection this proved to be 
the shadow of a daisy projected upon it. The 
Poet drew the attention of the rest of the party 
to the minute but beautiful phenomenon, and 
gave expression at the time to thoughts sug- 
gested by it, which so interested Professor But- 
ler that he plucked the tiny flower, and, saying 
that ' it should be not only the theme but 
the memorial of the thought they had heard,' 
bestowed it somewhere for preservation." — 
Knight. 

Ruskin says of the first six lines : " This is a 
little bit of good, downright, foreground paint- 
ing and no mistake about it, daisy, and shade, 
and stone texture and all. Our painters must 
come to this before they have done their duty." 
— Modern Painters, vol. i. part ii., section ii., 
chapter vii. 

Prof. Dowden thinks this was composed be- 
tween 1835 and 1842. 

1846 

Page 786. " Why should we weep ? " etc. 
This sonnet refers to the poet's grandson, 
who died in Rome, 1S4G. 

Page 786. "Where lies the Truth?" 
etc. 

"This sonnet was occasioned by the death of 
the grandson alluded to in the previous sonnet ; 
the illness of his brother Christopher, and of 
another grandson John, son of his brother 
Richard." — Knight. 

Page 787. To Lucca Giordano. 

The picture which suggested this sennet used 



to hang on the staircase at Rydal. It was 
brought from Italy by the poet's eldest son. 

1847 

Page 788. Ode on the Installation ow 
His Royal Highness. 

Wordsworth's beloved daughter Dora was 
taken ill early in this year, and when he was 
anxious over her condition he was requested to 
write the ode on the installation of the Prince 
Consort as Chancellor of the University of 
Cambridge. He accepted the invitation, but 
was not able to complete the work, and was 
assisted by his nephew Christopher. Dora died 
in July and the poet wrote, " Our sorrow is for 
life, but God's will be done ! " He never again 
retouched his harp. 

" Wordsworth has laboured long ; if for him- 
self, yet more for men, and over all I trust 
for God. Will he ever be the bearer of evil 
thoughts to any mind ? Glory is gathering 
round his later years on earth, and his later 
works especially indicate the spiritual ripening 
of his noble soul." — W. E. Gladstone. Mor- 
ley's Life of Gladstone, vol. i. p. 136. 

Hon. George F. Hoar, reviewing Words- 
worth's relation to righteousness and liberty as 
wrought out in the conduct of states, says : 
"The influence of William Wordsworth, — it 
is the greatest power for justice, and righteous- 
ness, and liberty, that has been on the planet 
since Milton. The knights, the good and 
brave champions of freedom, as they take upon 
their lips the vows of consecration, bathe them- 
selves in Wordsworth as in a pure and clear foun- 
tain. The love of liberty under law, the loftiest 
political philosophy, snowy purity of life, sym- 
pathy with every human sorrow, breathe from 
every line Wordsworth ever wrote, until at the 
age of eighty the mighty power passed from 
the earth, and, 

The man from God sent forth, 
Did yet again to God return.' " 

International Monthly, October, 1900. 



THE BIBLIOGRAPHY OF WORDSWORTH 



A Bibliographical List of the Writings in Verse and Prose of William Words- 
worth, published from 1793 to 1903 ; arranged in Chronological Order. 



An Evening Walk. An Epistle ; In verse. 
Addressed to a Young Lady, from the Lakes 
of the North of England. By W. Words- 
worth, B. A., of St. John's, Cambridge. 
London: printed for J. Johnson, St. Paul's 
Church-yard, 1793. 4to. 



Descriptive Sketches. In verse. Taken 
during a pedestrian tour in the Italian, Gri- 
son, Swiss, and Savoyard Alps. By W. 
Wordsworth, B. A., of St. John's, Cambridge. 
Loca pastorum deserta atque otia dia. — Lu- 
cret. Castella in tumulis — Et longe saltus 
lateque vacantes. — Virgil. London : printed 
for J. Johnson, St. Paul's Churchyard, 1793. 
Ito. 



Lyrical Ballads, with a few other Poems. 
Printed by Biggs & Cottle, for T. N. Long- 
man, Paternoster Row, London, 1798. 8vo. 

Lyrical Ballads, with a few other Poems. 
London : printed for J. & A. Arch, Grace- 
church Street, 1798. 8vo. 
Four of the poems in this Edition were by 
S. T. Coleridge, viz. " The Rime of the Ancyent 
Marinere ; " "The Foster-Mother's Tale;" 
" The Nightingale, a Conversational Poem ; " 
and " The Dungeon." 



Lyrical Ballads, with other Poems. In two 
volumes. By W. Wordsworth. Quam nihil 
ad geninm, Papiniane, tuum ! Vol. I. Sec- 
ond Edition. [Vol. II.] London: printed 
for T. N. Longman and O. Rees, Paternoster 
Row, by Biggs and Co., Bristol. 1800. 8vo. 

5 
Lyrical Ballads, with Pastoral and other 
Poems. In two volumes. By W. Words- 
worth. Quam nihil ad genium, Papiniane, 
tuum ! Third Edition. London : printed for 
T. N. Longman & O. Rees, Paternoster-Row, 
by Biggs and Cottle, Crane-Court, Fleet- 
Street. 1802. 8vo. 

These volumes were republished in Phila- 
delphia, U. S. A., in one volume in 1802. (T.) 



Lyrical Ballad?, with Pastoral and other 
Poems, In two volumes. By W. Words- 



worth. Quam nihil ad genium, Papiniane, 
tuum! Fourth Edition. London: printed 
for Longman, Hurst, Rees, & Orme, by R. 
Taylor and Co., 38 Shoe Lane. 1805. Svo. 



Poems, in two volumes, By William Words- 
worth, Author of the Lyrical Ballads. Pos- 
terius graviore sono tibi Musa loquetur Nos- 
tra: dabunt cum securos mihi tempora fructus. 
Vol. I. [Vol. II.] London : printed for 
Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, Pater- 
noster Row. 1807. 12mo. 



Concerning the Relations op Great 
Britain, Spain, and Portugal, to each 
Other, and to the Common Enemy, at 
this Crisis ; and specifically as affected by 
the Convention of Cintra : The whole brought 
to the test of those principles by ivhich alone the 
Independence and Freedom of Nations can be 
Preserved or Recovered. Qui didicit patriae 
quid debeat ; — Quod sit conscripti, quod ju- 
dicis officium ; quae Partes in helium missi 
ducis. By William Wordsworth. London : 
])rinted for Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, 
Paternoster-Row. 1809. Svo. 



The Excursion, being a portion of The Re- 
cluse, a Poem. By William Wordsworth. 
London: printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees, 
Orme, and Brown, Paternoster Row. 1814. 
4to. 

The "Essay on Epitaphs " inserted in the 
Notes to this volume was originally published in 
The Friend, February 22, 1810. (T.) 



Poems by William Wordsworth : including 
Lyrical Ballads, and the Miscellaneous Pieces 
of the Author. With additional Poems, a 
new Preface, and a Supplementary Essay. In 
two volumes. Vol.1. [Vol. II.] London: 
printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and 
Brown, Paternoster Row. 1815. Svo. 
This is the first collected Edition (to date) of 
Wordsworth's Poems, excluding " The Excur- 
sion." In it the poet for the first time arranges 
the pieces under various headings, viz. " Poems 
referring to the Period of Childhood," " Juve- 
nile Pieces," "Poems founded on the AfTeC' 
tions," etc. (T.) 



912 



THE BIBLIOGRAPHY OF WORDSWORTH 



The White Doe of Rylstone ; or The Fate 
of the Nortons. A Poem. By William 
Wordsworth. London: printed for Longman, 
Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, Paternoster- 
row, by James Ballantyne and Co., Edin- 
burgh. 1815. 4to. 



A Letter to a Friend of Robert Burns : 
occasioned by an intended republication of 
the account of the Life of Burns, by Dr. 
Currie ; and of the Selection made by him 
from his Letters. By William Wordsworth. 
London : printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees, 
Orme, and Brown, Paternoster Row. 1810. 
8vo. 

'3 

Thanksgiving Ode, January 18, 1816. With 
other short Pieces, chiefly referring to Recent 
Public Events. By William Wordsworth. 
London : printed by Thomas Davison, White- 
friars ; for Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, 
and Brown, Paternoster-Row. 1816. 8vo. 

14 
Two Addresses to the Freeholders of 
Westmoreland. Kendal: Printed by Airey 
and Bellingham, 1818. 8vo. 

*5 

Peter Bell, a tale in verse, by William 
Wordsworth. London : Printed by Strahan 
and Spottiswoode, Printers Street ; for Long- 
man, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, Pater- 
noster Row. 1819. 8vo. 

16 

Peter Bell, A Tale in Verse, by William 
Wordsworth. Second Edition. London: 
printed by Strahan and Spottiswoode, Print- 
ers-Street, for Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, 
and Brown, Paternoster-Row. 1819. 8vo. 

17 
The Waggoner, a Poem, to which are added, 
Sonnets. By William Wordsworth. " What's 
in a Name ? Brutus will start a spirit as 
soon as Csesar." London : printed by Stra- 
han & Spottiswoode, Printers-Street, for 
Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, & Brown, 
Paternoster-Row, 1819. 8vo. 



The River Duddon, a Series of Sonnets: 
Vaudracour and Julia : and other Poems. To 
which is annexed, a Topographical Descrip- 
tion of the Countrv of the Lakes, in the North 
of England. By William Wordsworth. Lon- 
don : Printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees, 
Orme, and Brown, Paternoster Row. 1820. 
8vo. 

The Miscellaneous Poems of William 
Wordsworth. In four volumes. Vol. I. 



[Vol. II., Vol. III., Vol. IV.] London: 
printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and 
Brown, Paternoster Row. 1820. 12mo. 



The Excursion, being a portion of The Re- 
cluse, A Poem. By William Wordsworth. 
Second Edition. London : printed for Long- 
man, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown. 1820. 
8vo. 



Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, 
1820. By William Wordsworth. London: 
printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and 
Brown, Paternoster Row, 1822. 8vo. 



Ecclesiastical Sketches By William Words- 
worth. London: printed for Longman, Hurst, 
Rees, Orme, and Brown, Paternoster-Row. 
1822. 8vo. 

2 3 
A Description of the Scenery of the 
Lakes in the North of England. Third 
Edition (now first published separately), with 
additions, and illustrative remarks upon 
the Scenery of the Alps. By William Words- 
worth. London : printed for Longman, 
Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, Paternoster- 
Row. 1822. 12mo. 

24 
The Poetical Works of William Words- 
worth. In five volumes. Vol. I. [Vol. II.- 
V.] London : printed for Longman, Rees, 
Orme, Brown, and Green, Paternoster-Row. 
1827. 12mo. 

"In these volumes will be found the whole 
of the Author's published poems, for the first 
time collected in a uniform edition, with several 
new pieces interspersed." — Advertisement by 
the Author. 

This edition was republished, in one volume, 
at Paris in 1828. (T.) 

2 5 
The Poetical Works of William Words- 
worth. Complete in one volume. Paris, 
published by A. and W. Galignani, No. 18, 
Rue Vivienne. 1828. Demy 8vo. 

26 

Selections from the Poems of William 
Wordsworth, Esq., chiefly for the use of 
schools and Young Persons. London : Ed- 
ward Moxon, 64 New Bond Street, 1831. 
12mo. 

27 

The Poetical Works of William Words- 
worth. A new Edition. In four volumes. 
Vol. I. [Vol. II., Vol. III., Vol. IV.] Lon- 
don : Printed for Longman, Rees, Orme, 
Brown, Green, & Longman. Paternoster- 
Row. 1832. 8vo. 



THE BIBLIOGRAPHY OF WORDSWORTH 



9 l 3 



The Advertisement to this Edition is as fol- 
lows : — " The contents of the last Edition in 
five volumes are compressed into the present 
of four, with some additional pieces reprinted 
from miscellaneous publications." 

2S 

Selections from the Poems of William 

Wokdswokth, Esq., chiefly for the use of 

Schools and young persons. London: Edward 

Moxon, Dover Street. MDCCCXXXIV. Svo. 

29 

Yarrow Revisited, and other Poems. By 
William Wordsworth. " Poets . . . dwell 
on earth To clothe whate 'er the soul ad- 
mires and loves With language and with 
numbers." — Akenside. London : printed for 
Longman, Rees, Orrue, Brown, Green, & 
Longman, Paternoster-Row ; and Edward 
Moxon, Dover-Street. 1S35. 12nio. 

3° 

A GriDE THROUGH THE DISTRICT OF THE 

Lakes in the North of England, with a 
Description of the Scenery &c. For the use 
of Tourists and Residents. Fifth Edition, 
with considerable additions. By William 
Wordsworth. Kendal : published by Hud- 
son and Nicholson ; and in London by Long- 
man & Co., Moxon, and Whittaker and Co., 

1835. 12mo. 

3i 
Yarrow Revisited, and other Poems. By 
William Wordsworth. " Poets . . . dwell 
on earth To clothe whate'er the soul ad- 
mires and loves With language and with 
numbers." — Akenside. Second Edition. 
London : printed for Longman, Rees, Orme, 
Brown, Green, & Longman, Paternoster 
Row ; and Edward Moxon, Dover Street. 

1836. Fcap. Svo. (T.) 

3 2 
The Excursion. A Poem. By William 
Wordsworth. A New Edition. London : Ed- 
ward Moxon, Dover Street. MDCCCXXXVI. 
8vo. 

33 

The Poetical Works of William Words- 
worth. A New Edition. In six volumes. 
Vol. I. (Vol. II.-VI.) London: Edward 
Moxon, Dover Street, MDCCCXXXVL- 
MDCCCXXXVII. Fcap.Svo. Cloth. 
(In 1837 an American reprint of the poetical 
works of Wordsworth was published, edited by 
Professor Reed. It contained the poems issued 
in London in 5 vols, in 1827, and the contents 
of the Volume, " Yarrow Revisited," etc., pub- 
lished in 1835. It was a Royal 8vo double- 
column edition, and had a portrait from a paint- 
ing by W. Boxall. After the Poet's death 
Professor Reed published a revised and com- 
plete Edition, which included not only the 
whole of the poems published by Wordsworth 



in 1849-50, but " The Prelude," and one or two 
pieces which have never been included in any 
other collective Edition of his works.) (T.) 

34 

The Sonnets of William Wordsworth. 
Collected in one volume, with a few addi- 
tional ones, now first published. London: 
Edward Moxon, Dover Street. 1838. Svo. 
This collective Edition of the Sonnets was 

reprinted, with an Essay on the History of the 

English Sonnet, by the late Archbishop Trench, 

in 1884. (T.) 

35 
Yarrow Revisited ; and Other Poems. By 
William Wordsworth. [Woodcut, Cupid with 
a Harp.] London: Edward Moxon, Dover 
Street. MDCCCXXXIX. 18mo. 

36 
Poems, chiefly of early and late years ; 
including The Borderers, a Tragedy. By 
William Wordsworth. London: Edward 
Moxon, Dover Street. 1842. Svo. 

37 

Select Pieces from the Poems of William 
Wordsworth. London : James Burns 1843. 
Sq. 12mo. 
[About this date (1843) there was a selection 

from Wordsworth's Poems made by Henry 

Reed, and published by Leavitt and Co., New 

York.] (T.) 

38 
Kendal and Windermere Railway. Two 
Letters, reprinted from the Morning Post. 
Revised, with additions. Kendal : printed 
by R. Branthwaite and Son (no date). (D.) 

39 

The Poems of William Wordsworth, 
D.C.L., Poet Laureate, etc. etc. A New 
Edition. London: Edward Moxon, Dover 
Street. MDCCCXLV. Royal Svo. 
Republished 184G, 1847, 1849, 1851. (D.) 

40 

Ode, performed in the Senate-House, Cam- 
bridge, on the sixth of July, M.DCCC.XLVII. 
At the first commencement after the Instal- 
lation of his Royal Highness the Prince 
Albert, Chancellor of the University. Cam- 
bridge: printed at the University Press. 1847. 
4to. Paper wrapper. (T.) 

41 

The Poetical Works of William Words- 
worth, D.C.L., Poet Laureate, etc etc. In 
six volumes. Vol. I. [Vol. II., Vol. III., 
Vol. IV., Vol. V., Vol. VI.] A new Edi- 
tion. London: Edward Moxon, Dover Street. 
MDCCCXLIX. [-MDCCCL.] 12mo. 
[This is the last Edition issued during the 

poet's lifetime.] 



9'4 



THE BIBLIOGRAPHY OF WORDSWORTH 



42 
The Prelude, or Growth of a Poet's 
Mind ; an Autobiographical Poem. By Wil- 
liam Wordsworth. London: Edward Moxon, 
Dover Street. 1850. 8vo. 

43 
The Prelude, or Growth of a Poet's 
Mind ; an Autobiographical Poem. By Wil- 
liam Wordsworth. Second Edition. Lon- 
don : Edward Moxon, Dover Street. 1851. 
Feap. 8vo. 

[In 1854 Messrs. Little, Brown, and Co., of 
Boston, U. S. A., published an Edition of 
Wordsworth's Poetical Works in seven volumes, 
■with a memoir (unsigned) by James Russell 
Lowell. This Edition was re-issued in 1880 in 
their series of " The British Poets."] (T.) 

44 
Select Pieces from the Poems of Wil- 
liam W t ordsworth. London : Edward 
Moxon [1855]. Sq. 12mo. 

45 
The Poetical Works of William Words- 
worth. In six volumes. Vol.1. [Vols. II.- 
VI.] A new Edition. London: Edward 
Moxon, Dover Street, 1857. Feap. 8vo. 
Cloth. 

This Edition was reprinted in 1870 (and 
called " The Centenary Edition "), in 1881, and 
in 1882, on thick crown 8vo paper. In this 
Edition the Fen wick notes to the poems (notes 
dictated by the poet to Miss Fenwick) are first 
printed, and form the prefatory notes to the 
poems explained. 

46 

The Earlier Poems of William Words- 
worth. Corrected as in the latest Editions. 
With Preface, and Notes showing the text as 
it stood in 1815. By William Johnston. Lon- 
don : Edward Moxon, Dover Street. 1857. 
Feap. 8vo. Cloth. 

47 
The Deserted Cottage. By William 
Wordsworth. Illustrated with twenty-one 
designs by Birket Foster, J. Wolf, and John 
Gilbert, engraved by the Brothers Dalziel. 
London: George Routledge and Co., Farring- 
don Street. New York: 18 Beekman Street. 
1859. Small 4to. Cloth. (T.) 



Poems of William Wordsworth. Selected 
and Edited by Robert Aris Willmott, incum- 
bent of Bear Wood. Illustrated with one 
hundred designs by Birket Foster, J. Wolf, 
and John Gilbert, engraved by the Brothers 
Dalziel. London : George Routledge and 
Co., Farrinedon Street. New York : 18 
Beekmnn Street, MDCCCLIX. Small 4to. 
Cloth. (T.) 



49 
The White Doe of Rylstone ; or, the 
Fate of the Nortons. By William Words- 
worth. [With illustrations by H. N. Hum- 
phreys and Birket Foster.] London : Long- 
man, Brown, Green, Longmans, and Roberts. 
1859. Small 4to. 

5° 
Passages from "The Excursion," by Wil- 
liam Wordsworth, Illustrated with Etchings 
on Steel by Agues Fraser. London : pub- 
lished by Paul and Dominic Colnaghi and 
Co., publishers to Her Majesty, 13 and 14 Pall 
Mall East, 1859. Oblong 4to. Contains 
eleven plates. (T.) 

5' 
The Select Poetical Works of William 
Wordsworth. In two volumes. Vol. I. 
[Vol. II.] Leipzig Bernhard Tauchuitz, 
1864. 

5 2 
Moxon's Miniature Poets. A Selection from 
the Works of William Wordsworth, Poet 
Laureate. Selected and arranged by Francis 
Turner Palgrave. London : Edward Moxon 
& Co., Dover Street. 1865. Sq. l2nio. Cloth. 

53 
The White Doe of Rylstone ; or. the 
Fate of the Nortons. By William Words- 
worth. [Woodcut of a Doe.] London: Bell 
and Daldv, 186 Fleet Street. 1867. Small 
4to. Cloth. (T.) 

54 
The Poetical Works of William Words- 
worth. Edited, with a critical Memoir, by 
William Michael Rossetti. Illustrated by 
artistic etchings by Edwin Edwards. Lon- 
don : E. Moxon, Son, & Co., Dover Street 
[1870], Small 4to. (T.) 

55 
The Prose Works of William Words- 
worth. For the first time collected, with 
additions from unpublished manuscripts. 
Edited, with Preface, Notes and Illustra- 
tions, by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart, St. 
George's, Blackburn, Lancashire. In three 
volumes. Vol. I. Political and Ethical. 
[Vol. II. iEsthetical and Literary.] [Vol. 
III. Critical and Ethical.] London : Edward 
Moxon, Son, and Co., 1 Amen Corner, Pater- 
noster Row. 1876. [All rights reserved.] 
Demy 8vo. Cloth. 

56 
Poems of Wordsworth chosen and edited 
by Matthew Arnold [Engraved portrait by 
C. H. Jeens, after the Wordsworth upon 
Helvellvn " portrait by Havdon.] London : 
Macmillan and Co., 1879. lSmo. Cloth. 



THE BIBLIOGRAPHY OF WORDSWORTH 



9*5 



57 
The Poetical Works of William Words- 
worth Edited by William Knight, LL.D., 
Professor of Moral Philosophy, St Andrews. 
[Woodcut, The Small Celandine.] Volume 
First. [Volume Second — Volume Eighth.] 
Edinburgh: William Paterson, MDCCC- 
LXXXII. [MDCCCLXXXII-MDCCC- 

LXXXVL] 8 vols. DemySvo. Cloth. 

53 
Selections from Wordsworth. Edited, 
with an Introductory Memoir, by J. S. 
Fletcher. London : Alex. Gardner, 12 Pater- 
noster Row, and Paisley. MDCCCLXXXIII. 
Fcap. 8vo. Parchment. 

59 

The River Duddon A Series of Sonnets 
By William Wordsworth With ten Etchings 
by R. S. Chattock The Fine Art Society 148 
New Bond S+reet, London 1884. Folio. 
Cloth. 

6o 

The Sonnets of William Wordsworth 
Collected in one volume with an Essay on 
The History of the English Sonnet by 
Richard Chenevix Trench, D.D.. Archbishop 
of Dublin Chancellor of the Order of St. 
Patrick [Mounted Etching of Rydal Water.] 
London Suttaby and Co., Amen Corner 
MDCCCLXXXIV. Crown 8vo. Cloth. 

6i 

The Poetical Works of William Words- 
worth, With a Prefatory Notice, Biographi- 
cal and Critical. By Andrew James Syming- 
ton. London : Walter Scott, 14 Paternoster 
Square, and Newcastle-on-Tyne. 1885. 16mo. 
Cloth. 

62 

Through the Wordsworth Country. By 
Harry Goodwin and Professor Knight. [Pub- 
lishers' ornament.] London : Swan Son- 
nenschein, Lowry & Co., Paternoster Square. 
1887. Imperial 8vo. Cloth. 

63 
Selections from Wordsworth. By Wil- 
liam Knight and other Members of the 
Wordsworth Society. With Preface and 



Notes. [Publishers' Motto ornament.] Lon- 
don: Kegan Paul, Trench, & Co., 1 Pater- 
noster Square. MDCCCLXXXV1II. Large 
down 8vo. In two bindings, parchment and 
vellum. 

64 

The Recluse By William Wordsworth Lon- 
don Maemillan and Co. And New York 

1888 

65 
The Prelude, Or Growth of a Poet's 
Mind ; An Autobiographical Poem. By 
William Wordsworth. With Introduction 
and Notes by A. J. George. Boston: D. C. 
Heath & Co. 1888. 8vo. Cloth. 

66 

The Complete Poetical Works of Wil- 
liam Wordsworth With an Introduction 
by John Morley. London. Maemillan and 
Co. and New York. 1888. 8vo. Cloth. 

67 

Selections from Wordsworth. With Pre- 
face and Notes by A. J. George. Boston : 

D. C. Heath & Co. 1880. 8vo. Cloth. 

6S 

Wordsworth's Prefaces and Essays on 
Poetry with Letter to Lady Beau- 
mont (1798-1845). With Introduction and 
Notes by A. J. George. Boston, D. C. Heath 
& Co. 1892. 8vo. Cloth. 

69 
The Poetical Works of William Words- 
worth. With Introduction and Notes. 
Edited by Thomas Hutchinson. In five 
volumes. London, Henry Fiowde, Oxford, 
University Press Warehouse, Amen Corner, 

E. C. 1895. 16mo. Russia. 



Lyrical Ballads reprinted from first edition 
of 1798. Edited by Edward Dowden : Lon- 
don, David Nutt. 8vo. 

7i 
Poetical Works of William Words- 
worth. 7 vols., with memoir and Portrait, 
1892-3. E. Dowden, London, George Bell and 
Sons. Aldine Edition British Poets. 8vo. 



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Arnold (M.), Essays in Criticism. Second 
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Bagehot (Walter), Literary Studies : Words- 
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Ornate, and Grotesque Art in English Poetry, 
Vol. II. pp. 338-390. (London : Longmans, 
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Batne (Peter), Two Great Englishwomen, 
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James Clarke and Co., 1881.) 

Bradley (A. G.), Highways and Byways in 
the Lake District. (London : Macmillan and 
Co., 1902.) 

Bkimley (George), Essays: Wordsworth's 
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Blackwood's Magazine, xxxvii. 699. 

Brooke (Rev. Stopford A.), Theology in the 
English Poets: Wordsworth, pp. 93-286. 
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Brooke (Rev. Stopford A.), Dove Cottage. 
(London : Macmillan and Co.) 

Burroughs (John), Fresh Fields: Through 
the Wordsworth Country. (Boston : Hough- 
ton, Mifflin and Co.) 

Caird (E.), Literature and Philosophy : Words- 
worth, Vol. I. (London: Macmillan and Co.) 

Calvert (George), Wordsworth: A Study. 
(Boston, U. S.A., 1878.) 

Church (Dean), Dante and other Essays : 
Wordsworth, pp. 193-219. (London : Macmil- 
lan and Co., 1888.) 

Clough (Arthur H.), Poems and Prose Re- 
mains : Lecture on Poetry of Wordsworth. 

Coleridge (S. T.), Principles of Criticism. 
Chapters i.,iii., iv., xiv.-xxii. of Biographia 
Literaria. Edited by A. J. George. (Boston: 
D. C. Heath and Co.) 

Cottle's Early Recollections of S. T. Cole- 
ridge, 2 vols. (London, 1837.) Numerous 
Reminiscences of Wordsworth. 

Dawson (G.), Biographical Lectures. (London : 
Kegan Paul, Trench and Co.) 

Dawson (W. J.), The Makers of Modern Eng- 
lish. (London : Hodder and Stoughton.) 

Dennis (John), Heroes of Literature: English 
Poets — William Wordsworth, pp. 278-299. 
(London : S. P. C. K.) 

De Quincey (Thomas), Works: Vol. II., Re- 
collections of Wordsworth, etc. Vol. V., 
On Wordsworth's Poetry, etc. (Edinburgh : 
A. and C. Black.) 

Devey (Joseph), A Comparative Estimate of 
Modern English Poets : Wordsworth, pp. 87- 
103. (LondoH : Edward Moxon.) 



De Vere (Aubrey), Essays, Chiefly on Poetry: 
The Genius and Passion of Wordsworth, Vol. 
I. pp. 101-173; The Wisdom and Truth of 
Wordsworth's Poetry, Vol. I. pp. 174-264 ; 
Recollections of Wordsworth, Vol. II. pp. 
275-295. (London : Macmillan and Co., 1887.) 

Dowden (E.), Studies in Literature : The Prose 
Works of Wordsworth, pp. 122-158. (Lon- 
don : Kegan Paul, Trench and Co.) 

Dowden (E.), Transcripts and Studies on Text 
of the Poems. (London : Kegan Paul, Trench 
and Co.) 

Dowden (E.), The French Revolution and Eng- 
lish Literature. (New York : Charles Scrib- 
ner's Sons.) 

Doyle (F. H.), Lectures on Poetry, 2d Series: 
On Wordsworth's " Prelude," etc., " The 
Excursion." etc., pp. 1-77. 

Emerson (R. W.), English Traits : First Visit 
to England, pp. 13-18. (Boston : Houghton, 
Mifflin and Co.) 

George (A. J.), Boston Browning Society Pa- 
pers : The Optimism of Wordsworth and 
Browning. (New York : The Macmillan Co.) 

Gilfillan (George), First Gallery of Literary 
Portraits : William Wordsworth. 

Gilfillan (George), Second Gallery of Liter- 
ary Portraits : William Wordsworth. 

Goodwin and Knight, Through the Words- 
worth Country. (London: Swan Sonnen- 
schein and Co.) 

Hazlitt (William), The Spirit of the Age : Mr. 
Wordsworth ; Winterslow : My first acquain- 
tance with Poets. (London : George Bell and 
Sons.) 

Herford (C H.), The Age of Wordsworth. 
(London: George Bell and Sons.) 

Hood (Edwin Paxton ), William Wordsworth ; 
A Biography. (London : 1856.) 

Horne (R. H.), A New Spirit of the Age: 
William Wordsworth and Leigh Hunt, Vol. 
I. pp. 307-332. (London : Smith, Elder and 
Co., 1844.) 

Howitt (William), Homes and Haunts of the 
most Eminent British Poets : William Words- 
worth, pp. 532-555. 

Hudson (Henry N.), Studies in Wordsworth. 
(Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1884.) 

Hutton (R. H.), Essays, Theological and Lit- 
erary : Wordsworth and his Genius. (Lon- 
don: Macmillan and Co.) 

Johnson (C. F.), Three Americans and Three 
Englishmen. (New York : Thomas Whit- 
taker.) 

Keble (Rev. John), Inscription to Wordsworth 
(Prcelectiojies Academics, 1S38-41 and 1844). 

Knight (W.), The English Lake District as 



918 



REFERENCES 



Interpreted in the Poems of Wordsworth. 
(Edinburgh: David Douglas.) 

Knight (W.), Memories of Coleorton. (Bos- 
ton : Houghton, Mifflin and Co.) 

Lamb (C), Works. Review of ' The Excursion." 

Leoouis (E.), La Jeunesse de Wordsworth. 
(Paris. 1896. Translated into English, 1897. 
New York : Charles Scribner's Sons.) 

Lee (E.l, Dorothy Wordsworth. (London : 
James Clarke and Co.) 

Lowell (J. R.), Prose Works, Vol. IV. Words- 
worth. (Boston : Houghton, Mifflin and Co.) 

Mabie (H. W.), Literary Background. (New 
York: The Outlook Co.) 

Macdonald (George), The Imagination and 
other Essays: Wordsworth's Poetry, pp. 245- 
203. (Boston : D. Lothrop and Co., 1883.) 

Masson (David), Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, 
etc. : Wordsworth, pp. 3-74. (London :.Mac- 
millan and Co., 1875.) 

Moir (D. M.), Poetical Literature of Past Half- 
Century: Wordsworth, pp. (il-83. (London: 
William Blackwood and Sons.) 

Morley (J.), Studies in Literature. (London : 
Macmillan and Co.) 

Myers (F. W. H.), Wordsworth (English Men 
of Letters Series). (London: Macmillan and 
Co.) 

Noel (Hon. Roden), Essays on Poetry and 
Poets. (London : Kegan Paul, Trench and 
Co.) 

Oliphant (Mrs.), Literary History of England, 
2 vols. (London : Macmillan and Co.) 

Raleigh (W.), Wordsworth. (London: Edwin 
Arnold.) 

Rawnsley (H. D.), Literary Associations of 
the English Lakes. (Glasgow : James Mac- 
lehose and Son.) 

Rawnsley (H. D.), A Reminiscence of 
Wordsworth Day, Cockermouth. (Brush 
Bros.) 

Reed (Henry), Lectures on English Poetry: 
Lecture xv., Wordsworth. (London : 1850.) 

Robertson (Rev. F. W.), Lectures : Lecture 
on Wordsworth. (London : Kegan Paul, 
Trench and Co.) 

Robinson (H. Crabb), Diary: Numerous Re- 
miniscences, etc., of Wordsworth. (London: 
Macmillan and Co.) 

Scherer (E.), Essays in English Literature. 
(New York : Charles Scribner's Sons.) 

Scudder (V.), The Life of the Spirit in the 
Modern English Poets. (Boston : Hough- 
ton, Mifflin and Co.) 

Scudder (H. E.), Childhood in Literature and 
Art. (Boston : Houghton, Mifflin and Co.) 

Shairp (J. C), Aspects of Poetry : " The 
Three Yarrows," pp. 316-344; "White Doe 
of Rylstone," pp. 345-376. (Boston: Hough- 
ton, Mifflin and Co.) 

Shairp (J. C), Studies in Poetry and Philo- 



sophy : Wordsworth, the Man and the Poet, 
pp. 1-103. (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and 
Co.) 

Shairp (J. C), Poetic Interpretation of Nature : 
Wordsworth as an Interpreter of Nature, pp. 
225-270. (Boston : Houghton, Mifflin and Co.) 

Shorthouse (J. H.), The Platonism of Words- 
worth. (London: Macmillan and Co.) 

Southey (Robert), Life and Correspondence of: 
comments on Wordsworth in Chaps, ix., x., 
xi., xii., xiii., xv., xix., xxvi., xxvii. and 
xxx vi. 

Stedman (E. C), Victorian Poets. (Boston: 
Hougbton, Mifflin and Co.) 

Stephen (Leslie), Hours in a Library, Third 
Series: Wordsworth's Ethics, pp. 178-21:'.). 
(London : Smith, Elder and Co.) 

Stephen (Leslie), Essays of a Biographer; 
Review of E. Legouis's " Youth of Words- 
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Sutherland (J. M.), William Wordsworth: 
the Story of his Life, with critical remarks 
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Swinburne (A. C), Miscellanies: Wordsworth 
and Byron, pp. 63-156. (London: Chattoand 
Windus, 1886V) 

Symington (A. J.), William Wordsworth: A 
Biographical Sketch, with Selections from his 
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Taylor (Sir H.), Correspondence of: Edited 
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William Blackwood and Sons.) 

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Macmillan and Co.) 

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(London: Percival and Co.) 

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ridges. (London: Macmillan and Co.) 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES 



A barking sound the Shepherd hears, 320. 
A Book came forth of late, called Peter Bell, 

574. 
A. bright-haired company of youthful slaves, 

607. 
Abruptly paused the strife ; — the field through- 
out, 550. 
A dark plume fetch me from yon blasted yew, 

597. 
Adieu, Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown, 706. 
Advance — come forth from thy Tyrolean 

ground, 383, 
Aerial Rock — whose solitary brow, 568. 
A famous man is Robin Hood, 300. 
Affections lose their object ; Time brings forth, 

788. 
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, 350. 
A genial hearth, a hospitable board, 628. 
Age ! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers, 

302. _ 
Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide, 

763. 
A humming bee — a little tinkling rill, 435. 
Ah, when the Body, round which in love we 

clung, 609. 
Ah ! where is Palafox ? Nor tongue nor pen, 386. 
Ah why deceive ourselves 1 by no mere fit, 757. 
Aid, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of light, 

621. 
Alas ! what boots the long laborious quest, 383. 
A little onward lend thy guiding hand, 555. 
All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed, 

766. 
A love-lorn Maid, at some far-distant time, 598. 
Ambition — following down this far-famed 

slope, 586. 
Amid a fertile region green with wood, 693. 
Amid the smoke of cities did you pass, 248. 
Amid this dance of objects sadness steals, 577. 
Among a grave fraternity of Monks, 730. 
Among all lovely things my Love had been, 277. 
Among the dwellers in the silent fields, 776. 
Among the dwellings framed by birds, 701. 
Among the mountains were we nursed, loved 

Stream, 570. 
A month, sweet Little-ones, is past, 357. 
An age hath been when Earth was proud, 558. 
A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, 249. 
And has the Sun his flaming chariot driven, 1. 
And is it among rude untutored Dales, 384. 
And is this — Yarrow ? — This the Stream, 533. 
And, not in vain embodied to the sight, 615. 
And shall, the Pontiff asks, profaneness flow, 

612. 
And what is Penance with her knotted thong, 

618. 
And what melodious sounds at times prevail, 
615. 



An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! yes, Faith may grow 

bold, 344. 
Another year ! — another deadly blow, 352. 
A pen — to register ; a key, 635. 
A Pilgrim, when the summer day, 564. 
A plague on your languages, German and Norse, 

122. 
A pleasant music floats along the Mere, 611. 
A Poet 1 — He hath put his heart to school, 7(59. 
A point of life between my Parent's dust, 707. 
Army of Clouds ! ye winged Host in troops, 774. 
A Rock there is whose homely front, 684. 
A Roman Master stands on Grecian ground, 387. 
Around a wild and woody hill, 579. 
Arran ! a single-crested Teneriffe, 715. 
Art thou a Statist in the van, 113. 
Art thou the bird whom Man loves best, 278. 
As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest, 615. 

: A simple Child, 73. 

As indignation mastered grief, my tongue, 757. 
As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow, 

758. 
A slumber did my spirit seal, 113. 
As often as I murmur here, 681 . 
As star that shines dependent upon star, 628. 
As the cold aspect of a sunless way, 569. 
A Stream, to mingle with your favourite Dee, 

640. 
A sudden conflict rises from the swell, 626. 
As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds regain, 

606. 
As with the Stream our voyage we pursue, 613. 
At early dawn, or rather when the air, 568. 
A Traveller on the skirt of Sarum's Plain, 20. 
A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, 687. 
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight 

appears, 70. 
Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind, 388. 
A voice, from long-expecting thousands sent, 

626. 
A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found, 637. 
Avon — a precious, an immortal name, 693. 
A weight of awe not easy to be borne, 721. 
A whirl-blast from behind the hill, 82. 
A winged Goddess — clothed in vesture wrought, 

576. 
A youth too certain of his power to wade, 712. 

Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made, 

.540. 
Beaumont ! it was thy wish that I should rear, 

319. 
Before I see another day, 84. 
Before the world had past her time of youth, 

763. 
Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf, 251. 
Beguiled into forgtetfulness of care, 728. 
Behold an emblem of our human mind, 788. 



922 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES 



Behold a pupil of the monkish gown, 610. 
Behold her, single in the field, 29S. 
Behold, within the leafy shade, 202. 
Beloved Vale ! I said, when I shall con, 347. 
Beneath the concave of an April sky, 556. 
Beneath these fruit-tree houghs that shed, 292. 
Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound. 

400. 
Be this the chosen site, the virgin sod, 633. 
Between two sister moorland rills, 117. 
Bishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if deep, 628. 
Black Demons hovering o'er his mitred head. 

613. 
Bleak season was it, turbulent and wild, 123. 
Blest is this Isle — our native Land, 630. 
Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unselfish 

will, 761. 
Bold words affirmed, in days when faith was 

strong, 711. 
Brave Schill ! by death delivered, take thy 
flight, 385. J 

Bright Flower ! whose home is everywhere, 292. 
Bright was the summer's noon when quicken- 
ing steps, 146. 
Broken in fortune, but in mind entire, 713. 

Brook and road, 109. 

Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks, 541. 
Bruges I saw attired with golden light, 576. 
But Cytherea, studious to invent, 552. 
But here no cannon thunders to the gale, 601. 
But liberty, and triumphs on the Main, 633. 
But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book, 

620. 
But, to remote Northumbrian royal Hall, 608. 
But what if One, through grove or flowery 

mead, 610. 
But whence came they who for the Saviour 

Lord, 616. 
By a blest Husband guided, Mary came, 738. 
By antique Fancy trimmed — though lowly, 

bred, 581. 
By Art's bold privilege Warrior and War-horse 

stand, 766. 
By chain yet stronger must the Soul be tied, 

630. 
By Moscow self -devoted to a blaze, 550. 
By playful smiles (alas, too oft, 642. 
By such examples moved to unbought pains, 

610. _ 
By their floating mill, 343. 
By vain affections unenthralled, 642. 

Call not the royal Swede unfortunate, 385. 
Calm as an under-current, strong to draw, 626. 
Calm is all nature as a resting wheel, 3. 
Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose, 697. 
Calvert! it must not be unheard by them, 351. 
Change me, some God, into that breathing rose, 

595. 
Chatsworth ! thy stately mansion, and the pride, 

684. 
Child of loud - throated War ! the mountain 

Stream, 299. 
Child of the clouds ! remote from every taint, 

594. 
Clarkson ! it was an ohstinate hill to climb, 

356. 



Closing the sacred Book which long has fed, 

631. 
Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars, 348. 
Coldly we spake. The Saxons, overpowered, 

612. 
Come ye — who, if (which Heaven avert !) the 

Land, 308. 

Companion ! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered, 

741. 

Complacent Fictions were they, yet the same, 

749. 

Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell, 

Darkness surrounds us ; seeking, we are lost, 

605. 
Days passed — and Monte Calvo would not clear, 

750. 
Days undefiled by luxury or sloth, 784. 
Dear be the Church, that, watching o'er the 

needs, 020. 
Dear Child of Nature, let them rail, 327. 
Dear fellow-travellers ! think not that the Muse, 

575. 
Dear native regions, I foretell, 2. 
Dear Reliques ! from a pit of vilest mould, 552. 
Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed. 

708. 
Deep is the lamentation ! Not alone, 619. 
Degenerate Douglas ! oh, the unworthy Lord. 

301. 
Departed Child ! I could forget thee once, 391. 
Departing summer hath assumed, 572. 
Deplorable his lot who tills the ground, 614. 
Desire we past illusions to recall, 712. 
Desponding Father ! mark this altered bough. 

739. 5 

Despond who will — J heard a voice exclaim, 

714. 
Destined to war from very infancy, 390. 
Did pangs of grief for lenient time too keen, 

713. 
Discourse was deemed Man's noblest attribute, 

787. 
Dishonoured Rock and Ruin ! that, by law. 

690. 
Dogmatic Teachers, of the snow-white fur, 573. 
Doomed as we are our native dust, 579. 
Doubling and doubling with laborious walk, 

091. 
Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design. 

627. 
Dread hour ! when, upheaved by war's sulphur- 
ous blast, 582. 
Driven in by Autumn's sharpening air, 727. 

Earth has not anything to show more fair, 284. 
Eden ! till now thy beauty had I viewed, 719. 
Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples 

rung, 551. 
England ! the time is come when thou should'st 

wean, 307. 
Enlightened Teacher, gladly from thy hand, 

778. 
Enough I for see, with dim association, 616. 
Enough of climbing toil ! — Ambition treads, 

559. 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES 



923 



Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook, 691. 
Enough of rose-bud lips, and eyes, 672. 
Ere the Brothers through the gateway, 342. 
Ere with cold beads of midnight dew, 643. 
Ere yet our course was graced with social trees, 

595. 
Eternal Lord ! eased of a cumbrous load, 756. 
Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky, 643. 
Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress, 540. 
Even as a river, — partly (it might seem), 187. 
Even so for me a Vision sanctified, 741. 
Even such the contrast that, where'er we move, 

623. 
Even while I speak, the sacred roofs of France, 

632. 
Excuse is needless when with love sincere, 649. 

Failing impartial measure to dispense, 760. 

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate, 258. 

Fair Lady ! can I sing of flowers, 781. 

Fair Land ! Thee all men greet with joy ; how 

few, 757. 
Fair Prime of life ! were it enough to gild, 650. 
Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west, 

284. 
Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap, 600. 
Fame tells of groves — from England far away, 

575. 
Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the glad, 653. 
Farewell, deep Valley, with thy one rude House, 

464. 
Farewell, thou little nook of mountain-ground, 

283. 
Far from my dearest friend, 't is mine to rove, 3. 
Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake, 

395. 
Father ! to God himself we cannot give, 629. 
Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree, 623. 
Feel for the wrongs to universal ken, 769. 
Festivals have I seen that were not names, 285. 
Fit retribution, by the moral code, 763. 
Five years have past; five summers, with the 

length, 91. 
Flattered with promise of escape, 668. 
Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale, 

303. 
Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep, 

350. 
For action born, existing to be tried, 751. 
Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise, 749. 
For ever hallowed be this morning fair, 607. 
For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes, 580. 
Forgive, illustrious Country ! these deep sighs, 

750. 
Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose base, 

779. 
For thirst of power that Heaven disowns, 788. 
Forth rushed from Envy sprung and Self-con- 
ceit, 761. 
For what contend the wise ? — for nothing less, 

620. 
Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein, 740. 
From Bolton's old monastic tower, 362. 
From early youth I ploughed the restless Main, 

713. 
From false assumption rose, and, fondly hailed, 

614. 



From Little down to Least, in due degree, (529. 

From low to high doth dissolution climb, 632. 

From Nature doth emotion come, and moods, 
212. 

From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled, 627. 

From Stirling Castle we had seen, 301. 

From that time forth, Authority in France, 
202. 

From the Baptismal hour, thro' weal and woe, 
631. 

From the dark chambers of dejection freed, 
534. 

From the fierce aspect of this River, throwing, 
578. 

From the Pier's head, musing, and with in- 
crease, 590. 

From this deep chasm, where quivering sun- 
beams play, 597. 

Frowns are on every Muse's face, 648. 

Furl we the sails, and pass with tardy oars, 615. 

Genius of Raphael ! if thy wings, 659. 
Giordano, verily thy Pencil's skill, 787. 
Glad sight wherever new with old, 782. 
Glide gently, thus for ever glide, 9. 
Glory to God ! and to the Power who came, 635. 
Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes, 653. 
Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath knelt, 

700. 
Grant, that by this unsparing hurricane, 620. 
Grateful is Sleep, my life in stone bound fast, 

350. 
Great men have been among us ; hands that 

penned, 287. 
Greta, what fearful listening ! when huge stones, 

707. 
Grief, thou hast, lost an ever-ready friend, 750. 
Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft, 753. 

Had this effulgence disappeared, 566. 

Hail, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night, 541. 

Hail to the crown by Freedom shaped — to 

gird, 477. 
Hail to the fields — with Dwellings sprinkled 

over, 596. 
Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour, 

539. 
Hail, Virgin Queen ! o'er many an envious bar, 

622. 
Hail, Zaragoza ! If with unwet eye, 384. 
Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown, 649. 
Hard task ! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean, 

758. 
Hark ! 't is the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest, 

759. 
Harmonious Powers with Nature work, 768. 
Harp ! couldst thou venture, on thy boldest 

string, 624. 
Hast thou seen, with flash incessant, 566. 

1 Hast thou then survived, 315. 

Haydon! let worthier judges praise the skill, 

698. 
Here closed the Tenant of that lonely vale, 448. 
Here Man more purely lives, less oft doth fall, 

614. 
Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more, 

286. 



924 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES 



Here on their knees men swore : the stones 

were black, 718. 
Here pause ; the poet claims at least this praise, 

393. 
Here stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed, 

694. 
Here, where, of havoc tired and rash undoing, 

779. 
Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, 79. 
Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat, 649. 
" High bliss is only for a higher state," 647. 
High deeds, Germans, are to come from you, 

356. 
High in the breathless hall the Minstrel sate, 

359. 
High is our calling, Friend ! — Creative Art, 

534. 
High on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted 

Down, 771. 
High on her speculative tower, 584. 
His simple truths did Andrew glean, 252. 
Holy and heavenly (Spirits as they are, 622, 
Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's Cell, 

718. 
Hope rides a land for ever green, 657. 
Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, 717. 
Hopes, what are they ? — Beads of morning, 565. 
How art thou named? In search of what 

strange land, 640. 
How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high, 

787. 
How beautiful, when up a lofty height, 773. 
How beautiful your presence, how benign, 609. 
How blest the Maid whose heart — yet free, 

585. 
How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright, 

538. _ 
How disappeared he ? Ask the newt and toad, 

692. 
How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled, 621. 
How profitless the relics that we cull, 695. 
How richly glows the water's breast, 9. 
How rich that forehead's calm expanse, 638. 
How sad a welcome ! To each voyager, 717. 
How shall I paint thee ? — Be this naked stone, 

594. 
How soon — alas ! did Man, created pure, 613. 
How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks, 

348. 
Humanity, delighting to behold, 549. 
Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast, 388. 

I am not One who much or oft delight, 346. 

I come, ye little noisy Crew, 114. 

I dropped my pen ; and listened to the Wind, 

382. 
If from the public way you turn your steps, 

238. 
If Life were slumber on a bed of down, 709. 
If Nature, for a favourite child, 115. 
If there be prophets on whose spirits rest, 605. 
If these brief Records, by the Muses' art, 653. 
If the whole weight of what we think and feel, 

650. 
If this great world of joy and pain, 705. 
If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, 

700. 



If thou in the dear love of some one Friend, 

261. 
If to Tradition faith be due, 695. 
If with old love of you, dear Hills ! I share. 

759. 
I grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain, 282. 
I hate that Andrew Jones ; he '11 breed, 259. 
I have a boy of five years old, 74. 
I heard (alas ! 't was only in a dream), 571. 
I heard a thousand blended notes, 81. 
I know an aged Man constrained to dwell, 786. 
I listen — but no faculty of mine, 581 . 
Imagination — ne'er before content, 544. 
I marvel how Nature could ever find space, 260. 
I met Louisa in the shade, 326. 
Immured in Bothwell's towers, at times the 

Brave, 692. 
In Bruges town is many a street, 663. 
In days of yore how fortunately fared, 423. 
In desultory walk through orchard grounds, 

767. 
In distant countries have I been, 85. 
In due observance of an ancient rite, 386. 
Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood, 287. 
Inmate of a mountain-dwelling, 556. 
In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud, 652. 
In one of those excursions (may they ne'er, 216. 
Intent on gathering wool from hedge and brake, 

766. 
In these fair vales hath many a Tree, 682. 
In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 80. 
In this still place, remote from men, 298. 
In trellised shed with clustering roses gay, 362. 
Intrepid sons of Albion ! not by you, 551. 
In youth from rock to rock I went, 290. 
I rose while yet the cattle, heat-opprest, 600. 
I saw a Mother's eye intensely bent, 629. 
I saw an aged Beggar in my walk, 93. 
I saw far off the dark top of a Pine, 748. 
I saw the figure of a lovely Maid, 624. 
Is Death, when evil against good has fought, 

762. 
I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold, 294. 
Is it a reed that 's shaken by the wind, 284. 
Is then no nook of English ground secure, 778. 
Is then the final page before me spread, 591. 
Is there a power that can sustain and cheer, 386. 
Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill, 748. 
I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, 

601. 
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 285. 
It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown, 

293. 
It is not to be thought of that the Flood, 288. 
It is the first mild day of March, 82. 
I travelled among unknown men, 112. 

It seems a day, 111. 

It was a beautiful and silent day, 194. 

It was a dreary morning when the wheels, 138. 

It was a moral end for which they fought, 384. 

It was an April morning : fresh and clear, 247. 

I 've watched you now a full half-hour, 278. 

I wandered lonely as a cloud, 311. 

I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile, 325. 

I watch, and long have watched, with calm 

regret, 571. 
I, who accompanied with faithful pace, 604. 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES 



9 2 5 



Jesu ! bless our slender Boat, 578. 

Jones ! as from Calais southward • you and I, 

285. 
Just as those final words were penned, the sun 

broke out in power, 771. 

Keep for the young the impassioned smile, 602. 

Lady! a Pen (perhaps with thy regard, 731. 

Lady ! I rifled a Parnassian Cave. 574. 

Lady ! the songs of Spring were in the grove, 

358. 
Lament ! for Diocletian's fiery sword, 605. 
Lance, shield, and sword relinquished — at his 

side, 605). 
Last night, without a voice, that Vision spake, 

624. 
Let other bards of angels sing, 638. 
Let thy wheel-barrow alone, 117. 
Let us quit the leafy arbour. 560. 
Lie here, without a record of thy worth, 322. 
Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun, 

759. 
Like a shipwrecked Sailor tost, 702. 
List, the winds of March are blowing, 702. 
List — 't was the Cuckoo. — O with what de- 
light, 751. 
List, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower, 722. 
Lo ! in the burning west, the craggy nape, 590. 
Lone Flower hemmed in with snows, and white 

as they, 569. 
Long-favoured England ! be not thou misled, 

770. 
Long has the dew been dried on tree and lawn, 

749. 
Long time have human ignorance and guilt, 

207. 
Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat, 115. 
Lonsdale ! it were unworthy of a Guest, 721. 
Look at the fate of summer flowers, 639. 
Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid, 

385. 
Lord of the Vale ! astounding Flood, 530. 
Loud is the Vale ! the Voice is up, 352. 
Loving she is, and tractable, though wild, 392. 
Lo ! where she stands fixed in a saint-like 

trance, 770. 
Lo ! where the Moon along the sky, 758. 
Lowther ! in thy majestic Pile are seen, 721. 
Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, 589. 
Lyre ! though such power do in thy magic live, 

774. 

Man's life is like a Sparrow, mighty King, 608. 
Mark how the feathered tenants of the flood, 

401. 
Mark the concentred hazels that enclose, 540. 
Meek Virgin Mother, more benign, 580. 
Men of the Western World ! in Fate's dark 

book, 770. 
Men who have ceased to reverence, soon defy, 

623. 
Mercy and Love have met thee on thy road, 

605. 
Methinks that I could trip o'er heaviest soil, 

622. 
Methinks that to some vacant hermitage, 609. 



Methinks 't were no unprecedented feat, 599. 
Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne, 351. 
'Mid crowded obelisks and urns, 296. 
Mid-noon is past ; — upon the sultry mead, 599. 
Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour, 

287. 
Mine ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued, 

i ;:;:;. 
Miserrimus .' and neither name nor date, 669. 
Monastic Domes ! following my downward way, 

632. 
Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes, 724. 
Mother ! whose virgin bosom was uncrost, 619. 
Motions and Means, on land and sea at war, 

721. 
My frame hath often trembled with delight, 598. 
My heart leaps up when I behold, 277. 

Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree 

stands, 31. 
Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove, 750. 
Never enlivened with the liveliest ray, 783. 
Next morning Troilus began to clear, 271. 
No fiction was it of the antique age, 596. 
No more : the end is sudden and abrupt, 695. 
No mortal object did these eyes behold, 351. 
No record tells of lance opposed to lance, (iOO. 
Nor can I not believe but that hereby, 347. 
Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend, 

608. 
Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject, 625. 
Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid, 607. 
Not a breath of air, 774. 
Not envying Latian shades — if yet they throw, 

593. 
Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep, 601. 
Not in the lucid intervals of life, 725. 
Not in the mines beyond the western main, 723. 
Not, like his great Compeers, indignantly, 578. 
Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell, 

638. 
Not 'mid the world's vain objects that enslave, 

382. 
Not sedentary all: there are who roam, 610. 
Not seldom, clad in radiant vest, ."lit.. 
Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance, 

596. 
Not the whole warbling grove, in concert heard, 

651. 
Not to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew, 715. 
Not to the object specially designed, 762. 
Not utterly unworthy to endure, 619. 
Not without heavy grief of heart did He. 391. 
Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright, 

403. 
Now that the farewell tear is dried, 583. 
Now we are tired of boisterous joy, 303. 
Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, 

765. 
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room, 

346. 

Oak of Guernica ! Tree of holier power, 387. 
O blithe New-comer ! I have heard, 310. 
O dearer far than light and life are dear. 638. 
O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain, 
384. 



926 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES 



O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied, 

388. 
O Flower of all that springs from gentle Mood, 

390. 
Of mortal parents is the Hero born, 383. 
O Friend ! I know not which way I must look, 

287. 
Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze, 715. 
Oft have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my 

cheek, 649. 
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, 118. 
Oft is the medal faithful to its trust, 400. 
Oft, through thy fair domains, illustrious peer, 

410. 
O for a dirge ! But why complain, 641. 
O for the help of Angels to complete, 577. 
O gentle Sleep ! do they belong to thee, 349. 
O happy time of youthful lovers (thus, 327. 
Oh, for a kindling touch from thy pure flame, 

551. 
Oh ! pleasant exercise of hope and joy, 340. 
Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze, 124. 
Oh, what a Wreck ! how changed in mien and 

speech, 760. 
Oh ! what 's the matter ? what 's the matter, 

77. 
O Life ! without thy chequered scene, 579. 
O Lord, our Lord ! how wondrously (quoth 

she), 263. 
O mountain Stream ! the Shepherd and his Cot, 

597. 
Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee, 285. 
Once I could hail (howe'er serene the sky), 645. 
Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned, 276. 
Once more the Church is seized with sudden 

fear, 617. 
Once on the top of Tynwald's formal mound, 

714. 
Once to the verge of yon steep barrier came, 

222. 
One might believe that natural miseries, 306. 
One morning (raw it was and wet, 274. 
One who was suffering tumult in his soul, 567. 
On his morning rounds the Master, 321. 
O Nightingale ! thou surely art, 358. 
On, loitering Muse — the swif t Stream chides us 

— on, 596. 
On Nature's invitation do we come, 123. 
O now that the genius of Bewick were mine, 

259. 
On to Iona ! — What can she afford, 717. 
Open your gates, ye everlasting Piles, 634. 
O thou who movest onward with a mind, 289. 
O thou ! whose fancies from afar are brought, 

290. 
Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine, 

763. 
Our walk was far among the ancient trees, 250. 
Outstretching flame-ward his upbraided hand, 

621. 

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 279, 

Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep, 

688. 
Pastor and Patriot ! — at whose bidding rise, 

708. 
Patriots informed with Apostolic light, 627. 



Pause, courteous Spirit ! — Balbi supplicates, 

391. 
Pause, Traveller ! whosoe'er thou be, 565. 
Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side. L'tl'J. 
People ! your chains are severing link by link, 

689. 
Perhaps some needful service of the State, 389. 
Pleasures newly found are sweet, 280. 
Portentous change when History can appear, 

769. 
Praised be the Art whose subtle power could 

stay, 399. 
Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain 

springs^ 616. 
Prejudged by foes determined not to spare, 624. 
Presentiments ! they judge not right, 682. 
Prompt transformation works the novel Lore, 

608. 
Proud were ye, Mountains, when, hi times of 

old, 779. 
Pure element of waters ! wheresoe'er, 567. 

Queen of the stars ! so gentle, so benign, 733. 

Ranging the heights of Scawfell or Black- 
comb, 711. 

Rapt above earth by power of one fair face, 
756. 

Realms quake by turns: proud Arbitress of 
grace, 613. 

Record we too, with just and faithful pen, 614. 

Redoubted King, of courage leonine, 612. 

Reluctant call it was ; the rite delayed, 699. 

Rest, rest, perturbed Earth, 546. 

Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued, 599. 

Rise ! — they have risen : of brave Aneurin ask, 
606. 

Rotha, my Spiritual Child ! this head was grey, 
652. _ 

Rude is this Edifice, and thou hast seen, 261. 

Sacred Religion ! mother of form and fear, 

598. 
Sad thoughts, avaunt ! partake we their blithe 

cheer, 599. 
Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud, 740. 
Say, what is Honour ? — 'T is the finest sense, 

385. 
Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills, 

688. 
Scattering, like birds escaped the fowler's net, 

622. 
Scorn not the Sonnet : Critic, you have frowned, 

650. 
Screams round the Arch-druid's brow the sea- 
mew — white, 605. 
Seek who will delight in fable, 780. 
See the Condemned alone within his cell, 764. 
See what' gay wild flowers deck this earth-built 

Cot, 692. 
See, where his difficult way that Old Man wins, 

756. 
Serene, and fitted to embrace, 527. 
Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have here, 

761. 
Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald , 314. 
Shade of Caractacus, if spirits love, 776. 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES 



927 



Shame 011 this faithless heart 1 that could al- 
low, 575. 
She dwelt among- the untrodden ways, 112. 
She had a tall man's height or more, 275. 
She was a Phantom of delight, 311 . 
Shout, for a mighty Victory is won, 308. 
Show me the noblest Youth of present time, 

(154. 
Shun not this Rite, neglected, yea abhorred, 631. 
Since risen from ocean, ocean to defy, 714. 
Six changeful years have vanished since I first, 

169. 
Six months to six years added he remained, 741. 
Six thousand veterans practised in war's game, 

30S. 
Small service is true service while it lasts, 731. 
Smile of the Moon ! — for so I name, 562, 
So fair, so sweet, withall so sensitive, 784. 
Soft as a cloud is yon blue ridge — the Mere, 

726. 
Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played, 

594. 
Son of my buried Son, while thus thy hand, 

760. 
Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest, 398. 
Spade ! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his 

lands, 317. 
Stay, bold Adventurer ; rest awhile thy limbs, 

403. 
Stay, little cheerful Robin ! stay, 708. 
Stay near me — do not take thy flight, 27G. 
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God, 319. 
Strange fits of passion have I kno-\v n, 1 12. 
Stranger ! this hillock of mis-shapen stones, 

261. 
Stretched on the dying Mother's lap, lies dead, 

720. 
Such age how beautiful ! O Lady bright, 652. 
Such fruitless questions may not long beguile, 

597. 
Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind, 541. 
Sweet Flower ! belike one day to have, 325. 
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower, 297. 
Sweet is the holiness of Youth — so felt, 620. 
Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel, 401. 
Sylph was it ? or a Bird more bright, 698. 

Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take, 

594. 
Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 634. 
Tell me, ye Zephyrs ! that unfold, 639. 
Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law, 762. 
Thanks for the lessons of this Spot — fit school, 

716. 
That happy gleam of vernal eyes, 659. 
That heresies should strike (if truth be scanned, 

606. 
That is work of waste and ruin, 279. 
That way look, my Infant, lo, 316. 
The Baptist might have been ordained to cry, 

755. 
The Bard — whose soul is meek as dawning 

day, 551. 
The captive Bird was gone ; — to cliff or moor, 

715. 
The cattle crowding round this beverage clear, 

708. 



The cock is crowing, 278. 
The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love, 768. 
The Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair, 554. 
The days are cold, the nights are long, 331. 
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to 

blink, 246. 
The embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine, 

399. 
The encircling ground in native turf arrayed, 

633. 
The fairest, brightest hues of ether fade, 539. 
The feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn, 712. 
The fields which with covetous spirit we sold, 

313. 
The floods are roused, and will not soon be 

weary, 720. 
The forest huge of ancient Caledon, 693. 
The formal World relaxes her colt 1 , chain, 764. 
The gallant Youth, who may have gained, 686. 
The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed, 

785. 
The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains, 

294. 
The God of Love — ah, benedieite ! 266. 
The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king, 568. 
The imperial Stature, the colossal stride, 651. 
The Kirk of Ulpha to the pilgrim's eye, 601. 
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley 

Moor, 253. 
The Land we from our fathers had in trust, 

383. 
The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned 

hill, 726. 
The leaves were fading when to Esthwaite's 

banks, 159. 
The linnet's warble, sinking towards a close, 

725. 

The little hedgerow birds, 96. 

The lovely Nun (submissive, but more meek), 

618. 
The Lovers took within this ancient grove, 694. 
The martial courage of a day is vain, 385. 
The massy Ways, carried across these heights, 

646. 
The Minstrels played their Christmas tune, 

593. 
The most alluring clouds that mount the sky, 

769. 
The old inventive Poets, had they seen, 598. 
The oppression of the tumult — wrath aud scorn, 

607. 
The peace which others seek they find, 313. 
The pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale, 507. 
The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute, 

689. 
The post-hoy drove with fierce career, 274. 
The power of Armies is a visible thing, 393. 
The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed, 

319. 
There are no colours in the fairest sky, 625. 
There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear, 

306. 
There is a change — and I am poor, 343. 
There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, 318- 
There is a little unpretending Rill, 573. 
There is an Eminence, — of these our hills, 249. 
There is a pleasure in poetic pains, 650. 



928 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES 



There is a Thorn — it looks so old, 75. 

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 293. 

There never breathed a man who, when his life, 

389. 
" There ! " said a Stripling, pointing with meet 

pride, 719. 
There 'a George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and 

Reginald Shore, 258. 
There 's more in words than I can teach. 698. 
There 's not a nook within this solemn Pass, 

689. 
There 's something in a flying horse. 97. 
There was a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye cliffs, 

111. 
There was a roaring in the wind all night, 280. 
There was a time when meadow, grove, and 

stream, 353. 
The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die, 7(51. 
The Sabhath bells renew the inviting peal, 630. 
The saintly Youth has ceased to rule, dis- 
crowned, 021. 
These times strike monied worldings with dis- 
may, 307. 
These Tourists, Heaven preserve us ! needs 

must live, 232. 
The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo ! 324. 
The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said, 
539. 

The sky is overcast, 71. 

The soaring lark is blest as proud, 664. 

The Spirit of Antiquity — enshrined. 576. 

The stars are mansions built by Nature's hand, 

574. 
The star which comes at close of day to shine, 

764. 
The struggling Rill insensibly is grown, 595. 
The sun has long been set, 284. 
The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest, 

705. 
The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire, 705. 
The 'sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields, 572. 
The tears of man in various measure gush, 621. 
The troop will be impatient ; let us hie, 33. 
The turbaned Race are poured in thickening 

swarms, 612. 
The unremitting voice of nightly streams, 787. 
The Valley rings with mirth and joy, 244. 
The Vested Priest before the Altar stands, 630. 
The Virgin Mountain, wearing like a Queen, 

623. 
The Voice of Song from distant lands shall call, 

286. 
The wind is now thy organist ; — a clank, 689. 
The woman-hearted Confessor prepares, 611. 
The world forsaken, all its busy cares, 753. 
The world is too much with us, late and soon, 

349. 
They called Thee Merry England, in old time, 

707. 
They dreamt not of a perishable home, 634. 
The Young-ones gathered in from hill and dale, 

629. 
They seek, are sought : to daily battle led, 393. 
They — who have seen the noble Roman's scorn, 

749. 
This Height a ministering Angel might select, 
402. 



This Land of Rainbows spanning glens whose 

walls, 690. 
This Lawn, a carpet all alive, 668. 
This Spot — at once unfolding sight so fair, 761. 
Those breathing Tokens of your kind regard, 

664. 
Those had given earliest notice, as the lark, 

616. 
Those old credulities to nature dear, 748. 
Those silver clouds collected round the sun, 571. 
Those words were uttered as in pensive mood, 

348. 
Though I beheld at first with blank surprise, 

766. 
Though joy attend Thee orient at the birth, 

(592. 
Though many suns have risen and set, 644. 
Though narrow be that old Man's cares, and 

near, 359. 
Tho' searching damps and many an envious 

flaw, 584. 
Though the bold wings of Poesy affect, 785. 
Though the torrents from their fountains, 257. 
Though to give timely warning and deter, 763. 
Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly think, 

707. 
Thou sacred Pile ! whose turrets rise, 582. 
Threats come which no submission may as- 
suage, 618. 
Three years she grew in sun and shower, 113. 
Through shattered galleries, 'mid roofless halls, 

6411. 
Thus all things lead to Charity, secured, 633. 
Thus far, O Friend ! have we, though leaving 

much, 132. 
Thus is the storm abated by the craft, 617. 
Thy functions are ethereal, 660. 
'Tis eight o'clock, — a clear March night, 86. 
'Tis gone — with old belief and dream, 658. 
'Tis He whose yester-evening's high disdain. 

760. 
'T is not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, 

309. 
'Tis said, fantastic ocean"doth unfold, 575. 
'T is said, that some have died for love, 256. 
'Tis said that to brow of yon fair hill, 669. 
'Tis spent — this burning day of June, 331. 
To a good Man of most dear memory, 734. 
To appease the Gods ; or public thanks to yield. 

587. 
To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen, 

529. 
To every Form of being is assigned, 515. 
To kneeling Worshippers, no earthly floor, 631. 
Too frail to keep the lofty vow, 295. 
To public notice, Avith reluctance strong, 534. 
Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men, 286. 
Tradition, be thou mute ! Oblivion, throw. 691. 
Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wert thou, 720. 
Troubled long with warring notions, 566. 
True is it that Ambrosio Salinero, 390. 
'Twas Summer, and the sun had mounted 
high, 411. 



Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea, 356. 

Under the shadow of a stately Pile, 755. 
Ungrateful Country, if thou e'er forget, 626. 



/ 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES 



929 



Unless to Peter's Chair the viewless wind, G13. 
Unquiet childhood here by special grace, 652. 
Untouched through all severity of cold, 700. 
Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away, 237. 
Up to the throne of God is borne, 727. 
Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books, 83. 
Up with me ! up with me into the clouds, 320. 
Urged by Ambition, who with subtlest skill, (ill. 
Uttered by whom, or how inspired — designed, 
578. 

Vallombrosa ! I longed in thy shadiest wood, 

586. 
Vallombrosa — I longed in thy shadiest wood, 

Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent, 307. 

Wait, prithee, wait ! this answer Lesbia threw, 

740. 
Wanderer ! that stoop'st so low, and com'st so 

near, 732. 
Wansfell ! this Household has a favoured lot, 

776. 
Ward of the Law ! — dread Shadow of a King, 

573. 
Was it to disenchant, and to undo, 577. 
Was the aim frustrated by force or guile, 568. 
Watch, and be firm ! for, soul-subduing vice, 

606. 
Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind, 

539; 
We can endure that He should waste our lands, 

387. 
Weep not, beloved Friends ! nor let the air, 389. 
We had a female Passenger who came, 286. 
We have not passed into a doleful City, 718. 
Well have yon Railway Labourers to this 

ground, 781. 
Well may'st thou halt — and gaze with bright- 
ening eye, 347. 
Well sang the Bard who called the grave, in 

strains, 691. 
Well worthy to be magnified are they, 027. 
We gaze — nor grieve to think that we must 

die, 704. 
Were there, below, a spot of holy ground, 10. 
We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd, 716. 
We talked with open heart, and tongue, 116. 
We walked along, while bright and red, 115. 
What aim had they, the Pair of Monks, in size, 

753. 
What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled, 

595. 
What awful perspective ! while from our sight, 

634. 
What beast in wilderness or cultured field, 617. 
What beast of chase hath broken from the 

cover, 587. 
What crowd is this ? what have we here ! we 

must not pass it by, 345. 
What heavenly smiles ! O Lady mine, 781. 
What He — who, 'mid the kindred throng, 531. 
What if our numbers barely could defy, 758. 
What is good for a bootless bene, 381. 
What know we of the Blest above, 579. 
What lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose, 

577. 



What mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret, 724. 
What need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay, 

401. 
What sounds are those, Helvellyn, that are 

heard, 178. 
What strong allurement draws, what Spirit 

guides, 759. 
What though the Accused, upon his own appeal, 

666. 
What though the Italian pencil wrought not 

here, 581. 
What , you are stepping westward ? — Yea, 298. 
What way does the Wind come? What way does 

he go, 352. 
When Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant cry, 

626. 
Whence that low voice ? — a whisper from the 

heart, 598. 
When Contemplation, like the night-calm felt, 

152. 
When, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn, 

.".ST. 
When first descending from the moorlands, 737. 
When haughty expectations prostrate lie, 569. 
When here with Carthage Home to conflict 

came, 751. 
When human touch (as monkish books attest), 

739. 
When I have borne in memory what has tamed, 

288. 
When in the antique age of bow and spear, 637. 
When, looking on the present face of things, 

307. 
When Love was born of heavenly line, 70. 
When Philoetetes in the Lemnian isle, 651. 
When Ruth was left half desolate, 119. 
When Severn's sweeping flood had overthrown, 

766. 
When the soft hand of sleep had closed the latch, 

547. 
When thy great soul was freed from mortal 

chains, 610. 
When, to the attractions ©f the busy world, 322. 
Where are they now, those wanton P>oys, 563. 
Where art thou, my beloved Son, 312. 
Where be the noisy followers of the game, 590. 
Where be the temples which, in Britain's Isle, 

Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, 

602. 
Where lies the Land to which yon ship must go, 

349. 
Where lies the truth ? has Man, in wisdom's 

creed, 786. 
Where long and deeply hath been fixed the root, 

61.".. 
Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden 

weeds, 646. 
Where will they stop, those breathing powers, 

696. 
While Anna's peers and early playmates tread, 

651. 
While beams of orient light shoot wide and 

high, 778. 
While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport, 

569. 
While from the purpling east departs, 643. 



93° 



INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES 



While Merlin paced the Cornish sands, 676. 
While not a leaf seems faded ; while the fields, 

538. 
While poring Antiquarians search the ground, 

739. 
While the Poor gather round, till the end of 

time, 094. 
While thus from theme to theme the Historian 

passed, 493. 
Who but hails the sight with pleasure, 561. 
Who but is pleased tu watch the moon on high, 

787. 
Who comes — with rapture greeted, and ca- 
ressed, 625. 
Who fancied what a pretty sight, 293. 
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he, 341. 
Who ponders National events shall find, 770. 
Who rashly strove thy Image to portray, 738. 
Who rises on the banks of beine, 548. 
Who swerves from innocence, who makes di- 
vorce, 600. 
Who weeps for strangers ? Many wept, 382. 
Why art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant, 740^ 
Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore, 590. 
Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings, 

649. 
Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through 

this Isle, 706. 
Why should we weep or mourn, — Angelic boy, 

786. 
Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled, 635. 
Why stand we gazing on the sparkling .Brine, 

712. 
Why, William, on that old grey stone, 83. 
Wild Redbreast ! hadst thou at Jemima's lip, 

653. 
Wings have we, and as far as we can go, 347. 
Wisdom and Spirit of the universe, 110. 
With copious eulogy in prose or rhyme, 683. 
With each recurrence of this glorious morn, 570. 
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou elimb'st the 

sky, 348. 
Within her gilded cage confined, 642. 
Within our happy Castle there dwelt One, 289. 
Within the mind strong fancies work, 561. 
With little here to do or see, 291. 
With sacrifice before the rising morn, 525. 



With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, 

349. 
Woe to the Crown that doth the Cowl obey, 611. 
Woe to you, Prelates ! rioting in ease, 617. 
Woman ! the Power who left his throne on high, 

630. 
Wouldst thou be taught, when sleep has taken 

flight, 783. 
Would that our scrupulous Sires had dared to 

leave, 632. 

Ye Apennines ! with all your fertile vales. 743. 
Ye brood of conscience, — Spectres ! that fre- 
quent, 762. 
Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn, 

400. 
Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Yotith, 574. 
Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims, 

717. 
Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep 

pace, 350. 
Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear, 628. 
Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 345. 
Yes ! thou art fair, yet be not moved, 781. 
Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound, 

764. 
Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King, 

550. 
Yet are they here the same unbroken knot, 357. 
Yet life, you say, is life ; we have seen and see, 

347. 
Yet many a Novice of the cloistral shade, 619. 
Yet more, — round many a Convent's blazing 

fire, 618. 
Ye, too, must fly before a chasing hand, 619. 
Ye trees ! whose slender roots entwine, 756. 
Yet Truth is keenly sought for, and the wind, 

625. 
Yet, yet, Biscayans 1 we must meet our Foes, 

386. 
Ye vales and hills whose beauty hither drew, 

778. 
You call it, "Love lies bleeding," — so you 

may, 782. 
You have heard " a Spanish Lady," 669. 
Young England — what is then become of 

Old, 784. 



INDEX TO THE POEMS 



Aar, The Fall of the, 578. 

Abbeys, Old, 632. 

Address from the Spirit of Cockeraiouth Castle, 707. 

Address to a Child, 35:2. 

Address to Kilchurii Castle, 299. 

Address to my Infant Daughter, 315. 

Address to the Scholars of the Village School of , 

114. 
Admonition, 347. 
iEneid, Translation of Part of the First Book of the, 

552. 
Aerial Rock, 568. 

Affliction of Margaret , The, 312. 

Afflictions of England, 024. 

After-thought (Tour on the Continent), 579. 

After-thought (Duddon), G01. 

Ailsa Crag, Frith of Clyde, 714. 

Airey-Force Valley, 774. 

Aix-la-Chapelle, 577. 

Alban Hills, From the, 750. 

Albano, At, 750. 

Alfred, 610. 

Alfred, Canute and, 554. 

Alfred, his Descendants, 610. 

Alice Fell, or Poverty, 274. 

America, Aspects of Christianity in (Three Son.), 627. 

American Episcopacy, 627. 

American Tradition, 5;i7. 

Ancient History, On a celebrated Event in (Two Son.), 

3S7. 
Andrew Jones, 259. 
Anecdote for Fathers, 73. 
Animal Tranquillity and Decay, 90. 
Auio, 750. 
Anna, 651. 

Anticipation (October, 1803). 308. 
Anticipation of leaving School, Composed in, 2. 
Apennines, Among the Ruins of a Convent in the, 756. 
Apology (Eccl. Son., 1st Part), 60S. 
Apology (Eccl. Son., 2d Part), 619. 

Apology (Sonnets upon the Punishment of Death), 764. 
Apology (Yarrow Revisited), Gi'5. 
Applethwaite, At, 318. 
Aquapendente, Musings near, 742. 
Armenian Lady's Love, The, 669. 
Armies, The Power of, 393. 
Artegal and Elidure, 534. 
Authors, A plea for, 760. 
Author's Portrait, To the, 700. 
Autumn (September), 538. 
Avarice, The last Stage of, 259. 
Avon, The (Annan), 693. 

Bala-Sala, At, 713. 

Ballot, Protest against the, 761. 

Bangor, Monastery of Old, 007. 

Baptism, 629. 

Beaumont, Sir George, Epistle to, 393. 

Beaumont, Sir Oeorge, Upon perusing the foregoing 

Epistle to, 398. 
Beaumont, Sir George, Picture of Peele Castle painted 

by, 325. 
Beaumont, Sir George, Beautiful picture painted by, 

399. 
Beaumont, Sir George, Elegiac Stanzas addressed to, 

641. 
Beaumont, To Lady, 358. 



Beauteous Evening, It is a, 285. 

Beggar, Old Cumberland, 93. 

Beggars, 275. 

Beggars, Sequel to the, 563. 

Benefits, Other (Two Son.), 615. 

Bible, Translation of the, 620. 

Binnorie, The Solitude of, 314. 

Bird of Paradise, Coloured Drawing of the, 737. 

Bird of Paradise, Suggested by a Picture of, 785. 

Biscayan Rite (Two Son.), 386. 

Bishops, Acquittal of the, 626. 

Bishops and Priests, 628. 

Black Comb, Inscription on a stone on the side of, 402 

Black Comb, View from the top of, 402. 

Bologna, At (Three Son.), 757. 

Bolton Priory, The founding of, 381. 

Bondage, There is a, 306. 

Books (Prelude), 152. 

Books and Newspapers, Illustrated, 787. 

Borderers, The, 33. 

Both well Castle, 692. 

Boulogne, On being stranded near the Harbour of, 590. 

Bran, Effusion on the Banks of, 531. 

Breadalbane, Ruined Mansion of the Earl of, 691. 

Brientz, Scene on the Lake of, 579. 

Brigham, Nun's Well, 708. 

Britons, Struggle of the, 606. 

Brothers, The, 232. 

Brother's Water, Bridge at the foot of, 278. 

Brougham Castle, Song at the Feast of, 359. 

Brownie's Cell, 529. 

Brownie, The, 692. 

Bruges (Two Poems), 576. 

Bruges, Incident at, 663. 

Buonaparte, I grieved for, 282. 

Buonaparte, The Column, 586. 

Burial Place in the South of Scotland, 687. 

Burns, At the Grave of, 294. 

Burns, Thoughts suggested near the residence of, 295. 

Burns, To the Sons of, 296. 

Butterfly, To a, 276. 

Butterfly, To a, 278. 

Calais (August, 1802), 284. 

Calais, Composed by the Seaside near (1802), 284. 

Calais, Composed near, 285. 

Calais (August 15, 1801), 282. 

Calais, Fish-women at, 575. 

Calvert, Raisley, 351. 

Camaldoli, At the Convent of (Three Son.), 753. 

Cambridge and the Alps (Prelude). 159. 

Cambridge, Residence at (Prelude), 138. 

Canute, 61 1. 

Canute and Alfred, 554. 

Castle, Composed at , 301. 

" Castle of Indolence," Written in my Pocket Copy 

of, 288. 
Casual Incitement, 607. 
Catechising, 629. 
Cathedrals, etc., 634. 

Catholic Cantons, Composed in one of the, 579. 
Celandine, The Small, 318. 
Celandine, To the Small (Two Poems), 279-280. 
Cenotaph (Mrs. Fermor), 041. 
Chamouny, Processions in the Vale of, 587. 
Character, A, 260. 
Charles the First, Troubles of, 623. 



932 



INDEX TO THE POEMS 



Charles the Second, 625. 


Daisy, To the, 325. 




Chatsworth, 684. 


Daniel, Picture of (Hamilton Palace), 693. 




Chaucer, Selections from (Three Poems), 263. 


Danish Boy, The, 117. 




Chiabrera, Epitaphs translated from, 3S8. 


Danish Conquests, 611. 




Chichely, Archbishop to, Henry the Fifth, 617. 


Danube, Source of the, 578. 




Child, Address to a, 352. 


Dati, Roberto, 390. 




Child, Three years old, Characteristics of a, 392. 


Death, Sonnets on, 761. 




Child, To a (written in her Album), 731. 


Dedication (Miscell. Son.), 64S. 




Childhood and School-time (Prelude), 124. 


Dedication (Tour on the Continent), 575. 




Childless Father, The, 257. 


Dedication (White Doe of Rylstone), 361. 




Christianity in America, Aspects of (Three Son.), 627. 


Departure from the Vale of Grasmere, 294. 




Church to be erected (Two Sou.), 633. 


Derwent, To the River, 570. 




Churches, New, 633. 


Descriptive Sketches, 10. 




Churchyard among the Mountains (Excursion), 477. 


Despondency (Excursion), 435. 




Churchyard among the Mountains (Excursion), 493. 


Despondency, Corrected (Excursion), 447. 




Churchyard, New, 633. 


Desultory Stanzas, 591. 




Cintra, Convention of (Two Son.), 382. 


Detraction which followed the Publication of a certain 


Cistertian Monastery, 614. 


Poem, On the, 574. 




Clarkson, Thomas, To, 356. 


Devil's Bridge, To the Torrent at, 640. 




Clergy, Corruptions of the Higher, 617. 


Devotional Incitements, 606. 




Clergy, Emigrant French, 632. 


Dion, 527. 




Clerical Integrity, 625. 


Dissensions, 606. 




Clermont, The Council of, 612. 


Distractions, 623. 




Clifford, Lord, 359. 


Dog, Incident Characteristic of a, 321. 




Clouds, To the, 774. 


Dog, Tribute to the Memory of the same, 322. 




Clyde, In the Frith of (Ailsa Crag), 714. 


Donnerdale, The Plain of, 598. 




Clyde, On the Frith of, 715. 


Dora, To (A little onward), 555. 




Cockermouth Castle, Address from the Spirit of, 707. 


Douglas Bay, Isle of Man, On entering, 711. 




Cockermouth, In sight of, 707. 


Dover, Composed in the Valley near, 286. 




Coleorton, A Flower Garden at, 639. 


Dover, Near, 287. 




Coleorton, Elegiac Musings in the grounds of, 683. 


Dover, The Valley of (Two Son.), 590. 




Coleorton, Inscription for an Urn in the grounds of, 


Druidical Excommunication, 005. 




400. 


Druids, Trepidation of the, 605. 




Coleorton, Inscription for a Seat in the groves of, 400. 


Duddon, The River, 592. 




Coleorton, Inscription in a garden of, 400. 


Dungeon-Ghyll Force, 244. 




Coleorton, Inscription in the grounds of, 399. 


Dunollie Castle (Eagles), 690. 




Collins, Remembrance of, 9. 


Dunolly Castle, On revisiting, 715. 




Cologne, In the Cathedral of, 577. 


Dunolly Eagle, The, 715. 




Commination Service, 631. 


Duty, Ode to, 319. 




Complaint, A, 343. 


Dyer, To the Poet John, 540. 




" Complete Angler," Written on a blank leaf in the, 






569. 


Eagle and the Dove, The, 776. 




Conclusion (Duddon), 601. 


Eagles (Dunollie Castle), 690. 




Conclusion (Eccl. Son.), 635. 


Eagle, The Dunolly, 715. 




Conclusion (Miscell. Son.), 653. 


Easter Sunday, Composed on, 570. 




Conclusion (Sonnets upon the Punishment of Death), 


Ecclesiastical Sonnets, 604. 




764. 


Echo, The Mountain, 345. 




Confirmation (Two Son.), 629. 


Echo upon the Gemmi, 5S7. 




Congratulation, 633. 


Eclipse of the Sun, 1S20, The, 5S4. 




Conjectures, 605. 


Eden, The River (Cumberland), 719. 




Contrast, The. The Parrot and the Wren, 642. 


Edward the Sixth, 620. 




Convent in the Apennines, 756. 


Edward signing the Warrant, 621. 




Convention of Cintra, Composed while writing a Tract 


Egremont Castle, The Horn of, 342. 




occasioned by the (Two Son.), 382. 


Egyptian Maid, The, 676. 




Conversion, 608. 


Ejaculation, 635. 




Cora Linn, Composed at, 530. 


Elegiac Musings (Coleorton Hall), 683. 




Cordelia M , To, 723. 


Elegiac Stanzas (Goddard), 588. 




Cotttage Girls, The Three, 585. 


Elegiac Stanzas (Mrs. Fermor), 641. 




Council of Clermont, The, 612. 


Elegiac Stanzas (Peele Castle), 325. 




Countess' Pillar, 694. 


Elegiac Verses (John Wordsworth), 324. 




Covenanters, Persecution of Scottish, 626. 


Elizabeth, 622. 




Cranmer, 621. 


Ellen Irwin, 258. 




Crosthwaite Church, 777. 


Emigrant French Clergy, 632. 




Crusader, 615. 


Emigrant Mother, The, 276. 




Crusades, 612. 


Eminent Reformers (Two Son.), 622. 




Cuckoo and the Nightingale, The, 266. 


Eminence, There is an, 140. 




Cuckoo at Laverna, The, 751. 


Emma's Dell, 247. 




Cuckoo Clock, The, 783. 


Engelberg, 580. 




Cuckoo, To the, 310. 


Enghien, Duke d', 552. 




Cuckoo, To the, 651. 


England, 307. 




Cumberland Beggar, The Old, 93. 


England, Afflictions of, 624. 




Cumberland, Coast of (In the Channel), 711. 


Enterprise, To, 602. 




Cumberland, On a high part of the coast of, 705. 


Episcopacy, American, 627. 

Epistle to Sir George Beaumont, 393. 




•Daffodils, 311. 


Epistle to Sir George Beaumont, Upon perusing 


the 


Daisy, To the (Two Poems), 290. 


foregoing, 398. 




Daisy, To the, 291. 


Epitaph, A Poet's, 113. 





INDEX TO THE POEMS 



933 



Epitaph in the Chapel- yard of Langdale, 642. 


Gordale, 568. 


Epitaphs translated from Chiabrera, 388. 


Grace Darling, 776. 


Evening of extraordinary splendour, Composed upon 


Grasmere-dale, Fly to, 303. 


an, 506. 


Grasmere, Departure from the Vale of (August, liS03), 


Evening Walk, An, 3. 


294. 


Event in Ancient History, On a Celebrated (Two Son.), 


Grasmere, Inscription on the Island at, 261. 


3S9. 


Grasmere, Return to, 303. 


Excursion, The, 403. 


Grasmere Lake, Composed by the side of, 348. 


Expostulation and Reply, 83. 


Gravestone, A (Worcester Cathedral), 069. 




Great Men (Sydney, Marvel, etc.), 2S7. 


Fact, A, and an Imagination, 554. 


Green, George and Sarah, 382. 


Faery Chasm, 596. 


Green Linnet, The, 292. 


Fancy, 348. 


Greenock, 718. 


Fancy and Tradition, 694. 


Greta, To the River, 707. 


Fancy, Hints for the, 596. 


Guernica, Oak of, 387. 


Farewell, A, 2S3. 


Guilt and Sorrow, 19. 


Farewell Lines, 647. 


Gunpowder Plot, 023. 


Farmer of Tilsbury Vale, The, 308. 




Far-Terrace, The, 646. 


H. C, Six years old, To, 290. 


Father, The Childless, 257. 


Hambleton Hills, After a Journey across the, 288. 


Fathers, Anecdote for, 73. 


Happy Warrior, Character of the, 340. 


Female Passenger, We had, 286. 


Harp, The (" Why, Minstrel"), 049. 


Fermor, Mrs. (Cenotaph), 641. 


Hart-leap Well, 253. 


Termor, Mrs. (Elegiac Stanzas), 641. 


Hart's-horn Tree, 094. 


Fidelity, 320. 


Haunted Tree, The, 571. 


Filial Piety, 699. 


Hawkshead, Written as a School Exercise at, 1. 


Fir Grove (John Wordsworth), 322. 


Hawkshead School, In Anticipation of leaving, 2. 


Fish-women, 575. 


Haydon (Picture of the Duke of Wellington), 705. 


Fleming, To the Lady (Rydal Chapel) (Two Poems), 


Haydon, To B. R., 534. 


636. 


Haydon, To B. R. (Picture of Napoleon Buonaparte), 


Floating Island, 768. 


098. 


Florence (Four Son.), 755. 


Hazels, 540. 


Flower Garden, A (Coleorton), 639. 


Heidelberg, Castle of (Hymn for Boatmen), 578. 


Flowers, 595. 


Helvellyn, To , on her first ascent of, 656. 


Flowers (Cave of Staffa), 717. 


Henry the Eighth, Portrait of, 651. 


Foresight, 279. 


Her eyes are wild, 79. 


Forms of Prayer at Sea, 631. 


Hermitage, Near the Spring of the, 566. 


Forsaken Indian Woman, The Complaint of a, 84. 


Hermitage (St. Herbert's Island), 261. 


Forsaken, The, 313. 


Hermit's Cell, Inscriptions in and near. 505. 


Fort Fuentes, 581. 


Highland Boy, The Blind, 303. 


Fountain, The, 116. 


Highland Broach, The, 695. 


Fox, Mr., Lines composed on the expected death of, 


Highland Girl, To a, 297. 


352. 


Highland Hut, 692. 


France, Residence in (Prelude), 187. 


Hint from the Mountains, 561. 


France, Residence in (Prelude), 194. 


Hints for the Fancy, 596. 


France, Residence in (Prelude), 202. 


Historian, Plea for the, 749. 


France, Sky-prospect from th> Plain of, 590. 


Hotter, 383. 


Francesco Pozzobonelli, 391. 


Hogg, James, Extempore Effusion upon the death of, 


French Army in Russia (Two Poems), 549. 


736. 


French Clergy, Emigrant, 032. 


Honour, 385. 


French Revolution, 240. 


Horn of Egremont Castle, The, 342. 


French Revolution, In allusion to Histories of the 


Howard, Mrs., Monument of (Wetherall) (Two Son.), 


(Three Son.), 769. 


719. 


French Royalist, Feelings of a, 552. 


Humanity, 666. 


Friend, To a (Banks of the Derwent), 708. 


Hymn for Boatmen (Heidelberg), 578. 


Funeral Service, 631. 


Hymn, The Labourer's Noonday, 727. 


Furness Abbey, At, 779. 




Furness Abbey, At, 781. 


I. F., To, 764. 




Idiot Boy, The, 86. 


Gemmi, Echo upon the, 5S7. 


Illustrated Books and Newspapers, 787. 


General Fast, Upon the late (1S32), 699. 


Illustration (The Jung-Frau), 623. 


George the Third (November, 1813), 403. 


Imagination and Taste (Prelude), 207. 


George the Third, On the death of, 573. 


Imagination and Taste (Prelude), 212. 


Germans on the Heights of Hochheim, 550. 


Immortality, Intimations of, 353. 


Germany, Written in, 122. 


Indian Woman, Complaint of a Forsaken, 84. 


Gillies, Margaret, 764. 


Infant Daughter, Address to my, 315. 


Gillies, Margaret (Two Poems), 766. 


Infant M M , To the, 652. 


Gipsies, 357. 


Infant, The Cottager to her, 331. 


Girdle, A narrow, 249. 


Influences, Other, 009. 


Glad Tidings, 607. 


Inglewood Forest, Suggested by a View in, 693. 


Gleaner, The, 659. 


Inscription for a Monument in Crosthwaite Church 


Glen-Almain, or the Narrow Glen, 298. 


(Southey), 778. 


Glencroe, At the Head of, 691. 


Inscriptions (Coleorton), 399. 


Glow-worm, The Stir and the, 564. 


Inscriptions for the Spot, 261. 


Goddard, Elegiac Stanzas, 588. 


Inscriptions (Hermit's Cell), 505. 


Gold and Silver Fishes in a Vase (Two Poems), 663. 


Installation Ode. 788. 


Goody Blake and Harry Gill, 77. 


Interdict, An, 613. 



934 



INDEX TO THE POEMS 



Introduction (Eccles. Son.), 604. 

Introduction (Prelude), 125. 

Invasion, Lines on the expected, 308. 

Inversneyde, '297. 

Invitation, On Nature's, 123. 

Invocation to the Earth (1816), 546. 

Iona (Two Son.), 717. 

Iona, Black Stones of, 718. 

Isle of Man (Two Son.), 711. 

Isle of Man, At Bala-Sala, 713. 

Isle of Man, At Sea, off, 711. 

Isle of Man, By the Seashore, 711. 

Isle of Man (Douglas Bay), 711. 

Italian Itinerant, The, 5S3. 

Italy, After leaving (Two Son.), 757. 

Jedborough, The Matron of, 302. 

Jewish Family, A, 658. 

Joanna, To, 24S. 

Joan of Kent, Warrant for Execution of, 621. 

Jones, Rev. Robert, lit. 

Jones, Rev. Robert, 2S4. 

Journey reueweil, 600. 

Jung-Frau, The, and the Fall of the Rhine, 623. 

Kendal, Upon hearing of the death of the Vicar of, 

534. 
Kendal and Windermere Railway, On the pi-ojected, 

778. 
Kent, To the Men of, 307. 
Kilchurn Castle, Address to, 299. 
Killicranky, In the Pass of, 308. 
King's College Chapel, Cambridge, Inside of (Three 

Son.), 634. 
Kirkstone, The Pass of, 561. 
Kirtle, The Braes of, 258. 
Kitten and Falling Leaves, The, 316. 

Labourer's Noon-day Hymn, 727. 

Lady, To a, upon Drawings she had made of Flowers in 
Madeira, 7S1. 

Lady E. B. and the Hon. Miss P., To the, 640 

Lamb, Charles, Written after the death of, 734. 

Lancaster Castle, Suggested by the view of, 761. 

Langdale, Epitaph in the Chapel yard of, 642. 

Laodamia, 525. 

Last of the Flock, The, 85. 

Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, The, 584. 

Latimer and Ridley, 621. 

Latitudinarianism, 625. 

Laud, 624. 

Lawn, The, 668. 

Ledbury, St. Catherine of, 739. 

Leonardo da Vinci, The Last Supper, 584. 

Lesbia, 740. 

Liberty (Gold and Silver Fishes), 064. 

Liberty, Obligations of Civil to Religious, 626. 

Liberty (Tyrolese Sonnets), 3S3. 

Liege, Between Namur and, 576. 

Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, 91 . 

Lines composed on the expected death of Mr. Fox, 
352. 

Lines, Farew-ell, 647. 

Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, 31 . 

Lines on the expected Invasion, 1803, 308. 

Lines suggested by a Portrait from the Pencil of F. 
Stone (Two Poems), 728. 

Lines written as a School Exercise at Hawkshead, 1. 

Lines written in Early Spring, 81. 

Lines written in the Album of the Countess of Lons- 
dale, 731. 

Lines written npon a Stone, upon one of the Islands at 
Rydal, 261. 

Lines written upon hearing of the death of the late 
Vicar of Kendal, 534. 

Lines written while sailing in a Boat at Evening, 9. 
Liturgy, The, 628. 



Loch Etive, Composed in the Glen of, 690. 

Lombardy, In, 756. 

London, In (1802), (Two Son.), 287. 

London, Residence in (Prelude), 169. 

Longest Day, The, 500. 

Long Meg and her Daughters, 721. 

Lonsdale, The Countess of (Album), 731. 

Lonsdale, To the Earl of, 410. 

Lonsdale, To the Earl of, 721. 

Louisa, 326. 

Love, The Birth of, 70. 

Love lies bleeding (Two Poems), 782. 

Love, 'Tis said that some have died for, 256, 

Lovely things, Among all, 277. 

Loving and Liking, 698. 

Lowther, 721. 

Lowther, To the Lady Mary, 574. 

Lucca Giordano, 787. 

Lucy Gray, or Solitude, 118. 

Lucy (Three Poems), 112. 

Lucy (Three years she grew), 113. 

Lycoris, Ode to (Two Poems), 558. 

Lyre, 774. 

M. H., To, 250. 

Malhani Cove, 568. 

Manse, On the sight of a (Scotland). 688. 

March, Written in, 278. 

Margaret , The Affliction of, 312. 

Mariner, By a retired, 713. 

Marriage Ceremony, The, 630. 

Marriage of a Friend, On the Eve of, 401. 

Marshall, To Cordelia, 723. 

Mary Queen of Scots, Captivity of, 569. 

Mary Queen of Scots, Lament of, 562. 

Mary Queen of Scots (Workington), 708. 

Maternal Grief, 391. 

Matron of Jedborough, The, 302. 

Matthew, 115. 

May Morning, Composed on (1838), 759. 

May Morning, Ode composed on, 643. 

May, To, 644. 

Memory, 635. 

Memory, When I have borne in, 288. 

Men of the Western World, 750. 

Merry England, 707. 

Michael, 238. 

Michael Angelo, Two translations from, 350. 

Michael Angelo, From the Italian of, 350. 

Michael Angelo, From the Italian of, 319. 

Milton, 287. 

Missions and Travels, 610. 

Monasteries, Dissolution of the (Three Son.), 618. 

Monasteries, Saxon, 610. 

Monastery, Cistertian, 613. 

Monastery of Old Bangor, 607. 

Monastic Power, Abuse of, 618. 

Monastic Voluptuousness, 618. 

Monks and Schoolmen, 614. 

Monument of Mrs. Howard (Two Son.), 719. 

Monument (Long Meg and Her Daughters), 721. 

Moon, The (How beautiful the Queen of Night), 787. 

Moon, The (Once I could hail), 045. 

Moon, The (Rydal), 733. 

Moon, The (Seaside), 732. 

Moon, The (The crescent-Moon, the Star of Love), 768. 

Moon, The (The Shepherd looking eastward), 539. 

Moon, The (With how sad steps). 318. 

Moon, The (Who but is pleased), 787. 

Morning Exercise, A, 653. 

Moscow, self-devoted to a blaze, By, 550. 

Mossgiel Farm (Burns), 719. 

Mother's Return, The, 357. 

Mountain (November 1), 538. 

Mountains, Hint from the, 561. 

Mull, In Sound of, 690. 

Music, Power of, 344. 



INDEX TO THE POEMS 



935 



Mutaci 

My heart le. , 

Naming of Places, Poems on the, 247. 

Naniur and Liege, Between, 576. 

Natural Objects, Influence of, 1 10. 

Needle-case in the form of a Harp, On seeing a, 648. 

Newspaper, After reading a, 689. 

Nidpath Castle, 301. 

Nightingale and Stock-dove, 35S. 

Nightingale, The Cuckoo and the, 266. 

Night-piece, A, 71. 

Night-thought, A, 758. 

Nith, On the Banks of, 295. 

Norman Boy, The, 770. 

Norman Conquest, The, 611. 

North Wales, Composed among the Ruins of a Castle 

in, 640. 
Nortons, The Fate of the, 361. 
Nunnery, 720. 
Nun's Well, Brigham, 708. 
Nutting, 111. 

Oak and the Broom, The, 252. 

Oak of Guernica, The, 387. 

Octogenarian, To an, 788. 

Ode composed on May Morning, 643. 

Ode, Intimations of Immortality, 353. 

Ode, Installation, 788. 

Ode, The Morning of the day of Thanksgiving, 541. 

Ode to Duty, 319. 

0d8 to Lycoris (Two Poems), 558. 

Ode, Vernal, 556. 

Ode (Who rises on the Banks of Seine), 548. 

Ode (1814. When the soft hand), 547. 

Ode (1S15. Imagination — ne'er before content), 544. 

Oker Hill in Darley Dale, A Tradition of, 669. 

Open Prospect, 596. 

Ossian, Written in a blank leaf of Macphersou's, 715. 

Our Lady of the Snow, 580. 

Oxford, May 30, 1820 (Two Son.), 574. 

Painter, To a (Two Son.), 766. 

Palafox, 386. 

Papal Abuses, 613. 

Papal Dominion, 613. 

Parrot and the Wren, The, 642. 

Parsonage in Oxfordshire, A, 602. 

Parsonage, The (Excursion), 507. 

Passion, Strange fits of, 112. 

Pastor, The (Excursion), 464. 

Pastoral Character, 628. 

Patriotic Sympathies, 624. 

Paulinus, 608. 

Peele Castle, Suggested by a Picture of, 325. 

Pelion and Ossa, 262. 

Pennsylvanians, To the, 734. 

Persecution, 605. 

Personal Talk, 346. 

Persuasion, 608. 

Peter Bell, 90. 

Peter Bell, on the detraction which followed, etc. , 574. 

Pet Lamb, The, 245. 

Phantom of Delight, 311. 

Philoctetes, 651. 

Picture, Upon the sight of a beautiful, 399. 

Piety, Decay of, 649. 

Piety, Filial, 699. 

Pilgrim Fathers (Two Son.), 627. 

Pilgrim's Dream, 564. 

Pillar of Trajan, 646. 

Places of Worship, 628. 

Plea for Authors, A, 760. 

Plea for the Historian, 749. 

Poet and the caged Turtle-dove, The, 681. 

Poet's Dream, The, 771. 

°oet's Epitaph, 113. 



Poet to his Grandchild, A, 760. 

Point at issue, The, 620. 

Point Rash Judgment, 250. 

Poor Robin, 765. 

Poor Susan, The Reverie of, 70. 

Popery, Revival of, 621. 

Portrait, Lines suggested by a (Two Poems), 728. 

Portrait of I. F., On a, 764. 

Portrait of the Duke of Wellington, On a, 765. 

Portrait, to the Author's, 700. 

Power of Music, 344. 

Power of Sound, 660. 

Prayer at Sea, Forms of, 631. 

Prayer, The force of, 381. 

Prelude, Poems of early and late Years, 767. 

Prelude, The, 124. 

Presentiments, 682. 

Primrose of the Rock, The, 684. 

Prioress' Tale, The, 203. 

Processions (Chamouuy), 587. 

Prophecy, A (February, 1SU7), 356. 

Punishment of Death, Sonnets upon the, 761. 

Railway, On the projected Kendal and Windermere, 

778. 
Railways, etc., 721. 
Rainbow, 277. 

Ranz des Vaches, On hearing the, 581. 
Recovery, 606. 
Recluse, The, 222. 
Redbreast, 27S. 

Redbreast chasing the Butterfly, The, 278. 
Redbreast, The, 727. 
Redbreast, To a, 768. 
Reflections, 620. 

Reformation, General View of the Troubles of the, 621= 
Reformers, Eminent (Two Son.), 1)22. 
Reformers in Exile (English), 622. 
Regrets, 632. 

Regrets, Imaginative, 619. 
Repentance, 313. 
Reproof, 610. 

Resolution and Independence, 280. 
Resting-place, The, 599. 
Retirement, 650. 
Retrospect (Prelude), 178. 
Return, 597. 

Return, The Mother's, 357. 
Return to Grasmere, 303. 
Reverie of Poor Susan, 70. 
Rhine, upon the Banks of the, 577. 
Richard the First, 612. 
Richmond Hill (Thomson), 375. 
Ridley, Latimer and, 621. 
Rill, The, 573. 

Robinson, to Henry Crabb (Tour in Italy, 1S37), 741. 
Rob Roy's Grave, 300. 

Rock, Inscribed upon a (Hermit's Cell), 565. 
Rocks, Two heath-clad, 779. 
Rocky Stream, Composed on the Brinks of a, 573. 
Rocky Stream, on the Banks of a, 7S8. 
Rogers, Samuel, To, 6s6. 
Roman Antiquities, 739. 
Roman Antiquities (Old Penrith), 695. 
Roman Refinements, Temptations from, 606. 
Romance of the Water Lily, 676. 
Rome, 749. 

Rome, At (Three Son.), 748. 
Rome, The Pine of Monte Maria at, 748. 
Roslin Chapel, Composed in, 688. 

Rotha Q , To, 652. 

Ruins of a Castle in North Wales, 640. 
Rural Architecture, 257. 
Rural Ceremony, 631'. 
Rural Illusions, 698. 
Russian Fugitive (The), 672. 
Ruth, 119. 



93^ 



INDEX TO THE POEMS 



Rydal, At, on May Morning (1838), 759. 

Rydal Chapel, 030. 

Rydal, Inscription upon a stone upon one of the Islands 

at, 261. 
Rydal, In the woods of, 653. 
Rydal Mere, By the side of, 725. 

S. H., To, 649. 

Sacheverel, 026. 

Sacrament, 630. 

Sailor's Mother, The, 273. 

Saint Bees' Heads, In a Steamboat off, 709. 

Saint Catherine of Ledbury, 739. 

Saint Gothard (Ranz des Vaches on the Pass of), 531. 

Saint Herbert's Island, Derwentwater (Hermitage), 
261. 

Saint Kilda, 718. 

Saints, 619. 

Salinero Ambrosio, 390. 

Salisbury Plain, Incidents upon, 20. 

San Salvador, The Church of, 5S2. 

Saxon Clergy, Primitive, 609. 

Saxon Conquest, 607. 

Saxon Monasteries, 610. 

Saxons, 612. 

Sehill, 3S5. 

Scholars of the Village School of , Address to the, 

114. 

School, composed in anticipation of leaving, 2. 

School Exercise at Hawksbead, Written as a, 1. 

School-Time (Prelude), 132. 

Scliool-Time, Childhood and (Prelude), 124. 

Schwytz, 581. 

Scottish Covenanters, Persecution of the, 626. 

Scott, Sir Walter, Departure of, 687. 

Seashore, Composed by the, 724. 

Seaside, Composed by the, 284. 

Season, Bleak was it, 123. 

Seasons, Thought on the, 668. 

Seathwaite Chapel, 598. 

Seclusion (Two Son.), 609. 

Seven Sisters, The, 314. 

Sexton, To a, 117. 

Sheep-washing, 599. 

Shepherd Boys — Dungeon-Ghyll Force, 244. 

Snips (Two Son.), 349. 

Sight, Who fancied what a pretty, 293. 

Simon Lee, 80. 

Simplon Pass, Column lying in the, 586. 

Simplon Pass, Stanzas composed in the, 586. 

Simplon Pass, The, 109. 

Sister, To my, 82. 

Skid daw, 202. 

Sky-lark, To a, 643. 

Sky-lark, To a, 320. 

Sky-prospect from the Plain of France, 590. 

Sleep, to (Three Son.), 349. 

Slumber did my spirit seal, A, 113. 

Snowdrop, To a, 509. 

Snowdrops, 509. 

Sobieski, John, 551. 

Solitary Reaper, The, 298. 

Solitary, The (Excursion), 423. 

Somnambulist, The, 722. 

Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, 359. 

Song for the Spinning Wheel, 401. 

Song for the Wandering Jew, 257. 

S^niiet, The, 650. 

Sonnet, June, 1820 (Fame tells of groves), 575. 

Sonnet, September 1, 1802 (We had a female Passen- 
ger), 286. 

Sonnet, September, 1S02 (Inland, within a hollow vale), 
287. 

Sonnet, September, 1S15 (While not a leaf seems faded), 
538. 

Sonnet, A Poet, 709. 

Sonnet, October, 1S03 (One might believe), 306. 



Sonnet, October, 1S03 (Th ^id- 

lings), 307. 

Sonnet, October, 1803 (When.... . .ue present face 

of things), 307. 

Sonnet, November, 1806 (Another year), 352. 

Sonnet, November, 1813 (Now that all hearts are glad), 
403. 

Sonnet, November 1, 1815 (How clear, how keen), 538. 

Sonnet, November, 1836 (Even 80 for me), 741. 

Sound of Mull, In the, 691. 

Sound, The Power of, 660. 

Southey, Edich May, 648. 

Southey (Inscription for monument), 778. 

Spade of a Friend, To the, 317. 

Spaniards (Three Son.), 388. 

Spanish Guerillas, 393. 

Spanish Guerillas, The French and the, 388. 

Sparrow's Nest, The, 202. 

Spinning Wheel. 570. 

Spinning Wheel, Song for the, 401. 

Spirit, It is no, 293. 

Sponsors, 629. 

Staffa, Cave of (Four Son.), 716. 

Star and the Glow-worm, The, 564. 

Star-gazers, 345. 

Star, Slowly-sinking, 571 . 

Stars are Mansions, The, 574. 

Statesman, The, 761. 

Staubbach, On approaching the, 578. 

Steamboats, Viaducts, and Railways, 721. 

Stepping-stones, The (Two Son.), 595. 

Stepping Westward, 298. 

Stone, F., Lines suggested by a Portrait from the pencil 
of (Two Poems), 72S. 

Storm, Composed during a, 567. 

Stray Pleasures, 343. 

Stream, Composed on the Banks of a rocky, 573. 

Stream, On the Banks of a rocky, 788. 

Stream, Tributary, 598. 

Streams, The unremitting Voice of nightly, 787. 

Summer Vacation (Prelude), 146. 

Sun, The, 284. 

Swan, The, 571. 

Swede, The royal, 385. 

Sweden, The King of, 286. 

Sweden, The King of, 385. 

Switzerland, Subjugation of, 356. 

Tables Turned, The, 83. 

Tell, Effusion in the presence of Tower of, 580. 

Temptations from Roman Refinements, 606. 

Thanksgiving after Childbirth, 630. 

There was a Boy, 111. 

Thomson's "Castle of Indolence," Written in Pocket 

Copy of, 288. 
Thorn, The, 75. 

Thrasymene, Near the Lake of (Two Son.), 751. 
Three years she grew, 113. 
Thrush, The (Two Son.), 759. 
Thun, Memorial near the Lake of, 579. 
Tillbrook, 539. 

Tilsbury Vale, farmer of, 308. 
Tintern Abbey, Lines composed a few miles above, 91. 

To , in her seventieth year, 652. 

To , on her First Ascent of Helvellyn, 556. 

To , Upon the birth of her Firstborn Child, 701. 

To (Happy the feeling), 649. 

To (Look at the fate of Summer Flowers), 639. 

To (Miscellaneous Sonnets — Conclusion), 653. 

To (Mrs. Wordsworth, Two Poems), 038. 

To (The Haunted Tree), 571. 

To (Wait, prithee, wait !), 740. 

Torrent at Devil's Bridge, 640. 

Tour among the Alps (1791-2), (Descriptive Sketches), 

10 
Tour in Italy (1837), Memorials of a, 741. 
Tour in Scotland (1303), Memorials of a, 294. 



INDEX TO THE POEMS 



937 



Tour in Scotland (1814), Memorials of a, 529. 


Wanderer, Discourse of the (Excursion), 514. 


Tour in Scotland (1831), 085. 


Wanderer, The (Excursion), 410. 


Tour in the Summer of 1833, TOG. 


Wandering Jew, Song for the, 257. 


Tour on the Continent (IS20), Memorials of a, 575. 


Wansfell, 776. 


Toussaint L'Ouverture, To, 286. 


Warning, The, 702. 


Tradition, 598. 


Wars of York and Lancaster, 617. 


Tradition, American, 597. 


Waterfall and the Eglantine, The, 251. 


Tradition, Fancy and, 694. 


Water-fowl, 401. 


Trajan, The Pillar of, 646. 


Waterloo, After visiting the Field of, 576. 


Translation of the Bible, 020. 


Waterloo, Occasioned by the Battle of (Two Son.), 


Transubstantiation, 616. 


551. 


Triad, The, 054. 


Ways, She dwelt among the untrodden, 112. 


Tributary Stream, 598. 


We are Seven, 71. 


Troilusand Cresida, 271. 


Wellington, On a Portrait of the Duke of, 765. 


Trosachs, The, 689. 


Westall, Mr. W., Views of the Caves, etc., in York- 


Turtle-dove, The Poet and the Caged, 6S1. 


shire by (Three Poems), 507. 


Twilight, 539. 


Westminster Bridge, Composed upon, 284. 


Two April Mornings, The, 115. 


Westmoreland Girl, The, 780. 


Two Thieves, The, 259. 


Whirl-blast, 82. 


Tyndrum, Suggeatad at, 691. 


Whistlers, The Seven, 359. 


Tynwald Hill. 713. 


White Doe of Rylstone, 361. 


Tyrolese, Feelings of the, 3S3. 


Wicliffe, 617. 


Tyrolese, On the final submission of the, 384. 


Widow on Windermere Side, The, 773. 


Tyrolese Sonnets, 3S3. 


Wild Duck's Nest, The, 568. 




William the Third, 626. 


Ulpha, Kirk of, 601. 


Wishing-gate, The, 657. 


Uncertainty, 005. 


Wishing-gate Destroyed, The, 658. 


Unknown Men, 1 travelled among, 112. 


Worcester Cathedral, A Gravestone in, 669. 




Wordsworth, John, Elegiac Verses in memory of, 324. 


Vale, Beloved, 347. 


Wordsworth, John (Fir Grove), 322. 


Valedictory Sonnet (Misc. Son.), 761. 


Wordsworth, To the Rev. Christopher, 778. 


Vallombrosa, At, 753. 


Wordsworth, To the Rev. Dr. (Duddon), 593. 


Vaudois, The (Two Son.), 616. 


Written in March, 278. 


Vaudraconr and Jnlin, 3_'7. 


Written with a slate pencil, 261 


Venetian Republic, On the Extinction of, 285. 


Wren's Nest, A, 700. 


Venice, Scene in, 013. 




Venus, To the Planet (January, 1838), 759. 


Yarrow Revisited, 685. 


Venus, To the Planet (Loch Lomond), 692. 


Yarrow Unvisited, 301. 


Vernal Ode, 550. 


Yarrow Visited, 532. 


Vienna, Siege of, raised by John Sobieski, 551. 


Yew-Trees, 292. 


Virgin, The, 619. 


Yew-tree Seat, 31. 


Visitation of the Sick, 030. 


York and Lancaster, Wars of, 617. 




Young England, 784. 
Young Lady, To a, 327. 


Waggoner, The, 331. 


Waldenses, 010. 


Youth, written in very early, 3. 


Wallace's Tower, in Sight of, 530. 




Walton's Book of " Lives," 625. 


[ Zaragoza, 384. 



-/AT j_ 9 7/z </ 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: May 2009 

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